The Truth About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  “No need to fear, my dear.” Inexorably, he drew her closer. “Just a kiss to show you—”

  “Perry.”

  The single word fell with the crushing weight of a millstone. Clipped, hard, resonant with menace, it shook Sir Vincent to his toes. Jacqueline felt alarm ripple through him; she wasn’t surprised.

  Gerrard stepped into the room. “I suggest you unhand Miss Tregonning immediately.”

  There was a quality to his voice that rendered any “or” redundant.

  Sir Vincent blinked, then, as if abruptly coming to his senses, released Jacqueline.

  She stepped away, closer to Gerrard, flexing her crushed fingers.

  Gerrard turned to her. “Did he hurt you?”

  She looked into his face; a primitive promise of immediate retribution was etched in the austere lines, unforgivingly hard in the moonlight. She was relieved she could say, “No. I was just…surprised.”

  Looking back at Sir Vincent, she saw he was blushing furiously, shaken, embarrassed and, she suspected, annoyed. “Sir Vincent, I repeat, you do me a great honor, but I have no wish to become your wife. Please believe that nothing, no persuasions of any kind, will change my mind.” She thought, but there was nothing more she wished to add. Inclining her head, she held out her hand to Gerrard. “Mr. Debbington?”

  His eyes were locked on Sir Vincent. She waited; transparently reluctant to leave without administering appropriate justice, Gerrard eventually glanced at her face, then, accepting her unspoken edict, he took her hand, set it on his sleeve and, turning, escorted her from the room.

  Behind them, she heard Sir Vincent exhale.

  Barnaby was waiting by the door. He fell back to let them through.

  Once on the terrace, Jacqueline dragged in a huge breath. Beneath her fingertips, the steel that had infused Gerrard’s muscles remained. They walked slowly back to the main terrace. Barnaby strolled beside them.

  She sighed, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Thank you. I had no idea he was intending that.”

  “Hmm.” Barnaby was frowning. “I did hear correctly, didn’t I? He just asked for your hand?”

  Jacqueline recalled their hypothesis; she shivered. “Yes. But I can’t believe—” She broke off, remembering.

  Gerrard’s gaze raked her face. “What?”

  Could it be? “He said he’d told Mama. And he was at the house the last time Thomas called. Sir Vincent left before Thomas…or at least we thought he did.”

  Barnaby shook his head. “Your stablemen said he didn’t come to fetch his horse until later—they assumed he’d been down to the cove.”

  They reached the main terrace and paused.

  “Down to the cove, or in the Garden of Hercules.” Gerrard glanced at Barnaby, then at her. “Who’s to say?”

  14

  Once back in the ballroom, Barnaby drifted off, intent on pursuing his inquiries. The musicians had finished for the evening, yet the gathering was still in full swing.

  Gerrard strolled with Jacqueline, but when they stopped to chat with a group of fellow guests, he realized that wasn’t the sort of diversion she needed. The incident with Sir Vincent and its implications were distracting her, making her appear distant and enigmatic once more.

  He inwardly cursed. Except for that moment at supper, she’d done a superb job of being open, transparently herself, of keeping her inner shields down; she didn’t need, courtesy of Sir Vincent, to tarnish her success this late in the night.

  Grasping the first opportunity, he excused them and drew her back toward the terrace. “Come and walk in the gardens.” Glancing down, he met her eyes. “We should at least assess our creation.”

  She smiled; he saw the relief in her eyes and was content.

  It was mild outside; many couples and small groups were still ambling about the paths. They descended the terrace steps and followed a path across the lawn, then took the extension that led to the pond.

  Lanterns bobbed overhead. Jacqueline looked about, studying the pattern of glimmering lights through the screening trees. “It’s the best I’ve ever seen it.”

  Turning, she smiled up at him.

  Lowering his arm, he closed his hand about hers, and they walked on.

  The lanterns stopped halfway to the pond; they’d deliberately not lit the clearing, not wanting to encourage anyone to venture close to the deep water at night. Reaching the shadows, they exchanged a glance, then walked on.

  The night embraced them. Their eyes adjusted to the silvery moonlight. The moon wasn’t full, but had waxed enough to cast a faint glow over the landscape. When they strolled into the clearing, the pond was a dark, still expanse; the distant trickle of the stream running down to the lake was the only sound to punctuate the silence.

  The tall trees ringing the clearing, the shrubs and bushes beneath, created the illusion of a private room in the night, one that was exclusively theirs.

  Jacqueline went to the stone bench. Gerrard handed her to it and watched her sit on one end. He didn’t trust himself to sit beside her. Pensive, she looked across the pool; he studied her face, then sank his hands in his pockets and remained where he was, like her, staring at the black water.

  The coolness of the stone and the pleasant night soothed Jacqueline’s chaotic thoughts. She’d been keyed up when they’d first entered the ballroom; since then, her feelings had veered through growing confidence in the way she appeared, and the way others responded to her, through the meeting with the Entwhistles, the moment of shared sorrow, then the laying of that sorrow to rest. Lady Entwhistle’s encouragement to look forward and live echoed in her mind. After that…

  She’d enjoyed the dancing more than previously. The waltzes with Gerrard had been highlights, moments that had reflected the undercurrent of thoughts, of emotions, that had run beneath all else through the evening. Indeed, through the last days.

  Jordan’s comment, albeit intended in support, had disrupted that pleasant and positive train, throwing her back into the uncertainties of before, but then Eleanor’s behavior with Gerrard, and his reaction, had brought her obsession with him racing back.

  As for Sir Vincent…

  She sighed softly, then drew in a deep breath, enjoying the sweet, night-stock-scented air. Could Barnaby and Gerrard be right? Was Sir Vincent more sinister than he seemed?

  She’d known him for most of her life. She honestly couldn’t see him as Thomas’s, let alone her mother’s, killer, yet she hadn’t thought of him as a would-be suitor, either. And there was no gainsaying that the killer was someone she knew.

  She paused, feeling her thoughts settle like leaves stirred by a wind; despite the distractions, one subject remained uppermost, most compelling, continually capturing her.

  Gerrard.

  Only a few minutes had passed since she’d sat, yet all else had slid away, unimportant in a relative sense given he was standing beside her.

  Given she’d yet to make her decision, and the declaration he’d demanded.

  Facets of the evening resurfaced, flotsam thrown up by her questing mind. When Sir Vincent had hauled her into his arms, when he’d pressed passionate kisses to her fingers, she’d felt nothing beyond mild revulsion. All Gerrard had to do was look at her, meet her eyes and think—and she responded, ardently, instinctively.

  The relief she’d felt when she’d heard his voice, and known he was there, glowed again. How was it that in a mere week he’d come to represent safety and, more, protection, to her?

  Was that the sign she was looking for?

  And what of his turning from Eleanor? Her friend was unquestionably more beautiful than she, and certainly more experienced in the ways of attracting men, yet he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in any of Eleanor’s offers, even when those offers had grown blatant.

  Another sign? Perhaps.

  Gerrard watched her thoughts flow over her face. Some he identified, others…

  He wanted to know them all, wanted to understand, to know and so be cert
ain of her, in every way. He was a long way from achieving that goal. Standing beside her in the night, he still had no idea if she would agree to be his—his as he wished, as he’d—increasingly he suspected unwisely—stipulated.

  It was time, perhaps, to alter his stance.

  Looking down, he shifted, drawing her attention. “When we were here this afternoon, you asked me why I wanted a clear decision from you.” He met her eyes, shadowed and unreadable, and selected his words with care. “In the sense of sweeping you off your feet, of sweeping you into bed on a tide of desire—primarily mine…I don’t want to seduce you.”

  She blinked.

  Ruthlessly, his voice hardening, he went on, “I know I could. That all I need do is push a little harder. But—” He broke off. Looking away, he drew in a breath. “I don’t want just that from you.” He looked back and caught her gaze. “I don’t want what’s between you and me to be like that.”

  A seduction driven solely by me.

  He didn’t say the words, but Jacqueline heard them. The light was sufficient to limn the planes of his face, to confirm that there was absolutely no lightness in his expression.

  From the first, he’d made it clear he couldn’t promise anything, yet equally clearly, he viewed her as different. As something more than just another conquest, one, she knew, of many.

  Couldn’t promise, not wouldn’t.

  Looking into his face, hard, unyielding, yet in the soft moonlight perhaps more revealing, she sensed for the first time that behind his confident, polished exterior lay someone with uncertainties, just like her.

  What if he couldn’t promise because he didn’t know? Because, no more than she, was he sure of what lay between them, how it might evolve, what it might become?

  What if she refused and walked away, and neither of them ever learned the answer?

  She rose, all hesitation falling from her. Leaving the bench, she closed the distance between them; he watched her every step of the way, desire and more naked in his face. Drawing his hands from his pockets, he reached for her as she neared. She stopped only when her breasts brushed his chest.

  For one moment, feeling his hands slide about her waist, feeling their heat seep through the shot silk, she gazed into his eyes…and found not the slightest change in his stance—no intention to seize, no inclination to step back. He was waiting on her—on her decision.

  He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her.

  Reaching up, she set her hands on either side of the strong column of his throat, then eased them back; stretching up, she drew his head down to hers, drew his lips to hers, and fused them.

  She kissed him, not the other way around, and he let her. Let her press her lips to his, slide her tongue between, and take, let her set the pace, let her explore. He followed, accepting all she gave, offering all she wished in return, angling his head to deepen the kiss when she urged him to do so.

  It was intoxicating. To have him at her command, to have him metaphorically by her side, hand in hand, going forward into what she sensed was a landscape as mysterious to him as it was to her.

  Desire, warm and now familiar, rose and washed through them, heating, welling, buoying.

  Beckoning.

  He dragged his lips from hers. In the shadowy light, from beneath heavy lids, their eyes met, held. One of his hands had risen to cradle her head; his other arm held her locked against him. “I don’t know where this will lead, but I want to follow the path on, with you.”

  With the fingers of one hand, she traced his cheek. “Yes. I need to know, too.”

  She sensed more than saw, felt more than knew, that he was no more in control of “this” than she; he wasn’t dictating it, wasn’t directing it—he was searching for answers, driven to it, as was she.

  What lay between them was a shimmering temptation, both physical and emotional; he, too, could see it, and its promise, but the whole was as unknown to him as it was to her, and, it seemed, as confusing. With this, he was no more experienced than she.

  That was a potent attraction—to know that if, in going forward, she was taking a risk, then so was he.

  His breath brushed her lips and she yearned, not just for a kiss but for so much more.

  “You know my decision.” Her voice was low, sultry, the siren he and only he evoked coloring her tone. Boldly, she pressed closer, lifting her lips to breathe over his, “Convince me I’m doing the right thing.”

  She sensed his impulse to devour, to take her lips in a scorching kiss, but he refrained. Instead, from under heavy lids his eyes held hers as he raised his hands, sliding his palms slowly up until through the heavy silk he cupped her breasts, then his thumbs cruised knowingly over her ruched nipples.

  Sensation lanced through her; a silent, tight gasp escaped her. For an instant he played, then he bent his head, took her lips in a long, lingering kiss, while with his hands, his strong fingers, he pandered to her senses.

  When he eventually lifted his head, her body was aflame, senses stretched tight, nerves coiled, wanting. Waiting.

  “I will.” In the weak light, she saw him grimace. “But not here, not now.”

  She blinked, and returned to the real world, to the clearing by the pond. He was right. Not here, not now; they had to go back, had to thank their hosts and bid them farewell, had to journey home in the carriage with the others.

  Her lips throbbed, her flesh ached with sweet anticipation. With one finger, she caressed the corner of his lips, then stepped back, out of his arms. “Later.”

  She turned; together, they walked back to the house.

  The waiting was going to kill him.

  Gerrard paced before the windows in his bedchamber, and willed the minutes to tick by. He and Jacqueline had returned to the ballroom, behaved with appropriate decorum, then endured the journey home, opposite each other in the blessedly dark carriage.

  Lord Tregonning had parted from them in the front hall. Jacqueline and her aunt had climbed the stairs. With Barnaby, he’d followed; turning his feet toward his room, not hers, had required considerable willpower.

  He’d dismissed Compton; the house was slowly settling into slumber. Once it did, he would go to Jacqueline’s room.

  How long should he give her to get rid of her maid?

  Muttering a curse, he swung around and stalked to the hearth, staring—glaring—at the mantelpiece clock. Not enough minutes had elapsed.

  He should have told her not to undress; a great deal of his fondness for her bronze silk sheath revolved about a vision of peeling it from her. He’d give a great deal for the chance to transform that vision to reality, but he doubted she’d realize—

  Soft footsteps reached him. An instant later, his door opened and Jacqueline whisked in. She saw him, shut the door, and then she was flying to him—bronze silk sheath and all.

  He caught her.

  Wrapped his arms about her, lifted her from her feet, straight into an incendiary kiss.

  Twining her arms about his neck, she parted her lips, surrendered her mouth, and sank against him.

  Without thought, his hands shifted, one splaying over her back below her waist, angling her hips to his, the other rising to cradle her head, holding her steady so he could ravish her mouth.

  No holds barred.

  He’d warned her; now he could only marvel at his presentiment, for not in his wildest dreams had he imagined it would be like this.

  Instant conflagration.

  An immediate need more primitive than anything he’d felt before. He was a polished sophisticate, an experienced lover, yet she never seemed to connect with that side of him. The touch of her lips, the feel of her in his arms, the tentative, innocent trace of her fingers along his cheek, and he was lost to all sanity, all gentlemanly dictates, overwhelmed by an urgent and elemental need to make her his.

  Totally.

  As he’d warned her, completely. In every way.

  Jacqueline sensed the passion in him, felt the barriers dissolve befo
re its power, tasted its rapacious urgency on his lips, felt it in the flagrant possessiveness of his hands, of his body hard against hers. The thought of quailing before that elemental hunger never entered her head; instead she exulted, gloried in the knowledge she could provoke him to that, that she, her body, could be desired like that.

  Beyond reason. Beyond all words. Where they now were, only deeds spoke, only actions had meaning.

  His tongue dueled with hers; surrendering wholly to the moment, she clung to the passionately intense exchange. His hands shifted over her back, a minute later, her bodice loosened. He’d undone her laces.

  She drew in a tight breath as his lips left hers; he skated kisses along her jaw, then nudged her head up, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot beneath her ear before dipping his head to follow the long line of her throat to where her pulse thudded at its base. He laved, lightly sucked; heat rose through her and spread in a melting wave beneath her skin.

  Flushed, nerves coiling, she felt his palm slide, gliding over bronze silk to cup her breast. His fingers closed, kneaded provocatively, then rose to trace the neckline of her gown; she felt immeasurably grateful when he eased the heavy fabric down. Once clear of her breasts, the silk fell in folds to her waist. The tiny, off-the-shoulder sleeves were mere scraps of gauze across her upper arms. Sliding her arms free, she draped them over his shoulders.

  She could barely breathe as he lifted his head and looked down. Her breasts were still screened by her filmy chemise, gathered just above them.

  One tug, and the drawstring was loose. He hooked his fingers in the fine fabric and drew it down.

  The room was filled with shadows; he hadn’t lit any lamps. Yet there was light enough for her to see his face, to make out his expression as he blatantly surveyed what he’d uncovered.

  He’d seen her breasts before; she reminded herself of that, yet as, starved of breath, lungs inexorably tightening, she studied his face, she saw something far more potent than approval in the harsh planes.

  Absorbed, he lifted his hand and cupped one breast, weighing, assessing, then he closed his fingers and kneaded knowingly, tightening her nerves still further, then he eased his hold and stroked, not simply observing but learning, as if the texture of her skin was a wonder, as if her tightly ruched nipple was worthy of his most earnest attention.