The Truth About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Darkness predominated, not mere black but a palette of shifting colors, not passive but active evil, alive, still hungry, still wanting her.

  The woman in the painting desperately needed someone to reach out and haul her free of the cloying web that miasmalike held her trapped.

  The woman in the portrait was her.

  She let out a shuddering breath. Drew another in, and looked away, slowly stepped away, out of the portrait’s hold. Beyond evocative, it would free her. Looking around, she searched for its creator.

  For her champion who would succeed.

  She found him in the alcove, asleep.

  Stripped, he’d sprawled facedown across the bed. Standing in the gap between the tapestries, she let her gaze roam, over his muscled shoulders, over the sweep of his back, the indentations below his waist, the swell of his buttocks, the long, muscled lines of his legs.

  Moving inside, she let the tapestry close behind her, shutting off the lamplight. Moonlight fell softly, illuminating the scene as she paused by the bed and let her wrapper fall. Raising her hands, she undid the ties of her loose nightgown, and let it slide down to puddle at her feet. Stepping free, she lifted one knee to the bed and crawled across it, to him.

  He knew her touch; he didn’t wake when she set her palm to his side, and slowly, lovingly, ran it down. She didn’t stop to think, to question her heart; instead, she let it guide her, and followed it to its desire.

  Gently, she urged him onto his back; obligingly he rolled over, still asleep.

  Gerrard awoke to sensation. To the touch of her lips, to the heat of her mouth as she closed it around him. To the caress of her hands on his bare hip, on his balls. To the scent of her in the steamy night. To the swish of her hair like silk across his thighs, across his groin.

  To the knowledge that she was there, naked, kneeling between his spread thighs, ministering to him. Evocatively. Devotedly.

  The shuddering breath he drew in wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to steady his whirling head. Blindly, he reached down, touched her head, helplessly slid his fingers into the thick locks and clutched as his hips rose, thrusting to her tune.

  To the music that rose about them.

  Pleasure cascaded through him; eons passed as she played, then at his fevered urging rose up, straddled him, and took him in.

  She rode him through the night, swept high on the wild winds of ecstasy, through a storm of passion while desire rained down and swamped them. Swirled, built, then dragged them under.

  He rose and flipped her over, thrust deep and filled her.

  Their bodies merged, slick and heated, in the relentless primal dance.

  Total surrender.

  It came on the moonlight, whispered through them both, and took them. Racked them.

  At the last drew back and left them, sated and exhausted, together in the tangled ruins of his bed.

  He woke the next morning with sunshine on his face.

  Pleasure in his mind. Memories washing through him.

  He lay on his back, sprawled naked beneath the dormer windows.

  He’d never felt so decadently alive.

  His lips curved, then he smiled, lifted his head and looked around.

  She was no longer there, but her scent lingered. Her taste was still on his lips. He had a vague recollection of her whispering that she had to go back to her room, but that he should remain, and sleep.

  In the hours prior to that they’d forsaken slumber, too hungry for each other. The minutes had spun out, desire drenched, stoked with passion. In the heat of the night, they’d burned. Soared. Shattered.

  The pleasure of her abandoned loving had been soul-shatteringly sweet.

  Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he sat up. He ran his hands over his face, then remembered, rose and walked through the tapestries into the studio. To the portrait that sat, complete in its last detail, on his easel.

  It was done, and it was, as he’d always known it would be, the finest thing he’d yet accomplished.

  Triumph welled, yet it wasn’t solely the triumph of achievement, of pride in a painting well done. It went deeper than that, ranged on a more fundamental plane.

  After last night, he knew what she felt for him. There’d been a joy and a rightness in their joining that she’d seen and acknowledged, that she’d openheartedly embraced as strongly as he.

  All the necessary pieces were falling into place.

  She loved him. She would marry him.

  All he had to do was take the portrait back to Cornwall, slay the specters of her past, expose the murderer if they could and win her free.

  The future thereafter would be, not his, but theirs.

  Turning, he strode to the bellpull and rang for Masters.

  Jacqueline slept late. After rising and donning a new gown of sprigged muslin, she consumed a late breakfast in her room, then went downstairs.

  Minnie, Timms and Millicent were in the drawing room, heads together, discussing their arrangements for the evening. When they’d learned that the portrait would be completed that day, and that Gerrard was set on returning to Cornwall with it as soon as possible, Millicent, urged on by Minnie and Timms, had declared they would hold a farewell dinner for all those of his family who had helped and supported them during their stay.

  And, of course, have a private unveiling of the portrait, in reward as it were.

  Gerrard had grimaced, but to her surprise agreed. To her, he’d admitted, “I’m curious to see how they’ll react.”

  Patience and Vane had already left town, but most of the others who’d rallied around, encouraged Gerrard and lent her countenance, were still there, although most were, indeed, planning to leave for their estates any day.

  Jacqueline confirmed that Gerrard hadn’t yet appeared downstairs. She listened to the guest list, made a few suggestions as the three older ladies wrestled with their seating plan, then excused herself and slipped away.

  Going upstairs, she wondered if Gerrard was still sleeping. But as she climbed the hidden stairs to the studio, she heard voices. Looking up, she saw that the studio door had been left ajar.

  In the same moment, she recognized Barnaby’s voice.

  “Stokes was most exercised over the incident with the arrow.”

  Arrow? Jacqueline halted on the last step, a yard from the door.

  “Like us,” Barnaby continued, “he thinks the murderer attempting to kill you is an indication that the entire series of murders revolves about Jacqueline herself. She’s the only common link between the victims.”

  Jacqueline stilled; she stared at the door, unseeing.

  Barnaby went on, “Unlike us, Stokes doesn’t think it’s anything as simple as a jealous suitor.”

  Jacqueline heard a swishing sound; Gerrard was cleaning his brushes.

  “What does Stokes think?”

  The question was flat; his tone held a menacing quality.

  “Oh, he acknowledges the possibility of a jealous suitor, but as he points out, none have stepped forward to claim Jacqueline’s hand.”

  “Except Sir Vincent.”

  “True, but Sir Vincent’s behavior doesn’t suggest any deep and desperate passion. After Jacqueline refused him, he hasn’t shown his face again, hasn’t attempted to press his suit.”

  After a moment, Gerrard prompted, “So?”

  “So Stokes suggests we look further—what if the motive behind the murders is not for the murderer to marry Jacqueline himself, but to stop her marrying at all? She’s Tregonning’s heiress, after all.”

  Gerrard grunted. “I checked. If she dies without issue—or is condemned for murder—on her father’s demise the estate entire goes to a distant cousin in Scotland. Said cousin hasn’t been south of the border for decades, and is, apparently, unaware of his potential good fortune.”

  Jacqueline’s jaw dropped.

  Silence reigned, then Barnaby asked, his tone reflecting the same stunned amazement she felt, “How the devil did you learn all t
hat? I thought you’ve been painting nonstop?”

  “I have been. My brother-in-law, and others, haven’t been.”

  “Ah.” After a moment, Barnaby added, “I wish I knew how they ferreted out such things.”

  A dark smile colored Gerrard’s voice as he said, “Remind me to introduce you to the Duke of St. Ives.”

  “Hmm, yes, well, none of that gets us any further, unfortunately. Whoever it is who wants Jacqueline free of any potential husband is still lurking around Hellebore Hall, waiting for her to return.”

  “It’s interesting, don’t you think, that they haven’t followed us to town?”

  “Indeed—which is another reason to think it isn’t Sir Vincent. He’s known about town, and could have come up easily enough.”

  “Matthew Brisenden couldn’t have.”

  “True, but I’ve never seen him as our murderer.”

  Gerrard sighed. “I hate to agree with you, but Jacqueline says he’s protective of her, and I think she’s right.”

  Outside the door, Jacqueline set her lips. How kind of him to agree with her, but why hadn’t he told her someone had shot an arrow at him? When?

  As to why…

  “Regardless of our villain’s identity, our way forward is clear.” Gerrard’s voice held steely determination, and a quiet, unshakable resolution. “The portrait is both the key and the bait. We take it back to Hellebore Hall, arrange to show it, and wait for him to strike.”

  Jacqueline heard footsteps, Barnaby walking around.

  A pause ensued, then he said, “You know, I didn’t entirely believe you could achieve this with a portrait. Damned if it isn’t as good as a real clue. Everyone seeing it will know—and start thinking of who the real murderer might be. And yes, you’re right—it’s bait. He’ll come for it—if at all possible, he’ll destroy it.”

  Barnaby’s voice strengthened as he swung around. “But he’ll also come after you.”

  “I know.” Gerrard’s voice held a note of imperturbable anticipation. “I’ll be waiting for him.”

  Jacqueline stood on the stair, those words revolving in her head. Gerrard and Barnaby discussed the dinner that evening, then the logistics of returning with all speed to Cornwall; she paid little attention, too absorbed with their earlier revelations.

  Then Barnaby made to leave. He hadn’t come through the house; he must have used the external stairs. On a spike of relief, she heard them both moving across the studio to the outside door.

  Quietly, she turned, and slipped down into the house.

  Gerrard gave her precious little time to straighten her tangled thoughts, to steady her whirling head.

  Fifteen minutes later, he found her in the back parlor where she’d taken refuge to think without distraction.

  She stopped thinking the moment he walked in.

  He smiled, all his effortless charm to the fore, a light that was solely for her glowing in his eyes.

  That private warmth, the intimate connection, brought memories of the past night crashing back.

  She’d thought, last night, that she’d discovered what love was—a surrender, a selfless giving, a devotion that could edge into worship.

  From her position on the chaise, she watched him cross the room to her, and it was crystal clear she had a great deal yet to learn.

  She drew a tight breath. “Is it completely finished?”

  He nodded. “Yes.” He halted a few paces before her, standing easily, his hands sliding into his pockets as his eyes, still glowing brown, searched her face. “I—”

  “I’ve been thinking.” She cut across him without compunction. It was imperative she take control of this interview; she knew it was important to keep her gaze steady on his face, but she had to fight to do it. “Millicent and I can take the portrait back—now it’s finished your commission is completed. There’s no need for you and Mr. Adair to trouble yourselves with the long journey back and forth.”

  His face changed; in the blink of an eye, his expression turned to stone, his warm gaze to one sharp as a surgeon’s knife.

  The silence lengthened, then he said, his tone even and deceptively mild, “I came to ask for your hand—to ask you to be my wife.”

  The words were a blow in the center of her chest. Her eyes started to close, to shut out the pain; she forced them open, forced herself to meet and hold his gaze. “I…haven’t, don’t, think of marriage.”

  A moment passed, then he said, “I know that initially, when we first became lovers, you weren’t thinking of marriage, not at all. But since then, since coming to London…I think if you consult your memories, you’ll see that you have been, if only instinctively, considering the prospect for some time.”

  A straightforward denial leapt to her lips; her gaze trapped in his, she held it back. She recalled Minnie and Timms’s meddling; if they’d prodded her, how much more likely were they to have prodded him? And in doing so accurately informed him of her state. Those two saw far too much.

  “I won’t marry you. I don’t wish you to return to Hellebore Hall.” She sat on the chaise, her hands clasped in her lap, and looked up at him steadily. He remained standing, studying her; the intensity of his gaze held her caged.

  Love, it seemed, sometimes demanded sacrifice, even after surrender. If that was how it was, then for him, she would be strong enough, even for that.

  His eyes narrowed; his gaze didn’t waver. “Was it a dream then, last night? And early this morning? I thought it was you, the angel who visited me in my bed beneath the stars.” Abruptly he moved, a predator circling before her, his eyes never leaving her, never releasing her. “You who took me into her mouth, into her body—”

  “Don’t.” She shut her eyes, seized the moment to breathe in and out. “You know it was me.” Opening her eyes, she met his gaze, now darkly burning. “It changes nothing. It won’t happen again.”

  The ends of his lips lifted, the half-smile wholly intent. “Oh, but it will—again, and again. Because you love me—and I love you.”

  She rose to her feet, opened her mouth, but no words came. Nothing good enough to challenge the knowledge in his eyes.

  Her hesitation was all the confirmation Gerrard needed; the look in her eyes, as if she was desperately casting about for some argument to counter his, and failing, placed the matter of their mutual state beyond doubt. A weight lifted from his shoulders; relief was a heady draft coursing through his veins. That much, then, was as he’d thought. What remained a mystery was the reason for her sudden—and if he were truthful, unnerving—tack.

  This wasn’t how he’d imagined his proposal would go.

  He stepped closer, close enough for their senses to flare.

  She locked her eyes on his, narrowed them. Her jaw tightened. “I will not marry you—you can’t make me say yes. And under no circumstances are you to return to Hellebore Hall.”

  He held her gaze, slowly arched one brow. “How do you plan to stop me?”

  She frowned.

  He went on, “I’ve no intention of letting you refuse my suit. I’ll keep after you, keep seducing you—you’ll have to agree in the end.” Resolution rang in his tone; to him there was no other option. “As for returning to the Hall, either with you in your father’s coach, or ahead of you in my curricle—either way, I’ll be there to hand you down.”

  Still frowning, she looked down, staring at his waistcoat. A moment ticked past, then she looked up and met his eyes. “I won’t agree to marry you—I won’t acknowledge that I love you in any way. I can’t stop you from returning to the Hall, but I can speak with my father and make him understand why he must turn you away, and insist you return to London.”

  The stony determination he saw in her eyes chilled him. “Why don’t you explain that to me?”

  Her features tightened. “Very well. Think of this—I’ve loved, and lost twice to this murderer. First with Thomas, a young girl’s love, which was bad enough, and then with Mama—and that was devastating.” Her voice shook, her
lashes flickered, but she drew breath and went on, lifting her eyes to his, the green and gold burning with a fire he took a moment to place, to recognize, “Now there’s you. This murderer is waiting at the Hall—we both know that. To love and lose a third time…”

  Dragging in a breath, she shook her head. “No—I won’t risk it. If you understand at all, you won’t ask that of me.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment, then quietly replied, “I do understand.” He reached for her hand, let his fingers slide over hers, then twine. Lock. “But I’m not asking you to love and lose a third time. I’m asking you to love, and have the courage to embrace it and fight for it, with me.”

  She opened her mouth—he squeezed her fingers to silence her. “Before you argue, consider this—whatever you say, whatever you do, no longer matters. I know you love me—you’ve shown me you do—and I love you. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if need be, and badger you until you accept me as your husband.”

  Her eyes searched his, then he sensed her inner sigh. “I know he tried to kill you—I know about the arrow.”

  “Ah.” He held her gaze as perception swung, revolved, then settled again. He remembered the door to the stairs, left open by the footman who’d come to remove his shaving water; he’d been on his way to shut it when Barnaby had knocked on the other door. Suddenly all was clear.

  She tried to tug her hand from his; when he didn’t let go, she glared at him. Belligerently. “When were you going to tell me? Never? But if we’re considering things, then you ought to consider this—if I loved you, I’d move heaven and earth to keep you from this madman.”

  He searched her eyes, then he smiled.

  Jacqueline’s heart melted; there was no charm in the gesture, no artful seduction, just an overflowing understanding, acceptance, and love. It glowed in the rich brown of his eyes, a light she couldn’t mistake, a light he made no effort to conceal.

  He raised his free hand and cradled her cheek, tipping her face up so he could study her eyes more closely. When he spoke, it was with awe, as if he’d made some great discovery. “It’s not your heart you’re trying to shield by denying you love me—it’s me. You’re trying to protect me.”