And there was no other way to turn.
Halting two paces from the window, she looked out at the occupants of the curricle that had just rocked to a stop before the portico; in the circumstances she felt no compunction in spying on Gerrard Debbington.
First, she had to identify which of the two men he was. The one who wasn’t driving? That tawny-haired gentleman stepped lithely down, then paused to throw a laughing comment to the other man, who remained on the box seat, the reins held loosely in his long-fingered hands.
The grays between the curricle’s shafts were prime horseflesh, and had been well spelled; Jacqueline registered that in the briefest of glances. The man holding the reins was dark-haired, with strong, chiseled features; the tawny-haired one was prettier, the darker the more handsome.
In the second it took her to blink, she realized how odd it was for her to notice; male beauty rarely impinged on her mind. Then she looked again at the pair in the forecourt, and inwardly admitted that their physical attributes were hard to ignore.
The man on the box seat moved; a groom appeared and he descended from the carriage, handing over the reins.
And she had her answer; he was the painter. He was Gerrard Debbington.
A dozen little things confirmed it, from the strength apparent in those very long fingers as he surrendered the ribbons, to the austere perfection of his clothes, and the reined intensity that hung about him, every bit as real as his fashionable coat.
That intensity came as a shock. She’d steeled herself to deal with some fashionable fribble or vain popinjay, but this man was something quite different.
She watched as he answered his friend with a quiet word; the line of his thin lips didn’t so much curve as ease—the veriest hint of a smile. Controlled power, intensity harnessed, ruthless determination—those were the impressions that sprang to her mind as he turned.
And looked straight at her.
Her breath caught, suspended, but she didn’t move; she was standing too far from the pane for him to see her. Then she heard skirts rustling, footsteps pattering at the far end of the room; glancing sideways, she saw Eleanor, both Myles girls, and their mothers crowding around the far window that was angled to the forecourt. Jordan peered over their heads.
Unlike her, they’d crowded close to the glass.
Looking back at Gerrard Debbington, she saw him studying them, and inwardly smiled. If he sensed someone watching him, he’d think it was them.
Gerrard regarded the cluster of faces blatantly staring from the wide windows facing the forecourt. Raising a supercilious brow, he turned away; avoiding the gaze of the single woman standing back from the window closest to the portico, he looked at Barnaby. “It seems we’re expected.”
Barnaby could see the goggling crowd, too, but the angle of the nearer window hid the lone woman from him. He gestured to the door. “Shall we make our entrance?”
Gerrard nodded. “Ring the bell.”
Strolling to an iron handle dangling by the door, Barnaby gave it a tug.
Turning his head, Gerrard looked once more at the woman. Her stillness confirmed she thought he couldn’t see her. Light spilled into the room from windows behind her, diagonally across from where she stood; courtesy of that she was, indeed, primarily a silhouette, barely illuminated. She was intelligent enough, then, to have realized that.
But she’d forgotten, or hadn’t known of, the effect of painted woodwork. Gerrard would take an oath the frame surrounding the window was at least eight inches wide, and painted white. It threw back enough light, diffused and soft, true, but light nevertheless, to let him see her face.
Just her face.
He’d already glimpsed three youthful female faces, every bit as uninspiring as he’d expected, in the other group. Doubtless his subject was one of them; God knew how he’d manage.
This lady, however…he could paint her. He knew it in an instant; just a glance, that’s all it took. Even though her features weren’t that clear to him, there was a quality—one of stillness, of depth, of a complexity behind the pale oval of her face—that commanded his attention.
Just like his dream of the Garden of Night, the sight of her face reached for him, touched him, called to the artist that was his soul.
The front door opened and he turned away. Outwardly set himself to the task of greeting and being greeted. Cunningham was there, doing the honors; Gerrard shook his hand, his expression mild, his mind elsewhere.
A governess, or a companion. She was in the drawing room, the doors of which he could now see, so unless she beat a very rapid retreat, he would meet her. Then he’d have to find some way of ensuring she was included along with the gardens in the other subjects he was permitted to paint.
“This is Treadle.” Cunningham introduced the butler, who bowed. “And Mrs. Carpenter, our housekeeper.”
A stern-faced, competent-looking woman bobbed a curtsy. “Anything you need, sirs, please ask.” Mrs. Carpenter straightened. “I’ve not yet assigned rooms, not being sure of your requirements. Perhaps, once you’ve looked around and decided which rooms would best suit, you could let Treadle and me know, and we’ll have everything arranged in a blink.”
Gerrard smiled. “Thank you. We will.” The charm behind his smile worked its usual magic; Mrs. Carpenter’s face eased, and Treadle unbent a fraction.
“This is Mr. Adair.” Gerrard introduced Barnaby, who with his usual air of genial bonhomie nodded to the two servants and Cunningham.
Gerrard looked at Cunningham.
Who seemed suddenly on edge. “Ah…if you’ll come this way, I’ll introduce you to the ladies, and inform Lord Tregonning that you’re here.”
Gerrard let his smile grow a fraction more intent. “Thank you.”
Cunningham turned and preceded them to the double doors leading into what Gerrard had surmised must be the drawing room.
He was right. They stepped into a room long enough to boast three separate areas for comfortable conversation. At one end, no longer by the window but gathered about the chairs angled before a large fireplace, was the group of ladies and the young man who’d peered out at them, and one other, middle-aged lady he hadn’t previously seen.
Directly ahead, on the chaise that faced the doors, were two matrons, one of whom was eyeing Barnaby and him with incipient disapproval.
Although he didn’t glance her way, Gerrard was instantly aware of the single lady, standing alone and regarding them levelly from the other end of the room.
Suppressing his impatience, he halted beside Cunningham, who’d paused a yard over the threshold. Barnaby halted just behind his shoulder. Gerrard looked at the bevy of young misses, waiting to see which one came forward—which of the three he was going to hate to have to paint. To his surprise, they all hung back.
The middle-aged lady, a welcoming expression on her face, started toward them.
As did the lone lady on his left.
The middle-aged lady was too old; she couldn’t be his subject.
The younger lady drew nearer; he could no longer resist, but looked directly at her.
And saw her, her face, for the first time in good light.
He met her eyes, and realized his error.
Not a governess. Not a companion.
The lady his fingers were already itching to paint was Lord Tregonning’s daughter.
2
With a lady approaching from either side, Cunningham dithered over whom to introduce first. The decision was taken out of his hands by the middle-aged lady, who swept up with a smile. “I’m Millicent Tregonning, Lord Tregonning’s sister.” She held out her hand. “Allow me to welcome you to Hellebore Hall.”
Brown haired, well dressed, but severe both in style and expression, Millicent Tregonning was saved from appearing overly hard by the softness of her hazel eyes. Clasping her hand, Gerrard bowed. “Thank you.”
He introduced Barnaby; stepping aside so his friend could greet the elder Miss Tregonning brought him closer t
o the younger lady—Lord Tregonning’s daughter, his subject, she who would be one focus of his artistic attention for the next several months.
She’d halted beside her aunt; of average height, clad in a gown of apple-green muslin enticingly displaying generous breasts, and hinting at a slender waist, nicely curved hips, and legs perfectly gauged to satisfy his critical eye, she calmly waited while Barnaby exchanged greetings. Momentarily free, Gerrard studied her.
Turning her head, unruffled, she met his gaze. Her eyes, a medley of gold, amber and green, were large, well spaced under delicately arched brown brows. Her hair was glossy teak with lighter shades streaked through it, neatly confined in a topknot with just a few ten-drils flirting about her ears. The pale oval of her face was bisected by a straight nose; her complexion was flawless, ivory tinged with a healthy glow, while her lips had been drawn with a subtle hand, full feminine curves yet exquisitely mobile—elementally expressive. He already knew where to look for hints of her real thoughts, her real feelings.
At present, her eyes were calm pools of quiet confidence; she was observing, assessing, totally contained. Totally unperturbed and unthreatened. Despite his presence, and Barnaby’s for that matter, he could detect not the slightest hint of feminine fluster.
She wasn’t seeing them as gentlemen—as men—but as something else.
The truth came to him as her gaze deflected to her aunt. She was viewing him solely as a painter.
“And this is my niece, my brother’s daughter, Miss Jacqueline Tregonning.”
Jacqueline turned to Gerrard Debbington. Smiling, she held out her hand. “Mr. Debbington. I hope your journey down was pleasant—it’s such a long way.”
He again met her gaze, then took her hand, the long fingers she’d remarked earlier closing, not too tightly yet firm and sure, about her slender bones. He bowed gracefully, his eyes never leaving hers. “Miss Tregonning. I’m grateful your father sought me out. The journey was indeed long, yet, had I not made it, I would certainly have lived to regret it.”
She barely registered his words. The tone of his voice, low, masculine, slid over her like a caress; the strength in his fingers, a sense of male power, spread over her skin and set her nerves flickering. His gaze held hers, intent with an interest she couldn’t name. Her fingers quivered in his—shocked, she stilled them.
His face, lightly tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones, the angular planes aristocratically austere, remained impassive, his expression politely detached—it was that intentness in his eyes, glowing brown, rich and alive as they held hers, that shook her.
That forced her to look again, and truly see.
She’d dubbed him society’s lion and he was unquestionably that, yet his polished elegance wasn’t a guise adopted for the world but a reflection of himself; it exuded from him, a tangible shield. His lightly waving hair, a darker brown than her own, was fashionably cut, framing his wide forehead and deep-set eyes; his brows were dark, well arched, his lashes long and thick.
He was tall, almost a head taller than she, broad of shoulder and long of limb; although he was lean rather than heavy, his graceful movements screamed of muscled strength camouflaged by stylish manners. That sense of innate strength was echoed in his face, in the hard lines of brow, nose and chin.
No fop, no self-absorbed popinjay. A lion, albeit a subtle one—in thinking him that she’d been right. He was dangerous, more dangerous than she’d imagined any man might be. Just by holding her hand, meeting her eyes and uttering a few words—what the devil had he said?—he’d made her lungs seize.
The realization rattled her; determinedly, she drew breath and politely inclined her head. “Indeed.” She hoped the old standby fitted; it usually did, regardless of what the preceding comment had been.
He smiled—briefly, tantalizingly—a genuine smile of such rampant charm she was distracted all over again. With an effort, she turned to his friend; Gerrard Debbington relinquished her hand, which aided considerably in her battle to focus her wits.
The tawny-haired god smiled at her. “Barnaby Adair, Miss Tregonning. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
She managed a smile and gave him her hand—and waited. Yet while Adair appeared cut from the same cloth as Gerrard Debbington, the clasp of his fingers had no discernible secondary effects; his eyes—a merry blue—were simply a pair of laughing eyes, and his voice held no power to make her forget his very words.
Relieved, she welcomed him, then stood back as Mitchel and Millicent made to usher the two gentlemen to the chaise, there to continue the introductions.
Mitchel, Millicent and Adair started off. Gerrard Debbington hesitated; she sensed him looking down at her. She looked up and met his eyes. With the lightest of gestures, the faintest lift of his brows, he indicated he expected her to accompany them. Acquiescing—she wasn’t entirely sure why, but quibbling was clearly ineligible—she stepped out in her aunt’s wake.
He prowled by her side.
By the simple expedient of not moving until she did, Gerrard kept Jacqueline Tregonning beside him throughout the introductions. He had no interest whatever in those he met, yet he was adept at the social niceties; part of his mind dealt with them, responding appropriately, placing names with faces, noting the connections. None of those with whom he spoke would have guessed his entire attention was riveted on the woman by his side.
He could barely believe his luck. Far from being a hated and deeply detested chore, painting Lord Tregonning’s daughter was going to be…precisely the sort of challenge he relished.
She’d captured every last shred of his awareness; there was so much about her to learn. Put simply, she fascinated him.
He was distantly conscious that elements of that fascination were similar to those elicited by ladies who sexually rather than artistically caught his eye, yet given Jacqueline Tregonning was the first lady he’d decided to paint to whom he was not in some way related, he wasn’t sure that wasn’t to be expected. He saw women as they were, as whole, complete, sexual beings; that was one of the reasons behind his portraits’ success.
With Jacqueline Tregonning, he’d struck painter’s gold—a subject who had depth, who had layers of emotions and feelings, cares and concerns, all residing behind a face that in itself was intriguing. Just one glance into her beautiful eyes and he’d known what he was looking at—a subject who embodied the vital thing he needed to create a true work of art. She was an enigma.
She was too young to be as she was. Ladies of her years did not normally possess depths, let alone hidden depths; they hadn’t lived long enough, hadn’t experienced enough of life’s tragedies to have acquired them. Yet Jacqueline Tregonning was the epitome of a person of whom it was said: still waters run deep. She was a still, deep pool, calm and glossy smooth on the surface, but with strong currents, strong emotions, running beneath.
Of what those emotions were, of what had caused not just them but her to be as she was, he had as yet no clue, yet he would need to learn the answer to that and all else about her in order to capture all he could see in her eyes, all he could sense behind her controlled expression.
He remained attuned to her as they spoke with those present; with each one, he instinctively catalogued not so much her outward reactions as what he sensed of her true feelings. Reserve, distance, a keeping apart. Her attitude was so consistent, so striking, the words resonated in his head. It wasn’t shyness; she didn’t seem at all shy. She was comfortable and assured, at ease in her own home with people he gathered she’d known most of her life. But she didn’t trust them.
Not a single one, with the sole exception of her aunt Millicent.
He was assimilating that when he heard a slow step and the soft thump of a cane. He turned, as did the others, as an older gentleman appeared in the doorway. The man located him, studied him, then came forward. Slowly, yet his movements weren’t frail or ponderous so much as measured.
Marcus, Lord Tregonning, was of the old school. Gerrard rec
ognized the signs—the outdated cut of his coat, the knee breeches, the deliberately slow gait, the cane he didn’t need, the apparent invisibility of all others beyond the person in his lordship’s sights.
Himself. He was glad of the discipline Vane and Gabriel Cynster had taught him, the ability to keep his expression impassive, in this case squelching the urge to smile. Neither he nor Barnaby were likely to be affected by the intimidatory style of their grandsires.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Barnaby fighting a grin—an appreciative one, although his lordship was unlikely to see it so. They were, after all, guests in the man’s house, and there they stood, very much like predators, of distinctly different caliber to the other males in the room, bloods in their prime in the old lion’s territory.
Lord Tregonning’s dark gaze held a sharper, even more critical assessment than his daughter’s had. His face was pale, deeply lined, by grief, Gerrard suspected. His hair was still thick and dark, his eyes heavy-lidded and sunk deep; he carried himself erect, spine rigid. The hand wrapped about the head of the cane was aged, the skin mottled, but his grip showed no sign of weakness. The description that sprang to Gerrard’s mind was careworn, yet still as proud as bedamned.
His lordship halted no more than two feet distant. Old eyes, agatey brown, bored into his, then Lord Tregonning nodded. “Gerrard Debbington, I presume?”
Gerrard bowed. His lordship extended his hand; Gerrard shook it, calmly returning the old man’s steady regard.
“I’m delighted you were able to accept my commission, sir.”
Gerrard knew better than to display eagerness over business dealings. “The gardens, as you know, are a draw—the chance to paint them was difficult to pass up.”
Tregonning raised his brows. “And the portrait?”
Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline Tregonning; she’d moved a few paces away to chat with the other young ladies. “As to that, I believe my initial reservations, those I understand Mr. Cunningham conveyed to you, have been laid to rest. I’m quite looking forward to commencing the work.”
The Truth About Love Page 3
