The Truth About Love (30 page)

“Mmm?” He didn’t lift his head, barely paused in his ministrations.

Her wits had spun away; her mind was blank. “You…
can’t.
” She felt like she was dying, her chest so tight she couldn’t breathe, her every nerve coiled and shrieking.

“I can.”

He demonstrated, and her world shuddered. Closing her fists in the cushions beneath her, she clung for dear life. She’d thought they’d been following the usual pattern of events—the pattern as Eleanor had described it more than once. But
this
had never featured in Eleanor’s experience.

His hands gripped and he lifted her to him.

She felt her body react, felt the intimate surrender to her bones.

Felt the mind-numbing pleasure to her toes.

She moaned his name, closed her eyes tight. Gave up the fight to do anything other than give herself to him, to let him do with her as he wished.

And he knew.

He lavished sensation and more upon her, intimacy beyond her wildest dreams, until, quite suddenly, it was all too much. The glory built to an unbearable degree and she broke apart—flew apart in a cascade of pleasure and physical joy, and gold and silver glory.

Heat pulsed through her, flooded her mind and her soul, buoyed her as he lapped, then laid her gently down.

Blindly, she reached for him; after an instant’s hesitation, he came to her, let her draw him to her, but then he settled beside her, his hand soothing her flushed body, gently drawing her back to earth.

Something was wrong. Her body was drowning in the languorous aftermath of the pleasure he’d brought her, yet all he did was draw her nightgown down and lift her robe over her, protecting her cooling skin. Raising her lids, heavy with satiation, she watched his face, the planes still etched with the desire he’d held back—that he was still holding back.

She waited until his eyes met hers, then simply asked, “Why?”

He couldn’t pretend not to understand. She may be a novice, yet for him to have given her such pleasure, yet taken none for himself…that wasn’t the way things should be.

For a moment, he studied her eyes, then to her surprise, he caught her hands, one in each of his, pressed them to the cushions on either side of her head and leaned over her. Leaned close—his face was inches from hers, his lips a handbreadth away.

He looked at her lips, then lifted his gaze and met her eyes. “I want you. You know I do.”

She did; his desire for her screamed, not just from his eyes, not just in the deepened, roughened tone of his voice, but from the tightly leashed tension that invested every muscle in his large lean body. If that wasn’t evidence enough, his erection rode against her hip, rampant and rigid.

Moistening her lips, she kept her eyes on his. “Why, then?”

“Because…” He searched her eyes. “You’ve offered yourself to me twice. Twice, I’ve given you the chance to step back, to retreat to safer ground.” His gaze lowered to her lips, then again returned to her eyes. “To escape me, and the demands I’ll make of you if I make you mine.”

Her body was still throbbing with the aftermath of what he’d wrought; between them, she could feel not only her own heart, but his, too, thudding. Pounding. “Do you want me to escape?”

His lips lifted, but it wasn’t in a smile. “No. I want to have you.” His head lowered, his lips brushed hers. “But what I want, what I’ll demand and take if you surrender yourself to me, might be more than you’re prepared to give.”

The words feathered over her lips, promise and warning combined.

She met his eyes again, felt herself drowning in their depths. “What, exactly, would you demand of me?”

“Everything. All of you.” He shifted, looking down; his hand brushed the side of her breast, instantly stirring her body to life. “What I’ve taken so far is much less than I want. I want every scintilla of passion you have in you, every iota of desire you have to give.” He paused, then raised his lids and again met her eyes. “I want to, and will, possess you utterly.”

About them, all was silent and still; between them, passion arced, desire burned. The predator in him was starkly evident, in the lines of his face, in the intensity of his gaze.

She knew what she wanted. She opened her mouth—

He kissed her. Kissed her with all the passion he’d held back, ravished her mouth and her senses, plundered and took, giving her a taste—just a taste—of his ravenous hunger, then he pulled back.

“Be in no doubt.” His voice grated, a sexual rumble that rasped her senses. “If you offer a third time, I’ll take, and there’ll be no going back. I won’t play the gentleman and turn you away. I want you—if you tempt me again, you’ll be mine. Every inch of you. With every gasp, every moan, every heartbeat, you’ll be mine.”

Straightening his arms, he lifted himself over her; looking down, he held her gaze. “Think about it.” His eyes searched hers. “If you decide you truly want that, I’ll be here. Waiting.”

P
rowling. The energy that crackled beneath his skin was new. Something beyond his experience, as he was beyond hers.

Gerrard paced before the darkened windows of his bedroom, still aching, still driven.

One part of him, the primitive prowling part of him that now gave him no surcease, hadn’t wanted to warn her—had wanted instead to seize and be damned.

But he’d known better. The more sophisticated part of him that had evolved through the years, that had watched and seen and, it now seemed, absorbed, knew the price he was paying for warning her and letting her go—letting her go to make her own decision—was a bargain in terms of what he would gain.

Her. Committed by her own act, not swept into his arms by his more powerful libido.

He knew, to his bones, what he felt for her. Something he’d never expected to feel. He now understood what he never had before—the driven quality behind the protective possessiveness of the Cynster men, especially Devil and Vane, the two whose marriages he’d most closely observed. Devil, being Devil, was forever arrogantly blatant, while Vane was quieter, stubborn and immovable, yet the force driving their behavior was the same. He hadn’t expected to feel the same compulsion, but now he did…his approach would be more subtle.

He knew women, had interacted more closely with them than most—he knew enough to cloak his driving need, to veil his vulnerability by insisting Jacqueline make her own decision to give herself to him, to commit herself through her own, considered act.

Now he’d chosen, fought and succeeded in following that tack, when the time came, she would view the consequences of becoming his as something she’d invited, and, he hoped, accept them without complaint.

His plan was sound, well grounded. It would work.

Smothering an inclination to growl, he swung on his heel and paced across the room. His blood was still coursing too fast through his veins, desire still lashed and passion prodded—leashed, for now.

But not for long.

He was as arrogant as Devil or Vane, enough to feel confident of her decision—of what she’d choose. She’d choose to be his, and then he’d have her.

Without her knowing she’d been seized.

T
he following morning, with Gerrard in attendance, Millicent reviewed Jacqueline’s wardrobe. Jacqueline was unsurprised when her bronze silk sheath was declared most suitable for the Summer Hunt Ball; a present from her mother just before she’d died, it was her most sophisticated and revealing gown, but she’d yet to wear it—apparently, its time had come.

It was the middle of summer; in that corner of the world so distant from the capital, it was customary for the local families to entertain themselves and their youth with some event every few days. Today, Mrs. Hancock was hosting a picnic, or as she more grandly termed it, an “alfresco luncheon.”

They left the Hall at noon; by the time they reached the Hancocks’ house beyond St. Just, most of the guests had arrived.

Once again, Jacqueline found herself tensing as they emerged onto the Hancocks’ terrace and all eyes swung her way. Some of the guests had been at the Frithams’ yesterday, but there were others who had yet to assimilate their new direction. She held her head high, kept a smile of precisely the right, unconcerned degree on her lips, and followed Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby’s leads. She was grateful for their support, especially Gerrard’s; as at the Frithams’, he remained by her side.

Somewhat to her surprise, Mrs. Elcott, the vicar’s wife, usually so severe, unbent enough to compliment her on her spring-green muslin. “I’m delighted to see that you’re not hiding yourself away. No doubt the discovery of poor Mr. Entwhistle’s body has caused you distress, but it never does to overindulge such passions. Facing forward is precisely what a young lady of your standing must do.”

Mrs. Elcott pursed her lips, as if holding back further comment, then surrendered to temptation. “Have you spoken with the Entwhistles yet?”

Jacqueline managed to look unconcerned. “Not yet.”

Gerrard smoothly cut in with a distracting remark. A minute later, he drew her away.

“She wanted to know so she could be first with the news.” She allowed him to lead her to the trestle table where refreshments had been laid out.

Reaching for the lemonade jug, he glanced at her. “True, but it seems she’s shrewd enough not to credit the killer’s whispers—or if she has in the past, she’s now willing to run with the truth instead.”

Jacqueline accepted the glass of lemonade he’d poured for her. “To give the devil his due—or in this case the vicar’s wife her due—I’ve never heard her gossip maliciously. She’s simply addicted to being up with the latest, to understanding what’s going on.”

She could relate to the impulse. Over the rim of her glass, she glanced at Gerrard; she wished she knew what, precisely, was going on between them. Last night…once she’d returned to her bed, she’d fallen deeply asleep. She’d assumed she’d have time today to assess his proposition, his veiled ultimatum. She was certain she ought to think before she allowed her, where he was concerned, too impulsive desire to sweep her into his arms. Especially now he’d informed her the step would involve irrevocable surrender, at least on her part.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to consider him and his lionlike propensities while he was beside her, or even in the vicinity, which meant there was nothing to be gained by attempting to think of such things now; she might as well enjoy the moment, and his company.

He was the perfect escort—always there, yet never crowding her. Supporting, guiding, but not directing, he played the perfect foil in helping her project just the right image—the impression, as he’d said, of being herself.

By the time they settled on picnic rugs to sample the delicacies Mrs. Hancock’s cook had prepared, she’d relaxed enough not just to laugh, but to do so spontaneously, without reserve. As Barnaby, the inveterate storyteller, continued his tale, she sipped from the flute of champagne Gerrard had handed her, then glanced at him. He caught her eye, held her gaze for an instant, then raised his flute to hers, clinked, and sipped, too.

Suddenly a touch breathless, giddy as if the champagne had gone to her head, she looked away, at Barnaby, and drew in a tight breath. Her breasts rose above the scooped neckline of her gown; she felt Gerrard’s warm gaze sweep her exposed skin.

Raising her glass again, she sipped, and fought to slow her pulse; she wished she had a fan.

“You’re such an accomplished raconteur.” Opposite Barnaby, Eleanor bestowed on him an openly inviting smile. “Why, your adventures seem almost legendary.”

Beside Jacqueline, Barnaby stiffened. “Oh, no,” he airily replied. “I’ve just seen a thing or two—inevitable in the capital.”

“Ah, yes, the capital.” Eleanor was not the least deterred by the less than encouraging response. “Do you spend most of your time there?”

Barnaby murmured a noncommittal response, immediately capping it with a general question, drawing the others—Clara, Cedric and Hugo and Thomasina Crabbe—into the conversation. On Jacqueline’s other side, Gerrard shifted, then glibly deflected a question from Eleanor designed to once again fix Barnaby’s attention on her.

Despite the undercurrents—primarily Eleanor’s doing—the mood remained light. Eleanor, Jacqueline knew, was merely amusing herself; she wished to see Barnaby wound about her little finger, but then she would discard him. Aside from her mystery lover, gaining power over the males who hove on her horizon was Eleanor’s chief amusement.

Jacqueline had seen that for years, but she hadn’t, until now, thought much of it. Now…she couldn’t help but feel Eleanor’s behavior wasn’t very ladylike, or kind. Luckily, Barnaby, the male currently in Eleanor’s sights, showed no signs of succumbing.

The picnic consumed, the matrons sat back in the shade and chatted. Everyone else elected to go on a ramble through the adjoining woods. They set off in a large, rambunctious group; before long, they’d strung out along the path.

Whether by luck or good management, she and Gerrard brought up the rear. That didn’t please Matthew Brisenden. He was swept ahead with the others yet, whenever the curve of the path allowed, stared back at her strolling on Gerrard’s arm.