The Truth About Love (32 page)

Innate caution held her back.

Turning from the window, she paced into the room and stopped, her gaze fixed on the corridor door. For long minutes, she debated: to yield and accept now, or wait for some further sign?

Or, perhaps, ask more questions?

It took effort to turn aside, but she did. Shedding her robe, she climbed into bed, slid under the covers, tugged them up, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.

N
ot terribly successfully, but she felt rested enough when she joined the others in the breakfast parlor the next morning. She was conscious of the intentness of Gerrard’s gaze on her face, but merely bade him a good morning, and applied herself to tea and toast.

Intentness of gaze didn’t qualify as a sign.

The day was fine. She, Gerrard and Barnaby decided to drive Gerrard’s curricle to Trewarren Hall; his pair needed exercising. They bowled down the lanes toward Portscatho and the cliffs along the Channel. Trewarren Hall lay a few miles back from the cliffs—far enough so the trees in the park grew tall and straight, not bent and twisted by the Channel winds.

Lady Trewarren was briefly taken aback when she realized Gerrard and Barnaby intended joining the group, but she rallied, setting Barnaby to assist with garlanding the ballroom while Gerrard was dispatched with Jacqueline to oversee the stringing of lanterns through the trees.

Two gardeners were waiting with the crate of lanterns; all she and Gerrard had to do was point out the most suitable positions, something Gerrard with his landscape artist’s eye accomplished with barely a thought.

The first half of the morning passed in pleasant endeavor, then other members of the decorating party, having completed their chores indoors and elsewhere, found them. A laughing group comprising Roger, Mary, Clara and Rosa were the first; they paused to comment excitedly, looking forward to the night, before waving and heading off along the path to the lake.

Gerrard watched them go, then arched a brow at her. “I take it the tradition ends with a party by the lake?”

She smiled. “We gather there, in and around the summerhouse, until the gong sounds for luncheon on the terrace.”

The next group of decorators to come down from the house included Cecily Hancock. Pausing beside Jacqueline, she asked Giles Trewarren, also in the group, if the Entwhistles were expected that evening; she ingenuously pointed out that Sir Harvey was Master of the Hunt.

Glancing apologetically at Jacqueline, Giles admitted Thomas’s parents had sent word they would attend, although they’d leave before the dancing.

Everyone looked to see how she’d react. Jacqueline fought not to retreat behind her usual poker face. Sensing Gerrard beside her helped. She met Cecily’s eyes and kept her expression open, allowing her sympathy for the Entwhistles to show. “I’m looking forward to speaking with them. They’ve had so much to bear. What with being in mourning, I haven’t had a chance to talk with them recently, and now with Thomas’s body being found, I do feel for them.”

Glancing at Gerrard, she found encouragement in his gaze. She looked at Cecily. “And, of course, I must introduce Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair, who found the body and discovered so much about how Thomas died.”

Cecily searched her face. A spark of surprise showed in her eyes.

The others, too, were watching her, yet they clearly accepted her words as fact. Giles assured Gerrard he’d make sure his father introduced them to Sir Harvey, then the group made their farewells and headed on to the lake, Cecily subdued, apparently thinking.

Jacqueline felt a surge of satisfaction over that.

Turning back to Gerrard, she found him waiting to catch her eye, approval in his. “You handled that well. Every person who shifts their view is one more the killer has lost his hold over. After tonight, I predict he’ll be cursing and gnashing his teeth.”

She smiled, but sobered quickly. “We can but hope.”

Three more groups trailing down from the house found them. After successfully dealing with Cecily, Jacqueline handled the careful comments—about her joining in the decorating again, about her dancing again after her mother’s death, of the dreadful finding of Thomas’s body and speculation over his death, and his parents’ likely feelings—with aplomb.

Yet every mention of Thomas, of the suspicions that lingered in people’s minds, was a reminder of how widely the poison had spread.

Gerrard saw that realization grow, read it in her more sober demeanor when the others moved on. When the last lantern was up and the gardeners left them, he pulled out his watch. “There’s half an hour left before luncheon.”

All those who’d passed had gone to the lake; they could glimpse it glinting through the trees.

“I could use a moment away from the throng.” Pocketing his watch, he glanced around. “In all these acres, there must be somewhere else we can go for a moment of rustic peace?”

She smiled. “There’s a pond upstream. None of the others will have gone there—they always head for the summerhouse.”

“I’ve a fondness for ponds.” He waved her on.

She led him down a path lined with tall trees; within minutes they were out of sight and sound of the lake.

“You’re doing very well.”

She glanced at him, but said nothing. She was growing more comfortable, more consistently leaving her inner barriers down. More consistently and confidently being herself.

That was part of the reason he’d come, to simply be here if she’d needed help. But she’d weathered Cecily Hancock’s malicious spite well; she hadn’t needed him to intervene, yet he’d had to be there.

He glanced at her, very conscious of the other, more major part of his reason for remaining by her side.

She hadn’t yet agreed to be his.

He’d thought that by now she would have, or at least would have given him some sign of acceptance, of intent. His strategy dictated he shouldn’t pressure her. He’d weakened once; he remained determined not to do so again.

But
…

He glanced briefly at her profile as she walked beside him. That night in the nursery…had he, perhaps, overplayed his hand? He looked ahead, matching his strides to her shorter ones. He’d been so utterly confident she would come to him; last night, even while he was painting, he’d broken off, again and again, to glance past the canvas at the door, and its knob.

Every little sound had had him focusing on that knob, waiting for it to turn. But it hadn’t.

Had he read her wrongly?

Two seconds of remembering how she’d writhed under his hands, under his mouth, eliminated that as a possibility. Which meant that something—some thought, some consideration—was holding her back.

Causing her to hesitate, to rethink and assess.

He drew in a breath, felt a tightness reminiscent of desperation close about his chest. Nonsense—it could only be a temporary hesitation. If she needed reassurance, he was willing and able to give it; if it transpired he needed to adjust his approach, to modify his stance, his declared position, he was willing to do that, too.

Perhaps she simply needed a little encouragement?

Jacqueline kept her gaze on the trees ahead, on the path as she led him on, yet she was acutely aware of the glances he threw her, of the way his gaze lingered on her face.

As if he found her as puzzling as she found him. Just as she was so constantly aware of him, he, too, was absorbed with her; his attention, his focus on her, never really wavered.

The trees thinned; the path opened out into a clearing, dividing to encircle a deep pond fed by the stream that ultimately flowed on to fill the lake. The surface of the pond was still, reflecting the surrounding canopies and the sky. Rushes fringed the edge; waterlilies spread in patches, white and pink splotches floating on dark green leaves.

“We’ve circled around—the house isn’t far.” She indicated another path on the far side of the pond, then led the way to a large flat rock on which a stone bench sat, the perfect place to sit and look out over the pool, and reflect.

He paused beside the rock, looking at the other path, then back at the path they’d come down. “I see.” Stepping onto the rock, he waited for her to sit and draw in her skirts, then sat beside her. He pointed across the pond to where in the middle distance water shimmered silver through the trees. “The lake, I take it?”

“Yes.” She managed not to jump when he took her hand. Her nerves flickered, then pulled tight. She shifted to face him as he raised her hand to his lips, turned it and, catching her eye, holding her gaze, pressed an ardent kiss to her palm.

She felt the lingering caress to her toes, had to fight to quell a reactive shiver.

Before she was free of the effect, he shifted and reached for her face. His long fingers curled about her nape, his thumb cradling her jaw as he drew her to him.

Drew her lips to his, and kissed her.

Ardently.

Making no secret of his desire for her, or of what he wanted.

Richly textured, his tongue found hers and stroked, caressed, then commanded her response. Demanded it, drew her to him and into their play. Into a passionate exchange, an exploration of another degree, on yet another level of their evolving interaction, of their mutual desire.

Hot, increasingly urgent, hungry, yet contained.

Not restrained yet limited, delimited; there was no sense of being swept away, but of meeting him, matching him, of sharing control.

The kiss drew her in, lured her deeper. Quite how it happened she didn’t know, yet when she managed to lift her head enough to draw in a shallow breath, she discovered he’d leaned back against the stone bench and she was leaning over him, his face clasped between her hands, her lips parted as she looked down into his eyes.

“Why?” She searched his eyes, glowing richly brown beneath the distracting fringe of his lashes. “You want so much from me, but why do you want me to decide?”

Beneath her, he stilled—a stillness that communicated the intent focus of his thoughts. Her question had caught him off balance; he was rapidly searching for an answer.

She resisted the urge to press, to reframe the question; it was clear enough and she knew he understood.

He moistened his lips. His gaze lowered to hers, then his hands firmed about her waist. He didn’t lift her from him, but simply held her, then he raised his gaze to her eyes. “I told you—I want all, everything that’s in you to give.”

“What do you mean by that, and why do you want it?”

“Because…that’s what desire is, between a man and a woman. A wanting.”

“You told me yourself, intimated at least, that what you wanted from me was more. More than the usual, the norm.” Whatever that might be. She waited. And sensed for the first time a degree of uncertainty, of, not confusion but wariness in him.

Why would he be wary of her?

When he said nothing, just ran his large, warm palms up and down her back, she arched her brows. “You’re being very mysterious.”

Something flared in his eyes. “There’s nothing mysterious about
this.
”

He must at some point have lifted her; she was half sitting on his lap. She could feel his erection riding against her hip. The growl that had edged his voice, the strength in his hands, only emphasized the aura of danger, of being in the arms of a sexual predator.

Yet she felt no fear, not the slightest lick of trepidation. She looked down into his darkening eyes, and knew that no matter how blatantly he hungered for her, no matter how frankly he displayed his ardor, harming her, hurting her, either physically or emotionally, wasn’t any part of his game.

Why she felt so safe, so secure, so
sure
when in his arms, she didn’t know, couldn’t explain.

She kept her eyes locked on his. “You haven’t answered my question.”

When his lips remained sealed, she reiterated, “Why do you want
more
from me? Why is it important I agree to that?”

He exhaled. His gaze dropped to her lips; his own remained set in a stubborn line.

She leaned closer, boldly skated her parted lips over his. “I’m seriously considering not making my decision until you answer my question.”

She’d breathed the words over his lips; she felt his chest swell, knew she’d succeeded in twisting the rack. Two could play at ultimatums. Pressing closer, she kissed him, held his face between her hands, covered his lips with hers and challenged him to take…

The rustle of leaves was soft. She heard, but didn’t react, too caught up in evoking his reaction, in the promise of his rapacious mouth.

A theatrical gasp had her jerking upright, turning to see—

One hand clamped over her lips, Eleanor stood at the edge of the clearing, eyes wide, locked on her.

Beside Eleanor stood Matthew Brisenden, an expression like a thundercloud darkening his face.

Jacqueline could happily have strangled them both.

Biting back an unladylike curse, she tensed to struggle from Gerrard’s arms, to slide from his lap, but his hands firmed, and she obeyed the instruction.