The Truth About Love (46 page)

The truth had never been so starkly clear.

For each of them, there was no other.

H
e left her slumped, exhausted in the bed, and returned to the portrait. Jacqueline had no idea where he got the strength, yet, as she reviewed recent events, she could possibly understand his inspiration.

Staring up at the segment of sky visible through the dormer windows, she tried to think, convinced she should, about their liaison—about how it had evolved, its all-consuming fire—but sleep wouldn’t be denied, and she succumbed.

He stirred her awake when the sky was still dark, when stars still sparkled, diamonds scattered by a god’s hand. He was a dark god, a shadow blocking out the stars as he rose above her, a night god claiming her, swift, certain, and sure, devastating and divine. In the dark of the night, he demanded and drove her; she sobbed, surrendered, and gave all he asked. Everything he desired. All she wanted.

Pleasure thrummed, hot and sweet through her veins, down her nerves, then completion took her and she shattered.

Later, when dawn was coloring the sky, he led her down to her room. He kissed her, then turned and went back up the hidden stairs. A silly smile on her lips, she watched until he disappeared, then waltzed across the room, and fell into bed.

A
s she’d arranged, no maid came to wake her until she rang. She slept until midday, then, thoroughly refreshed, rose and prepared for her day.

While Gerrard reviewed his work and planned what he would paint that night, she had a luncheon to attend, then he and she would visit Helen Purfett, after which she, Millicent, Minnie and Timms had been invited to a select afternoon tea at the Marchioness of Huntly’s London home.

That day proved a pattern card for those that followed. Other than for the fittings at Helen Purfett’s salon, she didn’t see Gerrard until he joined them for dinner. After that, he accompanied them to whatever evening engagement they’d accepted, but at ten o’clock, when the summer twilight had faded from the sky, he and she returned to Brook Street and his studio.

Her sessions posing beside the column grew steadily longer.

Their bouts of lovemaking grew progressively more intense.

More intensely intimate.

The brassy bronze gown was completed; clad in it, she stood beside the column. Courtesy of what he’d already painted, she could readily imagine she stood poised on the threshold of the Garden of Night.

About to step free of its cloying embrace.

When she needed a rest, he had her sit on a stool, her face at the same angle as when she was posed, and talk to him of the past—of her mother and Thomas, all she’d felt about their deaths and the hurt of the whisper campaign against her.

It no longer bothered her to speak of it, yet when she did, she could feel the old emotions rising through her—knew that was why he needed her to talk of it, so he could capture those feelings, all that showed in her face, for his canvas.

Increasingly, far more than she’d expected, the portrait became a shared enterprise; she hadn’t imagined that painter and subject could work together in such a way, yet with him and her, between them, they did.

She grew steadily more familiar with his work, more critically appreciative of his genius. For genius it was; the figure that took shape on the canvas was so vibrantly alive, every time she looked at it, it was a shock to realize it was her.

Since the day they’d arrived in London, she hadn’t seen Barnaby, but one evening at the end of the first week, he sought her and Gerrard out as they were strolling between the guests at Lady Chartwell’s soirée.

“There you are!” Joining them, Barnaby looked around the room. “You know, town’s not so bad in summer after all—despite the heat, it’s a dashed sight more comfortable than any damned house party.”

“And whose house party have you been attending?” Jacqueline asked.

Barnaby grimaced. “M’sister’s.” He met Gerrard’s eyes. “And she had, indeed, invited the dreadful Melissa.”

Gerrard grinned. “How did you escape?”

“Silently, in the dead of night.”

Jacqueline laughed.

Barnaby placed a hand over his heart. “Word of honor.”

“But why did you go?” she asked.

“I was chasing m’father. Ran him to earth there, and dashed if he didn’t join me in my clandestine bolt to the capital. He’s holed up in Bedford Square, swearing not to venture forth other than on official business. Useful, as it happened—I had plenty of time to bend his ear while on the way to town.”

“What did you learn?” Gerrard asked. Barnaby’s father, the Earl of Sanford, was one of the committee of peers overseeing the newly established metropolitan police force.

Barnaby glanced around, confirming that no one else stood near enough to overhear. “The pater thinks as we do—he’s rather impressed by your talents, incidentally.” Barnaby grinned briefly, then sobered. “But more to the point, he agreed I should talk to Stokes.”

“Who’s Stokes?” Jacqueline asked.

“An investigator—I understand his title will now be inspector—with Bow Street. He’s more or less a gentleman, but rather more importantly, he’s made a name for himself solving convoluted crimes of the sort we’re dealing with.” Barnaby met Jacqueline’s eyes. “I can vouch for his discretion, but given we can’t, at this stage, lay any formal complaint, all I’m hoping to get from him is some indication as to which direction his experience suggests we look in for our murderer.”

Barnaby fell silent, his gaze on Jacqueline. Understanding what Barnaby wanted—why he’d sought them out—Gerrard asked, “Are you comfortable with Barnaby discussing all we know and believe with Stokes?”

She refocused on Barnaby. “Yes. If he can help, or suggest who might be behind the murders, then of course, do speak with him.”

“Just let us know what he says,” Gerrard added.

Barnaby grinned. “Righto. I don’t plan on going back to the Hall until you’re ready with the portrait. I’ll be skulking around the traps. Send for me if you need me.”

With a snappy salute, he left them. Within minutes he was making his excuses to a disappointed Lady Chartwell.

Ten minutes later, her ladyship’s clocks struck the hour—ten o’clock. Gerrard steered Jacqueline to her ladyship’s side, and with his customary charm, excused them without, in fact, giving any real excuse. Lady Chartwell smiled, patted Jacqueline’s hand, and let them go. His town carriage was waiting; in minutes, they were on their way back to his studio.

D
ays passed. Jacqueline posed, Gerrard painted, and the portrait came to life.

It increasingly absorbed him, all but obsessed him. The only distraction capable of disrupting its hold was its subject, Jacqueline herself.

She commanded his attention on a level that effortlessly overrode all else, even his need to paint. How it had happened he didn’t know, but she, her nearness, knowing she was his, had become vital, the linchpin of his existence, the very essence of his future. Even while he threw his energies into her portrait, that vulnerability nagged. He hadn’t yet secured her—hadn’t yet offered for her hand and been accepted.

Time and again, he thought of mentioning it, doing the deed so it was over and done. Accomplished.

Time and again, he remembered she was, in a fashion, in his debt in terms of the portrait—she needed him and his talents to win free, to win back her life. The idea she might feel obliged to accept his offer because of that filled him with creeping horror.

If he asked her now, before the portrait was completed, how would he know, or ever be sure of, her reasons for accepting him?

Which left him facing the single, central source of his uncertainty—he still couldn’t guess what she thought. What she truly felt for him, how she saw him. For a man who’d imagined he’d understood women well, it was a humbling situation.

M
y dear, I’m so
glad
Gerrard has chosen you.”

Jacqueline blinked. She stared at the extremely old, distinctly vague but sweet old lady she’d only met five minutes before.

Aunt Clara reached out, and with her ancient claw lightly patted Jacqueline’s hand. “It’s always such a relief when our young men make
sensible
decisions—they’re all such
good
boys, but they do sometimes seem to drag their heels…”

It was the middle of their third week in London; Jacqueline and Millicent had found their social feet. This afternoon they were attending a tea party at St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square.

In introducing Jacqueline to Aunt Clara, who was very, very old, a Cynster by birth, Honoria had whispered that the old lady’s mind, while lucid enough, did occasionally wander. So Jacqueline smiled and, leaning closer, whispered, “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood. Gerrard and I aren’t betrothed.”

Swallowing a sip of tea, Aunt Clara nodded. “No, no—of course not. Quite right.” She set her cup on its saucer, then serenely continued, “Not that we have many betrothals in this family—quite rare, in fact. While they do drag their heels, once they make up their minds, they tend to want everything settled yesterday—and their chosen wife warming their bed, you see.”

An indulgent smile curved the old lady’s lips. Fascinated, Jacqueline studied it.

“Quite besotted, they become. And in this case, of course, what with this dreadful business hanging over your head, and dear Gerrard working day and night on the painting, all to free you, I daresay the notion of a betrothal just now isn’t his primary concern. Indeed”—Aunt Clara leaned closer and lowered her voice to a quavery whisper—“all things considered, I very much doubt a betrothal of any length will find much favor with him at all.”

Jacqueline realized she’d failed to make her point. “Actually—”

“I heard Patience say just yesterday that she wouldn’t be surprised if, after you and Gerrard leave to take the painting down to Cornwall to put all right down there, the next time she saw you, you’d be married.”

Patience said?
Jacqueline stared. Her mind froze, then abruptly raced, in no specific direction. After a moment, she drew in a deep breath, focused again on Aunt Clara’s lined face, and carefully asked, “What do the others think?”

Clara made a noise that was half laugh, half snort. “My dear, if we weren’t ladies, there’d be wagers exchanged.
Nothing
so delights us as a new marriage in the family. Why”—she waved one crabbed hand to indicate the entire room—“everyone has their own view of the when, and of course we all hope there’ll be a wedding to attend, but even if not, and it’s done by special license—and I have to say that’s very common in this clan—then you may rest assured we’ll still have a celebration.”

Clara met Jacqueline’s eyes and smiled, sweetly charming. “I’m so glad, dear, that you’ll be joining us.”

Jacqueline smiled weakly, and held her tongue.

S
he should have been paying more attention from the first. Later that day, as afternoon edged into evening, Jacqueline paced in her room, agitated yet determined to set things right.

Aunt Clara’s comments had opened her eyes. Mentally revisiting all her interactions with Gerrard’s family, especially the female members, reinterpreting what had transpired in light of Clara’s words had made it perfectly clear Clara’s assumptions were shared by many, if not all.

If she’d paid more attention, if she hadn’t been so thrilled by their ready acceptance of her, if she’d had more experience of large families, especially tonnish families…but she hadn’t. She now faced a serious misinterpretation, on a major scale, one honesty let alone honor demanded she correct.

But how to do that?

She racked her brain, yet there seemed only one way forward.

Halting her pacing, she consulted the clock. It wasn’t yet time to dress for dinner. Millicent was taking a nap. Minnie and Timms hadn’t accompanied them today, but had remained at home; they would have napped earlier. At this hour, they were usually to be found in the back parlor.

They were there, Timms tatting as always, Minnie sitting in a chair in the waning sunshine. They looked up as she entered, smiling in greeting.

Halting before them, she pressed her hands tightly together and drew in a deep breath. “I wonder if I might speak with you both for a moment.”

They exchanged a quick glance, then Minnie beamed. “Of course, dear. Sit beside Timms there—we’re all ears.”

“You have our undivided attention,” Timms confirmed, although her fingers never slackened.

Jacqueline sank onto the chaise. Minnie’s faded eyes fixed on her; anticipation lit her face. Now she was here…“I’m really not sure where to begin.”

“Try the beginning,” Timms advised. “That usually works best.”

“Yes, well…you’ve all been so kind, to both myself and Millicent, so welcoming. I’m so grateful—you’ve made coming up to town so much easier for us both.”

“But of course, dear.” Minnie’s eyes twinkled.

“Yes, well, you see…” Jacqueline drew in another breath and plunged on. “I’ve just realized that there seems to be some confusion over the…ah,
connection
between myself and Gerrard.” She looked from Timms to Minnie; no comprehension yet showed in their eyes. “Gerrard is helping me break free of my problems at home, helping to rescue me if you will, but his reasons for doing so—for painting my portrait—are, well,
professional,
and of course he’s motivated to assist a lady as a true gentleman should. That’s all that connects us, yet I fear an…an
expectation
has arisen that’s based on the notion that there’s some link of a more
personal
nature between him and me.”