The Truth About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her arms, twined about his neck, had eased; now she tightened them, and drew him back to her—drew him down to the bed and her. He went with no more hesitation than she. After a long-drawn, incendiary kiss, one that left his mind reeling, he drew back and shrugged out of his coat, sat up and leaned down to ease off his boots. As the second boot thudded on the floor, he turned back to her, into the arms she held waiting. Stretching alongside her, he leaned over her, brushed back her hair and framed her face with one hand, found her lips with his, and filled her mouth.

  Heat and longing poured through Jacqueline; she’d never felt so alive. So energized, so excited. Whatever he would show her she wanted to know, wherever he led, she wanted to explore. The reciprocity of their kisses had fascinated her before; now, the mutual give and take of their exchange had deepened, extending into a landscape she’d never seen, never even known existed—she wanted with all her heart, all the passion she’d held inside for so long, to go forward with him and learn more.

  The candle on the mantelpiece across the room guttered. Shadows closed in, gently cloaking. Their eyes had adjusted; they could both see well enough—enough for her to glimpse his fingers as they undid the buttons down the front of her nightgown, for her to see his hand slide beneath the gaping placket. Then he touched her, and her lids fell; for long minutes, her senses condensed to tactile sensation, to experiencing every thrill his knowing caresses lavished on her willing flesh, to communicating through lips and tongue as he fondled, and taught her.

  But then he drew back from the kiss. He held her gaze as he reached up and pushed her nightgown off her shoulder, baring her breast. She quelled a shiver, looked down, lost all ability to breathe as she watched his hand return to her breast, fondling knowingly, pandering to her senses.

  A minute passed, and she learned to breathe again, then he shifted, kissed her once, thoroughly, then nudged her chin up and trailed kisses down her throat, and on—to her breast. He caressed the swollen curves, then traced a path to one tightly furled nipple. Licked, laved, then took it into his mouth, and suckled lightly.

  Sensation, sharp, powerful as lightning, struck; she gasped, arched, her mind scrambling to absorb and acknowledge the sensations. Then his tongue swept her nipple, languorous and soothing. Heat spilled through her and she moaned, arching beneath him, clasping his head, wordlessly inviting more.

  Which he gave. Unstintingly.

  Caught in the landscape he’d conjured, she remained aware, unafraid—eager to go on. Increasingly desperate, although for what she longed she wasn’t sure, other than it was more.

  He seemed to know. To understand the giddy, rushing tide that had caught her and was sweeping her on. Through quick, assessing glances, through sultry, knowing, measuring looks, he kept watch over her and guided her; this was a place he’d been to many times—he knew the ways.

  That he enjoyed his role as mentor and guide she had no doubt. Her breasts seemed to fascinate him as much as his fascination with them enthralled her. He seemed addicted to tasting her—her lips, her skin, every curve of her breasts and throat. In the poor light, she couldn’t see the desire glowing in his eyes, yet she felt it; like a flame, it caressed and heated, warmed and reassured. The predatory tension that had infused him, that rode every muscle and turned it to steel, was, she instinctively knew, another sign—there was an aura of leashed aggression in him, one she’d evoked from the first, and increasingly sensed in his response to her.

  It didn’t frighten her; it excited her.

  Almost unbearably.

  Seizing his face, she pressed a blatantly inciting kiss on him—and refused to let him go. She demanded he respond; within seconds they were engaged in a heated duel as she wantonly challenged him.

  His hand gripped her hip, tensing, then released; she felt his fingers sweep down her thigh, over her knee. Then they slid beneath the hem of her nightgown. Boldly traced upward, lightly brushing the sensitive inner face of her thigh. Heat pooled low within her, throbbing, aching…then he touched the curls at the apex of her thighs.

  Every nerve leapt; every sense focused, following his touch, tracking each and every light caress. She shifted beneath him, hips lifting, wanting more.

  A sense of urgency welled and flooded her.

  Shifting over her, he grasped her knee, pressed it wide, anchored it with his as his tongue plunged into her mouth and hotly plundered.

  For an instant she was distracted, then she felt his palm sweep inward along her thigh, and he cupped her.

  She felt the touch keenly, so intimate, so knowing. She stilled, expecting to be shocked…instead, desire surged and rushed through her, a hot tide that swept her into a sea of greedy need and wanton delight. He caressed; beyond thought, totally captured by feeling, she moved against him, wordlessly communing.

  He understood her need, her urgency. He intimately explored her as she gasped through their kiss. Left no part of her softness untouched, uncaressed.

  And she was spinning, her senses whirling, her nerves coiled tighter than any spring. She wanted to beg for more, to urge him on, but he held her to the kiss, filled her mouth and her senses completely with his maleness, then the kiss eased—as he slid one long finger into her.

  She could no longer breathe, no longer think; she could only feel as he explored and learned—and she learned, too. Learned how desperate for his touch she could grow, how hot, how burning, how insistent her need for whatever came next could become.

  He knew, and led her unerringly on, until her senses sparked, then ignited, until her nerves unraveled, until her existence fractured and stars rushed down her veins to explode in molten glory.

  Spreading pleasure and delight through her.

  She found herself floating in a golden sea, physical content lapping over and about her, barely sentient, yet aware that he hadn’t left her.

  That he hadn’t…

  Gerrard watched completion claim her; he’d never seen any sight so gratifying, so soothing to his male ego. He ached, literally throbbed with the need to take her, to follow their road to its natural end, yet even as he acknowledged the pressure, he knew he wouldn’t—not yet.

  Despite her certainty, her unwavering sureness, she was too new to this. Too innocent to simply seize. Easing his fingers from the scorching slickness of her body, he gently drew her nightgown down. He continued to ignore his clamoring demons, and simply watched her.

  When her lids finally fluttered, then rose, he leaned down and kissed her, openly possessive, then drew back. Even in the dim light, he could sense her confusion, could feel it in the way her fingers gripped his sleeve. He reached for them; taking her hand in his, he kissed her fingers, then leaned over her once more to brush her mouth. “Not yet.” He murmured the words against her swollen lips, then drew back and sat up.

  Her fingers tensed on his. She frowned. “I…don’t understand.”

  He let his lips twist wryly. Sliding his fingers from hers, he reached for his boots. “I know. But there’s no need to rush—and going any further now would be rushing.”

  That was crystal clear in his mind. Regardless, he was a man, not a saint; he wasn’t strong enough to hold against any entreaties, especially from her, especially now. Boots on, he rose and reached for his coat. “Sleep well—I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He forced himself to shrug on his coat, then turn and cross to the door. Opening it, without looking back he went out and quietly shut it behind him.

  As he walked to his room, he owned to amazement. His nature wasn’t gentle or understanding; it certainly wasn’t self-sacrificing. In situations such as this, he was commanding and demanding. If a lady offered, he took.

  She’d urged him to take her, had wanted him to, her invitation clear and repeated, yet for her, for the sake of what he and she needed to explore, for the sake of what was growing between them, he’d found it, if not easy, then at least possible, more, desirable, to walk away.

  Quite what that said of what was growing bet
ween them, he didn’t want to think.

  Contrary to his expectations, he slept well enough—the sleep of the righteous, no doubt. By the time he walked into the breakfast parlor, he was focused on one thing—pressing ahead with the portrait.

  Elements of it were clear in his mind, yet the exact composition still eluded him. Until he had that clear, he couldn’t start.

  Immediately after breakfast ended, he commandeered Jacqueline—who seemed perfectly ready to be commandeered—simultaneously rejecting a suggestion from Barnaby that they ought to ride into St. Just and listen to what was being said about Thomas Entwhistle’s murder.

  Unperturbed, Barnaby shrugged, and went without them.

  Gerrard paced the terrace until Jacqueline joined him, then, her hand locked in his, he towed her into the gardens.

  He took her first to the Garden of Apollo, to where the sundial stood in its small section of lawn. Setting down his sketch pad and pencils, he led her to the sundial, and posed her as he wished, standing beside it. He looked at her face; her eyes met his.

  For one long instant, they studied each other—he searched for any hint of the maidenly fluster he’d expected but thus far had failed to detect. Last night, she’d bared her breasts to him, let him touch her intimately, writhed and gasped beneath him as he’d brought her to glory; he’d more than half-expected some degree of retreat.

  Instead, her customary certainty shone from her eyes. Steady, unwavering, sure. They stood only a foot apart, yet a light smile flirted about her lips…as if she knew what he was looking for and was delighting in confounding him.

  He humphed, then bent his head and swiftly kissed her. “Stay there.” Without meeting her eyes again, he turned and strode back to his sketch pad.

  That exchange set the tone for their morning. They talked, but their words remained light, their meaning superficial, their true communication carried by looks, glances, fleeting touches. They were both not on edge, but aware—each hyperaware of the other, but also aware of other sensations, like the lilting breeze, the caress of the sun, the perfumes and colors and shifting shade as they moved about the gardens.

  The luncheon gong rang and they returned to the house. Millicent joined them; Barnaby had yet to return and Mitchel remained in his office.

  Millicent appeared a trifle distracted. “I’m not at all sure how best to handle the inquiries.”

  Gerrard frowned. “Inquiries?”

  “Well…” Millicent waved her fork. “A body was found in the gardens. That of a young man who disappeared and who we all thought of as Jacqueline’s fiancé. We’ll have a horde of visitors this afternoon, I assure you. The only reason they haven’t appeared yet is that it was probably too late for a morning visit by the time they heard.”

  As usual, concentrating on his work had driven all other considerations from his head. He looked at Jacqueline, and sensed her drawing back, sealing herself off behind that inner barrier she’d perfected to deal with her world.

  “Can you manage alone?” He looked at Millicent. “I’m afraid I need Jacqueline for the rest of the day. I need to define the exact pose before I can start the portrait—and we clearly need the portrait finished without delay.”

  Millicent thought. “Actually, it might be better if Jacqueline wasn’t present.” With a determined air, she turned to Jacqueline. “I wasn’t here when Thomas disappeared, so it’s easier for me to stick to the facts without acknowledging any of the speculation. And without you there, they’ll find it difficult to introduce any suggestion of involvement on your part. No, indeed.” Turning back to Gerrard, she nodded. “By all means devote yourselves to the portrait, and leave me to deal with the rumormongers.”

  Gerrard smiled, but glanced at Jacqueline, his question in his eyes.

  She met his gaze, chin firm, but then nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, Aunt. The less opportunity they have to air their mistaken beliefs, the better.”

  But when he led her back to the gardens, her concern remained. He said nothing; her distance wasn’t an issue as today he was working with her body, her pose, not her face and expressions. Those he was coming to know very well. As for her body…

  Her distraction helped, allowing him to concentrate on her figure, on the lines of her body, without evoking in her the sort of awareness that would, in turn, arouse him. Distract him. He took her into the Garden of Poseidon, posing her again at the head of the long pool, some yards before the entrance to the Garden of Night. He positioned her, then stepped back and sketched, not so much her—he merely outlined her body—but the setting.

  Exercising a painter’s sleight of hand, he altered the perspective so that in the sketch she appeared to be standing within the entrance, framed by it.

  The afternoon light was perfect, illuminating the entrance yet leaving all beyond it in shadow. In the portrait, the scene would be lit by moonlight—the hardest of all lights to use—but today’s clarity gave him all the lines he would need, sharply delineating every vine leaf, every twisting, trailing shoot.

  Once he had her outline set within the frame, he waved her to a seat nearby. “I’m working on background. I have all I need of you for the present—you can rest.”

  Jerked from her less-than-heartening reverie, Jacqueline inwardly raised her brows. From his tone, definitely his painter’s voice, it sounded more as if she was in his way. Not that she minded; she’d been standing for most of the day. Crossing to the wrought-iron seat set before a thickly planted border, she sank onto it. Leaning on the arm, she looked at him.

  She expected her mind to return to wondering how Millicent was coping in the drawing room, and what the attitude of the visiting ladies was. She was very much afraid she knew; they’d assume she was guilty of Thomas’s murder, too. The idea hurt almost as much as her realization, when she’d emerged from deep mourning, that they thought she’d killed her mother.

  Such matters certainly intruded, but with her eyes on Gerrard, they failed to capture her mind. Instead, she thought of him—not just of last night, and the pleasure he’d introduced her to, not just of his clear expectation that she would succumb to feminine fluster over it, and might regret it, not of the fact that she hadn’t, and didn’t, but of him. Just him.

  The concentration in his face, in his stance, the sense of immense energy he focused on his work, was enthralling. Watching him wield it for her, in the creation of the portrait that by his own words he saw as freeing her from her strange prison, moved her and held her attention completely.

  It was, in a way, like watching her champion battle in the lists for her; like any such lady, she couldn’t look away.

  Eventually, he looked down, and considered his sketches. The fervor that had held him faded; she sensed he was content with what he’d achieved.

  She was tempted, but having been warned, she didn’t ask to see what he’d done.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, he looked at her. He seemed to consider, then he scooped up his spare pencils, tucked them in a pocket, and strolled across to the seat.

  He sat beside her; he met her eyes, then looked down and opened his sketch pad. “I want you to see the concept I’m working on.”

  Astonished, she shifted to stare at him. “I thought you never, ever, showed your preliminary work to anyone?”

  His lips thinned, but his voice remained even, if a trifle irritated. “Normally, I don’t, but in your case, you have a sufficiently artistic eye to understand, to see what I see, what I’m trying to capture.”

  She studied his profile, then shifted closer and looked at the sketch pad. “So what are you trying to capture—”

  She broke off as he showed her. The first sheet contained a sketch in barest outline—her, her body, poised within the entrance to the Garden of Night. The next contained details of the entrance; those following filled in various sections of the arched entry, and then came a set defining various elements and aspects.

  It was apparent why he so rarely showed such preliminary work; she app
reciated his trusting her to be able to interpret it, to fuse all the sketches to get some idea of the final work.

  “Me escaping the Garden of Night.” Just saying the words, she felt the concept’s power. She looked at the entrance, gilded by the late afternoon sun, but with sultry, shadowy, oppressive gloom lurking behind it.

  Watching her face, Gerrard saw that she’d seen and grasped his vision, that she understood. He’d broken his absolute, until-now-invariable rule because he’d wanted her to know that the portrait truly would be powerful enough to shatter all preconceived notions of her guilt, that it would speak of her innocence strongly enough to make people rethink, and revisit, their assumptions. Ultimately, that it would be powerful enough to evoke the specter of the real killer.

  Her knowing that, believing that, would be important in making the whole work, in bringing life to the portrait that he was beyond convinced would be his greatest yet.

  He hadn’t wanted her opinion, but her approval, and her support.

  The thought was almost shocking; he bundled it out of his mind as she looked at him.

  “You haven’t yet sketched me in the entrance itself. I’m willing to pose there”—she glanced down at his sketches—“for this.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t need you to do that—I’ll pose you in the studio. I want the scene lit by moonlight, and while I’ve done enough landscapes to know how to manage that for the setting, people are harder. I’ll need to work in candlelight, and convert that to moonlight.” He caught her gaze. “Your pose will be difficult as it is—indoors will be bad enough.”

  She looked into his eyes, then pulled a face. “Thank you for the warning.” She glanced toward the Garden of Night. “If you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  They both turned as footsteps sounded, swinging down through the Garden of Vesta.