He’d headed upstairs, presumably to his studio, leaving her free to stroll with Eleanor, and appease her friend’s rampant curiosity. “You’ve seen him.” She glanced at Eleanor. “You’ve spoken with him. What did you think of him?”
Eleanor mock groaned. “You know very well that’s not what I meant, but if you want to know, I was taken by surprise—appreciative surprise, I hasten to add. He’s not at all what I’d expected.”
Indeed. Jacqueline stepped down from the upper viewing stage onto the path that led through the Garden of Diana and farther to the Garden of Persephone, and the spot where she and Eleanor most often sat and talked.
“He’s not quiet, not reserved, but contained, isn’t he?” Eleanor, eyes on the path, ambled beside her. “He watches, observes, but doesn’t react, yet there’s all that energy—all that strength and intensity—you can sense it, almost see it, but you can’t touch it, and it doesn’t touch you.”
She shivered delicately; glancing at her, Jacqueline saw an eager, frankly knowing smile playing about her lips.
Eleanor caught her gaze; her eyes shone. “I’d wager Mama’s pearls he’s a fantastic lover.”
Jacqueline felt her brows rise. Eleanor had had lovers—she’d never known who, or if there’d been one or more; Eleanor had freely described her experiences, but only in terms of the feelings, the excitement, the physical sensations.
Through Eleanor, she’d learned more than she would otherwise know, yet only in the abstract.
Until now.
He kissed me, and I kissed him.
The words hovered on her tongue, but she drew them back. Held back from sharing that piece of information she knew Eleanor would relish. She could imagine her friend’s subsequent questions: how had it felt, what had he done, was he masterful, what had he tasted like?
Wonderful, he’d opened her eyes, yes, he was masterful, but gentle, too—and male—he’d tasted like the essence of male.
Those would be her answers, but she was reluctant to share them. The incident yesterday hadn’t been intended, not by either of them. He hadn’t played with her hair intending to seduce her into a kiss, of that she was sure. And she…she hadn’t known that after his lips had touched hers once, she’d ache to feel them again—that she’d want, and be so brazen as to invite, so much more.
Yet he had, and she had. She wasn’t yet sure how she felt, or should feel, about either of those happenings.
While Eleanor had always shared the intimate details of many aspects of her life, she had always been more reserved, more circumspect in what she let out. But she knew Eleanor well; she would have to say more.
“Sitting for him has been quite different from what I expected. He’s only done pencil sketches so far, and he’s very quick with those.”
“Do you have to strike a pose? Jordan said he met you and Gerrard in the gardens yesterday, but that he’d finished by then.”
“Not finished—we were in between gardens. We strolled through, trying various spots. It’s not so much striking a pose as just sitting as he tells me to sit, then talking.”
“Talking?” Eleanor drew back to look at her. “About what?”
Jacqueline smiled and kept walking. Their usual bench lay just ahead, set between two flower beds. “Anything, really. The topics aren’t all that important. I’m not even sure he listens to what I say, not to my words.”
Eleanor frowned. “Why talk, then?” Reaching the bench, they sat. “It’s so I’m thinking of something—because of course I have to think of whatever I’m talking about. He’s more interested in what shows in my face.”
“Ah.” Eleanor nodded. They sat quietly for a few moments, then she said, “Mr. Adair’s quite interesting, isn’t he?”
Suppressing a cynical smile, Jacqueline agreed.
“He’s the third son of an earl, did you know?”
There followed a largely one-sided discussion of Barnaby’s character and person, with occasional comparisons to Gerrard. Jacqueline interpreted those with the ease of familiarity; as she’d expected, Eleanor found Gerrard the more attractive, an attraction only heightened by his apparent unattainability, his disinterest, but she viewed Barnaby as the easier conquest.
“Gerrard probably reserves all his intensity for his painting—artists can, I believe, be terribly selfish in that way.”
When Eleanor’s pause made it clear she expected a response, Jacqueline murmured, “I suspect that’s so.”
But he hadn’t been selfish yesterday. He’d been…what? Kind? Generous, certainly. He must be accustomed to dallying with experienced lovers; with her untutored kisses, she was very far from that. Yet he hadn’t seemed disappointed. Or had he just been polite?
Inwardly, she frowned.
“Hmm,” Eleanor purred. She stretched, raising her arms, pushing them up and out.
Glancing at her face, lifted to the sun, Jacqueline noted again the impression she’d gained the instant she’d seen Eleanor that morning. Eleanor’s expression was that of a contented cat stretching languorously in the sunshine.
Jacqueline had seen that expression before; Eleanor had been with her lover last night.
A spurt of some feeling rushed through her, not quite jealousy, for how could one be jealous over something one didn’t know—a yearning, perhaps, to…live a little. Eleanor was only a year older than she, yet for years Jacqueline had felt the gap between them widening. Before Thomas disappeared, they’d seemed much closer in experience, even though Eleanor had already taken a lover, but when Thomas walked away and never came back…from that point on, her life had stalled. Then her mother had died and life had been suspended altogether.
She’d been alive but stationary, going nowhere, learning nothing, not growing, or experiencing any of those things she’d always thought life and living were about.
She was tired of life passing her by.
It would continue to do so—leaving her to experience all that might be only at a vicarious distance—until Gerrard completed her portrait, and forced those around her to see the truth, and start the process of finding who had killed her mother and avenging her death; only once all that had occurred would she be free to move forward and live again.
Restlessness seized her. She stood and shook out her skirts, surprising Eleanor.
“I should get back to the house—I promised Gerrard I would make myself available to sit whenever he wishes, and he must have finished with his sketches by now.”
Contrary to her expectations, Gerrard wasn’t looking for her; he hadn’t sent or come searching for her. Treadle told her he was still in his studio.
She’d told Eleanor that Gerrard had insisted all sittings be private, just her and him, and that he’d made it clear he’d show none of his sketches or preliminary work to anyone; disappointed, but also intrigued, Eleanor had sauntered off, heading home through the gardens.
Jacqueline had returned to the house, only to discover her presence wasn’t required—not by anyone, least of all the ton’s latest artistic lion.
Disappointed—and irritated that she felt so—she found a novel and sat in the parlor. And tried to read.
When Treadle rang the gong for luncheon, she felt hugely relieved.
But Gerrard didn’t appear for the meal. Millicent, bless her, inquired, saving Jacqueline from having to do so; Treadle informed them that Mr. Debbington’s man had taken a tray up to the studio. Apparently his master, once engrossed in his work, had been known to miss mealtimes for days; part of Compton’s duties was to ensure he didn’t starve.
Jacqueline wasn’t sure whether to feel impressed or not.
When at the end of the meal, Millicent asked whether she would join her in the parlor, she shook her head. “I’m going to stroll on the terrace.”
She did, slowly, from one end to the other, trying not to think about anything—especially artists who kept all their intensity reserved for their art—and failed. Reaching the southern end of the terrace, she looked up—at the bal
cony she knew to be his, then lifted her gaze higher, to the wide attic windows of the old nursery.
Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned.
Muttering an unladylike curse, she swung on her heel and headed for the nearest door, and the nursery stairs beyond.
Gerrard stood by the nursery windows looking out at the gardens—and not seeing a single tree. In his hands, he held the best of the sketches he’d done yesterday. They were good—the promise they held was fabulous—but…
How to move forward? What should his next step be?
He’d spent all day weighing the possibilities. Should he, for instance, insist that Millicent be present through each and every sitting from now on?
His painterly instinct rebelled. Millicent would distract, not just him, but Jacqueline. It had to be just the two of them, alone—in intimate communion, albeit of the spiritual sort.
His problem lay in keeping the spiritual from too quickly transforming to the physical. That it would at some point he accepted, but she was an innocent; wisdom dictated he rein in his galloping impulses to a walk.
A tap sounded on the door. “Come.” He assumed it was a maid sent to fetch the tray Compton had brought up earlier.
The door opened; Jacqueline walked in. She saw him, met his gaze directly, then, closing the door behind her, looked around.
It was the first time she’d been there since the area had been converted for his use. Her gaze scanned the long trestle table and the various art supplies laid out along its length; she noted the stack of sketches at one end, then glanced at the sheets he held in his hand.
Then her attention deflected, drawn to the large easel and the sized, blank canvas that stood upon it, draped in cheesecloth to protect it from dust.
Walking slowly into the room, she considered the sight, then transferred her gaze to him. “I wondered if you wanted me to sit for you.” She halted two paces away, beside the window, and waited.
He looked into her eyes, studied her face, then lightly tossed the sketches he’d been examining—for hours—onto the table; folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the window frame, and looked at her. “No—you wondered what was wrong.”
She eyed him, not so much warily as considering what tack to take.
He sighed, and raked one hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration Vane had broken him of years ago. “I’ve only just met you, yet I feel I’ve known you forever.” And felt compelled to protect her, even from himself.
She hesitated, puzzled. “So…?”
“So I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Paint the portrait?”
He glanced up, saw consternation and fear fill her face. “Yes—but don’t look at me like that.”
Her eyes locked on his. “How else? I need you to paint that portrait. You know that—you know why.”
“Indeed, but I also know…” With two fingers, he gestured between them. “About this.”
The careful look returned to her eyes. “This what?”
Exasperated, he waved between them. “This, between us—don’t pretend you don’t understand, that you don’t feel it.”
For a long moment, she met his gaze steadily, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Then she drew a tight breath, and lifted her chin. “If this is about that kiss yesterday—”
“Don’t apologize!”
She jumped.
He pointed a finger at her nose. “That was my fault entirely.”
She huffed at him, a derisive sound. “I can’t imagine how me kissing you could be your fault. I wasn’t under any spell, no matter what you might think.”
He had to press his lips tight to stop them from curving. He straightened. “I didn’t mean to suggest I’d bespelled you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you thought I was so blinded by your charms I didn’t know what I was doing?”
“No, I didn’t think that, either. I do think I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”
“Why?” She searched his eyes. Her expression grew troubled, sad. She swallowed. “Because of—”
“No!” He suddenly realized what tack her mind had taken; he cut her off with a gesture. “Not because of the suspicion leveled at you—good God!” His hand was running through his hair again, thoroughly disarranging the neatly cut locks; he abruptly lowered it. “It’s nothing to do with that.” It was all to do with him and her. “It’s because…”
He looked at her, met her green and gold eyes, let whatever it was that was in him reach for her, let the connection rise…He could almost feel the passion and desire surge to life, rippling between them.
“It’s because of that. This.” His voice had lowered, deepened; he spoke slowly, clearly. “Whatever it is that’s sprung to life between us.”
She didn’t say anything; eyes locked with his, she was listening, following.
He stepped away from the window, not directly toward her; slowly, he circled her. “It’s because the more I’m with you”—he prowled to stand directly behind her with only an inch separating their bodies—“the more I want to kiss you, and not just your lips.”
Reaching around her, he raised his hands; he didn’t touch her, but sculpted the air less than an inch from her body, slowly, caressingly running his palms over her shoulders, slowly down, over and around her breasts, her waist, her stomach, hips and thighs. His lips by her ear, he murmured, “I want to kiss your breasts, explore every inch of your body, taste every inch of your skin. I want to possess you utterly—” He broke off, drew in a quick breath, censored the too-explicit words that had leapt to his tongue. “I want to know your passion, all of it, and give you mine.”
He could feel desire beating at him with wings of heat; certainly she could feel it, too. Passion roiled about them, an almost palpable vortex drawing them in, down, under.
“I can’t be near you and not want you—not want to lie with you, to share every secret of your body and make it, and you, mine.”
Looking down at her, standing straight and silent before him, listening to and following his every word, he had to fight to lower his hands, to return them to his sides without seizing her.
He succeeded, and let his relief show in a long sigh. Softly, he said, “Doesn’t it scare you?” After a moment, he murmured, “God knows, it scares me.”
For half a minute, she said nothing, then, slowly, she turned and faced him. Only an inch separated her breasts from his chest.
She looked into his eyes; her expression was open, honest, direct—and determined. “Yes, I can feel it, but I fear death, not life. I fear dying without ever living, without ever knowing, without experiencing this—precisely this. Above all, this.”
Her eyes steady on his, she drew breath and went on, “I don’t know what might or might not happen, or come to be, or what dangers or risks are involved, but I don’t care. Because while I’m facing dangers and taking risks, I’ll be living, and not simply existing as I have been for so long.”
Her honesty demanded his. Her determination undermined his good intentions. “Do you know what you’re saying—what you’re inviting?”
“Yes.” Her lashes fluttered, then she met his eyes again. “You’ve been blatantly honest.”
Not honest enough. “I can’t promise…anything. I don’t know what might develop, how much of me I’ll be able to give you. I’ve never…” His lips twisted, but he held her gaze. “Been with a lady like you before.”
A lady who affected him so profoundly, in so many ways, in so intense a fashion. He had no idea how a marriage between them would work.
“I didn’t ask for any promises.”
Her voice remained steady, as did her gaze. He still felt driven to protect her. “Nevertheless, I’ll make you one. If at any time you want to call a halt, to retreat to a safer distance for a time, you need only say.”
He reached for her as the words fell from his lips. Her eyes widened as he gathered her to him, fully into his arms; her hands gripped his
upper arms, yet as he lowered his head, she made no attempt to push back.
Instead, she tilted up her face, and their lips met.
And there was no drawing back. Not for him, not for her.
The vortex closed around them.
Passion rose, a hot wave, and sighed through them, powerful, yet restrained, the steady pull of an undertow beneath the waves. Restrained enough for the novelty to shine—for them both.
His head spun. This was so completely different from any other time, any other kiss…she was so completely different from any other woman.
The knowledge rocked him, left him open to a surge of feeling that colored every sensation, that turned her soft lips into a new and enthralling wonderland, transformed her body into a feminine landscape he had to explore—as if it were his first time. Slowly. Savoring every step, every moment.
Jacqueline parted her lips, invited him to take—and gloried when he did. Yet there seemed no rush, no urgency, no overwhelming, grasping passion; this, it seemed, was a time for exploration, for learning.
There was an unadorned, uncomplicated hunger in his kiss; she responded in kind, taking what he offered, taking all she needed. Pushing her arms up, she twined them about his neck, shuddered delicately when his arms tightened in response, drawing her fully against him, tight breasts to the hard wall of his chest, her hips to his rock-hard thighs.
No part of him seemed soft; against her giving flesh, his body was all muscle and bone, powerful, alien—all male. Her rational mind knew she ought to feel frightened, helpless and threatened by that potent strength, yet, bemused, she accepted that she didn’t.
If anything, she delighted in the contrast, his maleness emphasizing the female in her; if anything, she felt anticipation rise because of the differences, because of their promise.
His hands, long-fingered and strong, spread over her sides, gripping, then easing and moving over her back.
Spreading heat, a distracting warmth that rose even higher, spread even more when he angled his head and deepened the kiss. Eagerly, she pressed closer and followed his lead, tempted and very willing.
The Truth About Love Page 14
