The Truth About Love (7 page)

She’d walked to the right, away from the area he was increasingly certain contained the Garden of Night. It was said to be best viewed in the evening, yet he felt no urgency over exploring it just yet; he’d see it in daylight first, tomorrow maybe.

He glanced at Jacqueline. Her gown of pale green silk faded to beaten silver in the faint light; her skin appeared translucent; only the rich color of her hair retained its warmth. Her expression was calm, composed, yet he sensed she was thinking rapidly.

It seemed wise to speak before she could distract him. “I mentioned to your father the necessary demands that sitting for a portrait places on the subject—he wasn’t sure you were aware of the details.”

Strolling slowly beside him, Jacqueline told herself to concentrate on his words, and ignore the voice that uttered them. “What are those demands—in detail?”

Lifting her head, she met his eyes, dark in the night, and marveled again that she was so quiveringly aware of him in a way she’d never been of any other before. She battled to quell a shiver, difficult to excuse given the warmth of the gentle, perfumed breeze wafting about them.

After a moment, he replied, “Initially, I’ll demand a great deal of, if not most of, your time, although largely in social settings, much the usual round of your life. I need to gain a strong sense of who you are, how you feel about many subjects.” He glanced out at the gardens. “How you react to things, your likes, dislikes, and the reasons behind them. The subjects you’re happy to talk of, and those you’d rather avoid.”

They walked on for a few paces, then he looked at her. “Basically, I need to get to know you.”

She studied his face. The light was good enough for her to make out his expression, but she couldn’t read his eyes. His expression he controlled; his eyes were more revealing. What he was suggesting was frankly unnerving. “I thought portraitists paint”—she gestured—“at best what they see.”

His lips quirked in wry acknowledgment of the qualification. “Most do. I don’t. I paint more.”

“How so?”

He didn’t immediately answer; as they walked on, she sensed he was considering the question for the first time. Eventually, he said, “I think it’s because every person I’ve painted to date is someone I’ve known for years, someone I’m connected to, whose background and family I know.” He met her gaze. “What I paint goes far deeper than a face and an outward expression. Just as with landscapes I paint not just the detail but the atmosphere as well, so, too, with people. It’s the intangibles that are most powerful.”

She nodded and looked ahead. “I’ve heard of your reputation, but I’ve never seen any of your works.”

“All are in private hands.”

She glanced at him. “You don’t show them?”

“Not the portraits. They were created as gifts.” He lightly shrugged. “And to see if I could.”

“Do you mean to say my portrait will be the first for which you’ve received a commission?”

Her tone was even, the question direct if somewhat forward; nevertheless, it struck a nerve. Gerrard halted, and waited until she did the same and faced him. “Miss Tregonning, why do I get the impression you’re assessing my abilities as a portraitist?”

She blinked at him, then equally succinctly replied, “Probably because I am.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Surely you didn’t expect me to simply agree to be painted by”—she gestured—“someone whose talents are unknown to me?”

“Just any old artist” was what she’d meant to say. He narrowed his eyes; she didn’t react, her expression remained open. “Your father gave me to understand that you’d agreed to allow me to paint your portrait.”

She frowned slightly. Her gaze remained steady on his face. “I agreed to sit for a portrait. Not to sit for any particular painter. Papa chose you—I’ve yet to decide whether you meet my requirements.”

Again he had cause to thank Vane and Gabriel Cynster for teaching him the knack of impassivity in the face of extreme provocation. He let a moment go by—a fraught moment in which he reined in his reaction, and found words in which he could acceptably express it. “Miss Tregonning, do you have any idea how many petitions, if not outright pleas, I’ve received to do portraits of young ladies of the ton?”

“No, of course not, but that’s neither here nor there. This is me, my portrait, not theirs. I’m not one to be ruled by the opinion of the giddy horde.” She looked at him with slightly more interest. “Why did you refuse them? I assume you did?”

“Yes. I did.” His words were excessively clipped; she didn’t seem perturbed in the least. Her eyes remained on his, waiting…“I wasn’t interested in painting any of them.
Now,
before we go any further”—before she asked the obvious next question—“it seems I should share with you the particulars I made clear to your father. I paint what’s there, both in a face
and
behind it. I won’t alter, exaggerate or suppress what I see—any portrait I paint will be a faithful representation not just of how the person appears, but also of who they are.”

She’d raised her brows at his fervor, but all she said was, “And
what
they are?”

“Indeed. In the final work, what they are will show through.”

She held his gaze for a moment—a frankly assessing moment—then she nodded, once, decisively. “Good. That’s precisely what I need—what my father needs.”

She turned and walked on. Gerrard mentally shook his head, then followed, still grappling with the way the situation had swung around. Apparently his painting her was not, as he’d thought, a case of his conferring a boon on her; it seemed there’d been a real question of whether she’d condescend to sit for him!

The possibility of her not doing so forced him to tread carefully. Lengthening his stride, he came up with her. He glanced at her face; her expression was uninformative, her eyes veiled. “So…” He felt forced to ask the plain question. “Will you sit for me?”

She halted and faced him. Calmly, she met his gaze. For the first time, he felt he was seeing further—that she was letting him sense something of the woman she was, and the strength she possessed—the reason, surely, for her steadiness, her assurance, so much stronger than usually found in young ladies of her age…

“How old are you?”

She blinked. “Why? Does it matter?”

His lips thinned at the faint amusement in her tone. “I need to get to know you, to understand you, and knowing how old you are helps to get an idea of your life, and what questions to ask, what else I need to know.”

She hesitated; he sensed her withdrawing, being more careful. “I’m twenty-three.” She lifted her chin. “How old are you?”

He recognized the diversion, but calmly replied, “Twenty-nine.”

Her brows rose. “You seem older.”

It was hard to remain on his high horse when she was so determinedly ignoring convention. “I know.” The understated elegance he’d absorbed from Vane always had made him appear more mature.

He continued to hold her gaze. “So do you.” Also true.

She smiled fleetingly, a genuine, amused if faintly wry expression. It was the first spontaneous smile he’d seen from her; he immediately determined to see more.

They stood for a moment, each studying the other, then he said, “You haven’t answered my question.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then her lips slowly curved. Swinging around, she started strolling back toward the drawing room. “If you’re half the painter you believe yourself to be”—she glanced over her shoulder, caught his eye, then faced forward and strolled on—“then, yes, I’ll sit for you.” Her words drifted back to him. “Papa chose well, it seems.”

He watched her walk away, aware to his bones of her bold yet veiled challenge, and his response to it. Deliberately, he fixed his gaze on her exposed nape, then let it slide caressingly down her back, tracing the line from shoulder to hip, to ankle…then he stirred, and followed her.

H
e spent a restless night and was awake and out on his balcony to see the sun rise over the gardens.

And consider Jacqueline Tregonning.

She was so very different from what he’d expected. They were closer in age than he’d anticipated, although in terms of worldly experience, his was far greater. Regardless, there had to be some experience, some incident in her life to account for the steel he sensed in her. It wasn’t simply strength of character, latent and unrecognized, but mature inner strength that had been tried, tested and found true; she possessed the inner fortitude of a survivor.

Which begged the question: What had she survived?

Whatever it was, did it also account for the shadows in her eyes? She might be self-confident and strangely assured, yet she wasn’t lighthearted; she was definitely not carefree, as by rights she ought to be. It wasn’t precisely sorrow he sensed coloring her world, nor yet simple sadness. She wasn’t of a maudlin or morose disposition.

Hurt? Perhaps, but something, certainly, had caused her reserve, her distancing from those about her. It wasn’t her nature but a deliberate choice—that’s why he’d noticed it.

What had happened to her, and when, and why did its effects still linger?

Compton arrived with his washing water; Gerrard quit the balcony to shave and dress. On his way downstairs, he remembered the other nagging question his evening’s interlude with Jacqueline had left circling in his brain.

What had she meant by saying she, and her father, needed the portrait to show what, specifically
what,
she was?

Inwardly frowning, he walked into the breakfast parlor. Courtesy of his room being all but at the end of the farthest wing, he was the last to arrive. He inclined his head to Lord Tregonning, at the table’s head, nodded to Millicent and Jacqueline, then headed for the sideboard.

Treadle deftly lifted the lids of the chafing dishes. After making his selection, he returned to the table and took the chair next to Barnaby—opposite Jacqueline.

His gaze drifted over her as he sat. She looked…the word he needed was
ravishing,
no matter he normally recoiled from such flowery language. She was delectable in a gown of ivory muslin sprigged with tiny oak leaves in golds and greens. The scooped neckline again did justice to her charms; the bodice was gathered beneath her lovely breasts with a spring-green ribbon.

Shifting in his chair, he reached for the coffeepot.

Barnaby grinned at him, but said nothing, returning his attention to a plate piled high with ham and kedgeree.

Unlike dinner, breakfast was a relatively mundane affair. Mitchel, seated beside his employer, spoke in an undertone about crops and fields.

Across the table, Millicent caught Gerrard’s eye. “I trust your room was comfortable?”

“Perfectly, thank you.” Gerrard swallowed a sip of coffee. “I was wondering if you and Miss Tregonning had time this morning to show myself and Mr. Adair about the gardens, at least enough for us to get our bearings.”

“Yes, of course.” Millicent glanced at the blue skies beyond the windows. “It’s a perfect day for it.”

A second of silence passed.

Gerrard had learned enough to be careful. “Miss Tregonning?” When she glanced up, plainly at a loss, he politely inquired, “Will you be free?”

She met his eyes, then smiled—another spontaneous expression, this time one of amused appreciation. Gerrard found himself smiling back.

“Yes, of course. The gardens are extensive.” She glanced down at her plate. “It’s easy to get lost.”

Lost in the gardens, or in the web of her distracting personality? Gerrard knew which for him posed the greater danger; he had an excellent sense of direction.

An hour later, after he’d inspected and approved the attic nursery as his studio and explained how he wished things set out, the four of them met on the terrace.

“It’s easiest if we start at a spot that has some meaning.” With her furled parasol, Jacqueline pointed at the ridge to the immediate right of the house. “The Garden of Hercules is the most northerly of the gardens, and is also the way to the stables, a fact most gentlemen can be relied upon to remember.” She turned to them. “Shall we?”

Barnaby flourishingly waved her on. “Lead on, fair damsel—we’ll follow.”

She laughed and set out. Barnaby fell in beside her.

Gerrard accompanied Millicent. He’d asked Barnaby to initially escort Jacqueline, giving him an opportunity to square matters with her aunt. They strolled the length of the terrace; by then Barnaby and Jacqueline were far enough ahead to permit private conversation.

“Thank you for agreeing to this outing,” Gerrard said. “It can’t be all that exciting for you—you must know the gardens like the back of your hand.”

Millicent smiled. “Actually, I don’t. I’m quite glad to have the opportunity to refresh my memory.”

Gerrard blinked. “I thought…that is, I assumed this was your home.”

“It was when I was very young, but our mother vastly preferred life in Bath, and I was the youngest, so I most often went with her. And then Papa died, and she and I stayed in Bath permanently. Over the years, I’ve only visited briefly. Mama became an invalid years ago, and, truth be told, I agreed with her—life at Hellebore Hall is terribly quiet. But then Miribelle, Jacqueline’s mother, died so tragically…My older sisters have families of their own, so of course I came to stay.”