The Truth About Love (31 page)

Gerrard was aware—more aware than he liked—of Matthew’s dark looks. The boy was ridiculously possessive; Gerrard recognized and labeled his attitude instantly, and was in no way amused by it. He was also screamingly conscious of Jacqueline beside him, strolling along with, it seemed, not a care in the world. He was pleased that she’d relaxed, that she was more and more able to show her true colors to the world, yet…

Step by step, they fell further behind. She seemed absorbed with the flowers and trees, for which he gave thanks; he wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter. Increasingly, he watched her face, felt himself falling ever deeper under her spell.

“Oh!” She stopped, looking ahead.

He followed her gaze; the rest of the party had disappeared out of sight around the next bend.

She glanced at him; a challenging light danced in her eyes. “There’s a shortcut, if you’re willing to risk it.”

He was willing to risk a great deal for a few minutes alone with her. He waved. “Lead on.”

She smiled and turned aside, pushing past a thick bush onto a minor path. “This leads to the stream. The main path crosses it at a wooden bridge further on, then curves back on the other side, but it’s a long way around.”

“So what’s the risk?”

Even as he voiced the question the bushes before them thinned, and he saw the stream gurgling along the middle of a wide bed and spanned by an old fallen tree.

“Behold.” Jacqueline waved at the tree. “The challenge.”

She started down the slight slope. Gerrard followed. The stream had shrunk to within its summer banks, leaving the lush green of its winter flood plain ten yards wide on either side. Yet the stream was still too wide to jump, and too deep to wade through, and the tree trunk wasn’t large.

Jacqueline turned to him. “Are you game?”

He looked down at her. “Do I get a reward if I succeed?”

Jacqueline studied all she could see in his eyes, and wondered why he and only he made her feel like a siren. She let her lashes veil her eyes and looked back at the tree. “Possibly.”

“In that case”—he leaned down so his words wafted past her ear—“after you, my dear.”

To her hyperaware senses, he even sounded like a lion.

She drew breath, took the hand he offered to step up to the narrow bole, paused to catch her balance, then ran lightly across. She’d performed the same feat countless times. Jumping down to solid ground at the other end, she turned—and found Gerrard stepping off the tree immediately behind her.

He caught her; hands locking about her waist, he whirled her, then lowered her until her feet touched earth. For one finite instant, they stared into each other’s eyes, then he drew her—fully—against him. He looked into her eyes, briefly searched, then his gaze lowered to her lips. “Reward time, I believe.”

He swooped, captured her lips with his, and plunged them both into a fiery kiss, one that stirred them both, that sent flames spreading beneath her skin, that left her breasts firm and aching, that spilled heat down her veins to pool low, to pulse with a longing she now understood.

She held tight, fingers clutching his upper arms as their lips and tongues dueled, not for supremacy but for pleasured delight.

The moment spun on, and on.

Eventually, he drew back. They were both breathing too quickly as he looked into her eyes. “Have you made your decision yet?”

Gerrard had told himself he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t ask—but he ached to know.

She tried to frown, couldn’t manage it. “No. I…got the impression I’d be wise to think seriously about…what agreeing would entail.”

Her gaze dropped to his lips. He fought against the urge to kiss her again.

“You should.” He couldn’t keep his voice from deepening. The thought of what would follow her decision—

Footsteps. They both heard the steady crunch of boots heading their way.

Turning to the sound, they stepped apart—just as Eleanor and Matthew Brisenden came into view.

“There you are!” Eleanor looked delighted.

Gerrard could quite happily have consigned her to perdition. Along with her companion, who was looking daggers at him.

“I told Matthew you would have taken the shortcut and be waiting for us here.” Patently pleased with her perspicaciousness, Eleanor swept forward, her gaze locked on Gerrard.

Smoothly, he linked his arm with Jacqueline’s. “Just so—we knew the rest of you wouldn’t be long.”

“The others are up on the main path.” Matthew came up, frowning at Gerrard, openly disapproving. “We should join them.”

Gerrard smiled easily. “Indeed. Do lead the way.”

Matthew blinked, but, with tight lips and a curt nod, had to do so. Gerrard steered Jacqueline in his wake.

To his amazement, Eleanor took his other arm.

He stared at her, but she seemed totally oblivious of her impertinence.

“We’ve been talking about the traditional gathering tomorrow.” Eleanor glanced across him at Jacqueline. “Will you come, do you think?”

Jacqueline met her gaze. “Oh, I think so.”

“Well, regardless, Mr. Debbington, you really should attend. It’s almost as much fun as the ball itself. Indeed”—Eleanor’s eyes gleamed as she looked up at Gerrard—“sometimes more.”

“The tradition,” Jacqueline informed him, “is that all the younger people gather at Trewarren Hall in the morning and decorate the ballroom.”

“And the terrace and gardens,” Eleanor put in.

Jacqueline nodded.

“So”—Eleanor fixed her gaze on Gerrard’s face—“will you be joining us?”

Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline; he wouldn’t be letting her out of his sight any time soon. Particularly not if Matthew Brisenden would be anywhere near. “I believe I will,” he murmured, addressing Jacqueline. He caught her gaze when she glanced up. “All work and no play will very likely make me a dull painter.”

Her lips quirked; she looked ahead.

“Excellent!” Eleanor said.

T
hat evening, at the dinner table, Lord Tregonning shocked them all. Looking down the table, he asked Millicent, “How did your excursion go today?”

Millicent stared at him, then hurried to answer. “It was an excellent outing, Marcus—quite gratifying.” She rattled off a list of the ladies who’d been present. “While I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’ve
convinced
anyone of anything, I do think we’ve started hares in a good many minds, and set the stage for pushing matters further.”

Lord Tregonning nodded. “Good, good.” He glanced at Jacqueline, Gerrard, then Barnaby. “So everything’s going as planned?”

“Quite smoothly.” Barnaby reached for his wineglass. “I understand there’s a gathering of the younger folk tomorrow, which will be our last event before the ball.”

“Ah, yes—the decorating party.” Lord Tregonning turned a sympathetic gaze on Jacqueline. “Are you comfortable attending that, my dear?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed, I haven’t encountered as much difficulty as I’d imagined, and”—Jacqueline glanced at Gerrard, then across the table at Barnaby—“with Mr. Debbington’s and Mr. Adair’s support, I doubt I’ll encounter any challenge I can’t meet.”

She toyed with her fork, then went on, “While most are a trifle confused at first, all thus far have seemed…
receptive
to thinking again. However, I don’t think that would have been so had we not challenged their preconceived notions.”

Lord Tregonning nodded again.

Gerrard noticed the puzzled look on Mitchel Cunningham’s face. He had no notion of what they were discussing; no doubt he’d work it out soon enough. Turning to Jacqueline, Gerrard asked, “What form does the Summer Hunt Ball take?”

“It’s a proper ball with musicians and dancing. As for the rest…” Briefly she described the usual other attractions—a card room, and a salon for conversation. “The terrace and garden walks are lit for the night, too.”

From there, with Barnaby’s help, Gerrard steered the first conversation they’d had over the dinner table at Hellebore Hall into a more general discussion of the amenities of the area.

L
ater that night, Jacqueline stood at the balcony window of her bedroom, and wondered if Gerrard was painting. Her windows overlooked the orchards of the Garden of Demeter; she couldn’t tell if light was spilling from the windows of the old nursery, yet she felt sure he’d be there, standing before his easel creating the setting in which her innocence would shine.

Even last night, as she’d left the studio she’d glanced back and seen him returning to the easel, to the canvas on it, as if drawn to it.

His devotion to the portrait, to rescuing her, touched her. Buoyed her.

She recalled, very well, all that had passed between them the night before. That he wanted her she didn’t doubt, and she wanted him. Her reasons for grasping the opportunity to learn what that mutual wanting truly meant remained valid, yet his insistence she decide, that she make what would amount to a declaration of unrestricted acceptance…He was right; about
that
she needed to think.

He’d said he wanted
everything,
all she was, to possess her utterly; that was a very wide claim—she wasn’t sure she understood the implications.

To agree to that…to do so, she would need to trust him, to trust that, to whatever extent his “everything” stretched, he wouldn’t hurt or harm her. Not in her wildest imaginings did she think he would, yet in trusting him that much, in specifically and openly acknowledging such trust, as he was demanding, it would help to know why—why had he asked that of her.

Why was he, as he demonstrably was, so deeply interested in her?

The obvious, transparently real answer was that he was fascinated with her as a subject, yet was that the whole answer? Reviewing his absorption with painting her, contrasting that with the intensity he focused on her when he held her in his arms, whether the force that drove him was one and the same she couldn’t tell, and could see no ready way of discerning.

Did she truly care whether his interest in her was driven solely by an artist’s fascination?

The question slid into her mind, and revolved there—yet another question with no easy answer.

Minutes ticked by as she mentally circled. What did
she
want of this, of him, of what had flared between them?

That
she knew—she wanted experience. Of the physical, the sensual, all the aspects of a woman’s life of which, due to the events of recent years, she remained ignorant. At its simplest, she wanted to know. Now he’d arrived and unexpectedly offered her the chance to learn, was she going to take it?

All her instincts sang “yes!” yet she clung to caution and the sensible approach. Was there any reason she shouldn’t accept his terms?

Mentally, she looked ahead, thinking of how a liaison with him as he’d described it would affect her life…and discovered a void.

Her future.

Frowning, she tried to bring her expectations into focus, but the emptiness in her mind remained; she had no vision of her future at all.

Staring unseeing at the night, she felt oddly hollow as realization solidified. The killer had stolen her expectations; her future was a blank canvas, and she had no idea of the picture she wished to see upon it.

It was a shock to discover such complete and utter nothingness where surely something should have been.

She was twenty-three, well dowered and attractive enough, yet she’d been frozen—was still frozen—on the threshold of her life. What dreams she’d nurtured when Thomas had lived had vanished with him; not even a ghostly vestige remained. Presumably once she was free of the nightmare of her mother’s and Thomas’s deaths, her mind would turn from its fixation on the past and present and attend to the future, and sketch in some details. Until then…she had no expectations of her future to guide her.

But Gerrard and his offer were there, before her now; how should she respond?

By agreeing. He’d made it plain he wasn’t asking for her future, but her present; he’d talked in terms of a physical liaison, with no defined strings attached.

If she’d been younger, or felt more a part of the usual round of social life, she might have felt shocked, might have felt she was risking something, might have hesitated. But now?

Given all fate had denied her, given what might yet be denied her forever more, the compulsion to accept his terms burgeoned and grew.

“I want to
live.
” The whisper fell from her lips, a potent exhortation. A direction. If she waited…until when? Once she was an old maid, would such a chance come again?

Conviction welled. Instinct, yes, but that was all she had to guide her. Yet in this arena, she had so little previous knowledge, so little practice in listening to her heart…

Arms folded, lips set, she tapped one slippered toe. She felt a strong urge to have done with thinking, to open her door, slip through the quiet corridors and return to his lair and his arms. She’d never been an impulsive person, yet in this, with him, instinct was urging her on.