The Truth About Love (39 page)

Well and good, yet although she was twenty-three, even by the standards of a county backwater she was socially inexperienced. Thanks to Thomas’s and her mother’s deaths, she hadn’t been exposed to wider society, much less the circles in which he moved. She didn’t appreciate how, in such circles, things were done, how matters were arranged.

She didn’t know the ways.

And with her only close contemporary being Eleanor Fritham…

His lips set. Hardly surprising if Jacqueline hadn’t, yet, understood his tack.

The pleasure thrumming through his veins was slowly fading; sleep beckoned, but his mind ranged on—to what now loomed as his next step.

If she wasn’t yet thinking of marriage, then it clearly behooved him to steer her mind in that direction
before
he specifically stated his objective. He knew women, at least in general; they preferred to think they made their own decisions in such matters. Jacqueline, he felt sure, would have the same prejudice, so he’d introduce the subject and let her decide—let her see the light as he had—before uttering the formal words and offering for her hand.

The one question remaining was how. His mind circled the problem; sleep fogged his thoughts and drew them down.

One conclusion shone through the veils of slumber.

He had experience aplenty in discouraging young ladies, and none whatever in persuading them to the altar.

J
acqueline’s senses drifted hazily, swirling through mists of pleasure, gradually focusing on the here and now, on her body, on what it felt.

On the hands that so slowly, so skillfully caressed, on the lips that touched her shoulder, lingered, then disappeared.

On the phantom lover who in the dark of the night stirred her to life. Lured her to join him.

She was lying on her side, almost on her stomach; lifting lids languid and heavy, she looked, but even her night-adjusted eyes couldn’t see.

It was the dark depths of the night. The moon had set; there was no light to guide her.

Only sensation. Only the hard, hot reality of the man beside her.

And the desire that flared between them.

She turned to him, into his arms. Reached for him.

Found heavy muscle and bone, and, as one blind, traced. Saw through her fingertips, through the palms she smoothed over his upper arms as he loomed over her in the dark, over his broad shoulders as he surrounded her with his strength.

He was anonymous, and so was she, sundered from their identities by the absolute dark, and so free to allow their desires full rein, to give and take as they would, without restraint.

Tactile sensation was their only communion, that and the incoherent sounds of passion. Neither spoke; for her part, she had no need for words. With sight denied her, her other senses expanded, until every caress, every trailing brush of fingers held her complete and unwavering attention. Effortlessly.

He took her further than before, higher, deeper into the realms of physical desire and sensual need. She heard her own gasps echo in the dark, heard the harried sound of her breathing.

She was acutely aware of how her body responded to each explicit caress, to the increasingly intimate knowing. She was aware of how she surrendered herself utterly, to him, to his passion.

He knew the boundaries well; although he pushed her to them, again and again he drew her back. In between, he let her explore, let her learn of him; he allowed her to pleasure him, guided her, taught her the ways.

Eventually, when she was giddy with need and both their skins were slick with desire, he pressed her back into the bed, spread her thighs wide and settled between. And joined them.

And it was different than before, with not even an echo of pain to dim the pleasure. With their skins so alive, their tactile senses so heightened, their passions already so inflamed, the fires roared, and the conflagration consumed them, yet still they clung, breaths mingling as they reached for the peak—and found ecstasy.

It shattered them, flung them far, left them to burn in glory among the stars, until, uncounted heartbeats later, they drifted back to the world, to the rumpled bed, to the sanctuary of each other’s arms. And slept.

G
errard awoke, then mentally cursed, lifted his head and squinted across the room. The clock stated it was nearly six o’clock. Too late to…

Swallowing a resigned sigh, he raised a hand to Jacqueline’s shoulder and gently shook. “Wake up, sweetheart. You have to get back to your room before the maids are about.”

She roused slowly, dreamily, then opened her eyes and blinked up at him. Then she smiled, a cat drunk on cream; before he could restrain her, she stretched against him, angling up to press her lips to his.

With predictable results.

He inwardly groaned, but couldn’t resist the sweetness, the simple unalloyed delight. But when she drew back on a happy sigh, he gritted his teeth and set her from him. “We have to get you back. Now.”

She grumbled, but he held firm; bundling her from the bed, he scrambled into his clothes, then went to lace her gown.

Still floating on the aftermath of pleasure, Jacqueline leaned back against him, thrilled to be able to so brazenly claim the hardness of his body, and its heat. Tilting her head back, she caught his eyes, lifted her lips.

He hesitated, but then obliged…she inwardly exulted; he couldn’t resist, it seemed.

Just as well; after all she’d experienced last night, she feared she was addicted—it would be comforting if he was, too.

The kiss ended and he lifted his head, but only partially. His lips brushed her temple; she sighed and looked forward, relaxed and nearly boneless against him.

“What was your ‘thank you’ for?” His words, soft and deep, floated past her ear. “Just so I know.”

Her smile grew, softened. “For so unstintingly and devotedly showing me so much that I’d wanted to know.”

He straightened, steadying her on her feet; she felt him tightening her laces. “Are you grateful enough to bestow a reward?”

He liked claiming rewards, but…“Assuredly your efforts deserve one, but…” He finished tying her laces. His hands fell away and she turned to face him. “What more could I possibly give that you would want?”

Her gaze reached his face. To her surprise, his expression was unreadable; there was no teasing glint in his eyes.

He held her gaze for a moment, then murmured, “I’ll think of something. But now”—taking her arm, he turned her to the door—“let’s get you safely to your room.”

Gerrard escorted her all the way. They could hear the distant sounds of the household stirring belowstairs, but no staff had yet ventured to the upper floors. At her door, they parted with one last, passionate kiss, then he swiftly retraced his route through the still quiet corridors.

As he’d suspected, she wasn’t thinking of marriage. Regardless, she was going to have to start, and soon. He might not have any experience in influencing females in such a direction, yet how hard could it be to turn an unmarried twenty-three-year-old, gently reared lady’s mind to matrimony?

I
n her room, Jacqueline stripped off her gown—again—then slumped into bed, and instantly fell asleep.

She woke late. As she hurried through her morning ablutions, it wasn’t the events of the night that claimed her mind, but rather their consequences.

Given the intimacies they’d shared, how should she behave toward Gerrard? Prior to him, she’d done nothing more than kiss a man. Now…

She had no idea; regardless, five minutes later, in a gown of sprig muslin becomingly flounced, she glided into the breakfast parlor.

Seated at his usual place at the table, Gerrard looked up and met her eyes. His expression remained mild, yet his eyes held memories that sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine.

He inclined his head. “Good morning.”

Surreptitiously, she cleared her throat. “Good morning.”

Dragging her eyes from him, she nodded to Barnaby, who returned her greeting with a guileless smile. After helping herself to sustenance, she returned to the table and sat. Millicent poured tea for her; Mitchel passed the cup. Jacqueline took it, sipped, and gathered her wits. So far, so good.

Millicent launched into a review of their various successes at the ball. “I’m still not sure Godfrey has correctly grasped the
wider
implications.” She, Gerrard and Barnaby filled the minutes trading observations.

“I warn you,” Millicent said, setting down her napkin, “we’ll have a small army of callers this afternoon. They’ll all want to learn more—it would be helpful if you gentlemen could be present to assist.”

“Yes, of course,” Barnaby said.

Gerrard’s agreement came more slowly. With a glance at Jacqueline, he pushed back his chair. “If I’m to spend the afternoon in the drawing room, I must get some painting done. If you’ll excuse me?”

Millicent waved a gracious dismissal. Stifling a twinge of regret, Jacqueline smiled and let him go.

If he was going to spend the morning painting…She turned to Millicent. “I need to check through the linen closets. If you have no special need of me, I’ll do that this morning.”

Millicent agreed. Her aunt engaged Barnaby in a discussion of mutual acquaintances in Bath.

Mitchel Cunningham rose as she did, and accompanied her to the door. “I gather,” he said, “that last night was enjoyable?”

Mitchel occasionally attended such events, but not always; he hadn’t attended last night. She smiled. “It was, more so than I’d expected.”

He hesitated, then asked, “The Entwhistles were there?”

“Yes.” She met his eyes. “It was a relief to be able to speak with them. They’re as determined as we are to find poor Thomas’s killer.”

Mitchel studied her; he appeared perplexed. “I see.”

A frown in his eyes, he bowed and they parted.

Wondering—for quite the first time—how Mitchel viewed her, Jacqueline headed for Mrs. Carpenter’s room.

After conferring with the housekeeper, she summoned the appropriate maids and went to attend to the mundane chore of assessing the sheets and towels. That done, she extended her purview to include all the napery.

She was running her eye over a linen tablecloth when the clocks struck twelve, and she realized with some surprise that Eleanor hadn’t turned up for one of their customary walks in the gardens. She couldn’t recall the last local ball she’d attended after which Eleanor hadn’t appeared the following morning to review, often in salacious vein, the highlights of the previous night.

Uttering a mental thank-you to fate, Jacqueline owned to significant relief. She had no wish to listen to a diatribe against Gerrard for refusing Eleanor’s advances. And while she might privately preen at having captured his attentions herself, she saw no reason to let Eleanor know she had succeeded where Eleanor had failed.

That would not be nice. It also struck her as potentially unwise. Eleanor could be vindictive when thwarted. Although she’d never been the target of Eleanor’s ire, she was relieved not to have their long friendship put to that particular test.

Lunch came, and went, with no sign of Gerrard.

As Millicent had predicted, when the clocks struck three, the callers descended. A veritable horde, they filled the drawing room and overflowed onto the terrace.

Barnaby had joined them just before the rush to glibly lend his aid. Scanning the heads, he paused beside Jacqueline. “I’ll go and fetch Gerrard. I think he’s actually painting, which means he’ll have no notion of the time.”

After last night, she was much more confident of playing her part in their plan; she hesitated, conscious of a wish to have Gerrard by her side, yet also reluctant to interfere with his crucial work on her portrait. “If he’s absorbed”—she looked up at Barnaby—“perhaps we should leave him to paint in peace. I’m sure I’ll be able to manage—and you’ll be here, too.”

Barnaby met her eyes, then smiled. “I doubt Gerrard would agree. With a choice between being by your side in such a situation, and painting your portrait undisturbed in the attic, I suspect he’ll toss his brushes aside without a thought.” His smile deepened. “I’ll slip up and remind him—aside from all else, he’ll have my head if I don’t.”

Jacqueline watched him ease his way through the crowd. Eyes narrowing, she wondered how much he’d guessed.

Wondered if his words were true. He knew Gerrard rather well, after all.

“Where’s Mr. Adair off to?”

Jacqueline swung to face Eleanor. She’d arrived with her mother, sullen and sulking, presumably over Gerrard, who, of course, wasn’t present to squirm over her mope. “He’ll return in a moment—he’s gone to fetch Mr. Debbington from the nursery.”

Eyes on the doorway through which Barnaby had gone, Eleanor tilted her head. “Is he painting, then? Mr. Debbington?”

“Yes. He’s commenced the portrait.”

“Have you seen it?” Eleanor turned to study her face.

“No—he doesn’t show his work until it’s completed, even to the subject.”