The Truth About Love (48 page)

“No.” Gerrard laid his hand over Jacqueline’s on his sleeve. “I’m afraid we don’t have time—the sittings are quite arduous.”

Jacqueline looked at him. “But I don’t sit in the afternoons.”

He met her eyes. “You will be, starting tomorrow.”

“But—”

“And the very last thing we need is more freckles.”

She stared at him; she didn’t possess a single freckle, not anywhere, and he knew it.

The squeak of violins cut through the room.

“Perhaps some other time,” Perry said cheerily. “Meanwhile, if you would grant me the honor—”

“I’m afraid I’m before you, old boy.” Gerrard clamped his fingers about Jacqueline’s hand; catching her eye, he raised her fingers to his lips. “My dance, I believe?”

She thought—actively
thought
—about refusing him. He saw it in her eyes. What she saw in his—the emotion that flared in response—apparently convinced her to acquiesce with good grace.

He returned his gaze to Lucy and Perry. “If you’ll excuse us?”

“Of course.” Lucy was looking daggers at Perry, who hadn’t yet noticed.

Gerrard led Jacqueline to the dance floor, then swung her into his arms and stepped into the swirling throng. If he was wise, he wouldn’t make any comment. After all, what could he say?

“Why this sudden urge to consort with strangers?” Even to his ears, the question sounded ludicrous; worse, his tone registered as aggrieved.

He wasn’t surprised when she looked at him, her eyes wide. “What on earth do you mean? They’re other guests. I thought we should be sociable.”

Why?
He bit his tongue and looked over her head, steering her into a turn. The soft shush of her skirts against his trousers, the feel of her supple body, pliant under his hand at her back, soothed his unexpected irritation. What was he so agitated over? A few words?

Or because she’d sought Perry’s attention?

He didn’t like the answer. Drawing her fractionally closer, he immersed himself in the dance, gave himself up to the predictable pleasure of waltzing her around the room. The whirling left them cocooned in time and space, alone in the middle of a crowd.

Alone with her—that was how he preferred to be. Until now he’d thought himself a social animal, at least when he wasn’t painting, but with her, when it came to her, he was discovering new aspects of himself every day.

Jacqueline remained silent, content to whirl safe in his arms while she thought through what had just occurred. Eventually, she looked up at Gerrard. “Is there an understanding between Lord Castleton and Mrs. Atwell?”

His lips thinned. “Yes.”

“Ah. I see.” She looked away. In stopping Castleton from claiming her hand, Gerrard had been steering her clear of stepping on Mrs. Atwell’s toes. Very properly. He hadn’t been acting possessively but protectively; it was sometimes difficult to tell.

She revisited her plan; it still seemed viable, but she clearly needed to make a few adjustments. Next time, she would have to find someone to entertain Gerrard, someone he was willing to be entertained by.

At the end of the dance, by mutual accord they resumed their stroll.

Finding someone she could be certain Gerrard would be willing to be entertained by wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped, but by dint of steady application, she finally set eyes on the perfect group.

“Mrs. Wainwright, what a pleasure to see you.” She smiled at the stylish matron and bobbed a curtsy, then exchanged greetings with the lady’s two unmarried daughters, Chloe and Claire. Jacqueline had met the trio at a number of afternoon engagements, and at a musicale.

The family knew Patience and Gerrard well; their home lay near Gerrard’s estate in Derbyshire. Gerrard shook hands and bowed. Chloe and Claire’s eyes lit; they responded warmly, and asked after his horses.

Delighted to have found such young ladies, of suitable age and perfectly sensible, to keep Gerrard company, Jacqueline turned her smile on the last member of the group—a handsome, well-dressed gentleman whose features declared him to be Chloe and Claire’s older brother, Rupert. Jacqueline recalled some mention of him.

“Hello!” Smiling, she gave him her hand. “You must be Rupert.”

“I confess I am.” With a delighted smile, Rupert bowed, all long-limbed grace. His eyes twinkled as he straightened. “Whatever tales they’ve told of me are probably true.”

She laughed.

“I heard you’re in town sitting for Gerrard—that’s quite a coup. Have you had time to see much of London?”

“A little—not perhaps as much as I’d have liked, but…”

Gerrard chatted with the Wainwright girls, simultaneously monitoring Jacqueline’s exchange with Rupert. He knew Rupert, knew his propensities, but Rupert was behaving himself—as usual when under his mother’s eagle eye.

Confirming that Mrs. Wainwright did indeed have her eye on Rupert, Gerrard relaxed, and gave his attention to Chole and Claire; he’d known them all their lives.

He didn’t see the danger, until it was too late.

“There’s the musicians again.” Rupert swept Jacqueline a bow. “Can I tempt you onto the floor, Miss Tregonning?”

Gerrard whipped around—but he’d danced the last dance with Jacqueline.

“Thank you.” Jacqueline smiled gloriously and gave Rupert her hand. “That would be delightful.”

No, it wouldn’t be.
Gerrard inwardly swore; Mrs. Wainwright tensed, and shifted nervously. In something close to mounting panic, he watched Jacqueline, oblivious, smile and chat to Rupert as he led her to the floor…

Turning to Chloe, he reached for her hand. “If you would grant me the honor of this dance, Miss Wainwright?” He barely waited for her agreement before leading her in her brother’s wake.

The music swelled as they reached the floor; he swung Chloe into his arms, his gaze fixed on Jacqueline. They started revolving; he steered them as close to Jacqueline and Rupert as he could.

Chloe sighed. “Nothing will happen until the end of the dance.”

When he looked down at her, she rolled her eyes resignedly. “He uses the dance to butter them up—you know what he’s like. When the music ends, she’ll be curious to see whatever it is he’s invented this time, but still convinced he’s perfectly trustworthy.”

“As most of us know, he’s not.”

“Indeed. But there’s nothing you can do until the dance finishes, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop staring at them, and pay attention to where we’re
going
!” Chloe tugged at his shoulder; they barely avoided another couple.

Gerrard colored. “Sorry.” He hadn’t blushed in decades.

He tried to comply with Chloe’s edict—he knew she was right—but logic couldn’t prevail against the dark impulses surfacing; time and again, he darted glances at Jacqueline as, laughing and smiling gaily, she circled the floor in Rupert’s expert arms.

Jaw clenched, his teeth almost grinding, Gerrard waited for the waltz to wind to its conclusion.

Whirling around the room, Jacqueline wondered if any other man was ever going to meet, let alone eclipse, the standards Gerrard had set. Her senses assessed Rupert, and despite his obvious expertise, found him wanting. In just what way, she couldn’t say, but it was simply not the same as waltzing with Gerrard. Inwardly sighing, she continued to respond to Rupert’s conversation. He certainly had a glib tongue. They’d touched on various topics; he’d now steered the conversation to gardens.

Why they all thought she must be interested in gardens she had no idea. Yes, the gardens of Hellebore Hall were fantastic, but she’d grown up with them; she took their extravagant beauty and power largely for granted.

As if sensing how mild was her interest, Rupert shifted the conversation to statuary, specifically statues of Greek and Roman gods.

“I say.” His hazel eyes lit. “There’s a fascinating statue in the library here. Have you seen it?”

She shook her head. “This is only the second time I’ve visited here.”

“Ah, well—this is not to be missed. I’m sure Lady Sommerville, if she’d thought of it, would have suggested you view it. Coming from a house surrounded by gardens devoted to various gods, you’ll appreciate it—it’s a fabulously lifelike depiction of a thoroughly remarkable naked god. I’ve never been able to decide which one—perhaps you could hazard a guess.”

The music slowed; their feet halted. Rupert took her hand. “Come—let me show it to you. I assure you, it’ll take your breath away.”

He looked so eager, she hadn’t the heart to argue, let alone refuse. Especially as Rupert was helping her prove her point. She glanced back as he led her out into a corridor; she couldn’t see Gerrard. When last she’d glimpsed him, he’d been waltzing with Chloe.

The sight had caused her an unexpected pang, yet if, as she contended, his interest in her derived solely from her being his subject, and not at all because he saw her as his intended bride, then naturally, given the right opportunity, his attention should wander.

If she spent the next hour with Rupert and other gentlemen, quite apart from Gerrard, while he spent that time enjoying the company of some other lady or ladies, then surely she could cite that as tangible evidence—as factual, actual proof—that he didn’t see her as his future wife.

Rupert halted, threw open a door and waved her through. Crossing the threshold, she heaved an inward sigh. She felt certain that if Gerrard did see her as his bride, he wouldn’t allow her to be alone with Rupert.

Yet he had. So…here she was, in a darkened library. Actually alone with Rupert. She’d assumed the room would be open to guests, with lamps lit and maybe a few older gentlemen snoozing in armchairs. Instead, it was deserted, the dark shadows thrown by packed bookcases and heavily curtained windows encroaching on a desk and chairs grouped in the room’s center.

Rupert closed the door, plunging the room into deeper darkness. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

She looked about, swiveling to scan the room. “Where’s the statue?”

Rupert drew near. “Well, my dear, just give me a few minutes, and I’ll create it—to your abundant satisfaction.”

His tone warned her; clearly she’d made a serious error in judgment. Swinging to face him, she stared.
“What?”

Rupert shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the desk. He smiled, his hands rising to his cravat. “Confess. You didn’t
really
think there was a statue, not one of marble, did you?”

His attempt at a seductive purr grated on her nerves. “Yes! I did!” She glared at him. “And here—” Grabbing his coat, she thrust it at him. “Put that back on.”

Rupert waggled his eyebrows. “No.” His cravat half undone, he undid his waistcoat and tugged his shirt from his waistband. “I promised you a naked god, and I always keep my promises.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then nodded. “Very well. But I never promised I’d stay and watch.”

She darted to the side, intending to slip past him and race to the door.

He was quick, too quick; stepping sideways, he blocked her path.

Then he smiled, cynical yet still stupidly eager, and moved nearer.

Pressing her, herding her, back toward the desk.

H
e took her out this way.” Gerrard stalked into the corridor, towing Chloe behind him. He wanted a witness, especially one of Rupert’s family, so there’d be someone who’d know the reason for him thrashing Rupert to within an inch of his life.

“Are you sure?” Chloe asked, her tone beyond resigned.

“Yes.” Gerrard paused and looked up and down the corridor. “Where the devil have they gone? There’s no rooms open this way.”

“Rupert won’t be looking for an
open
room.”

Gerrard swore, and headed down the corridor, Chloe’s hand in his. “Your brother’s incorrigible.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“
Me? I
don’t waltz young ladies out of ballrooms.”

“Precisely.”

Chloe’s tone was tart. Gerrard threw her a warning glance, which she met with a sour look.

“Ooooow!!” Crash!

The commotion came from a room further down the corridor. Gerrard dropped Chloe’s hand and ran.

“No!”

As he flung open the door, he realized it was Rupert shrieking.

“
Stop
it! That’s enough. Put the damned thing down!”

The sight that met his eyes brought Gerrard up short. Rupert, his shirt hanging open and cravat askew, was on the floor, on his arse, desperately scrabbling backward from Jacqueline, a virago wielding a long wooden ruler.

Protecting his head with his raised arms, Rupert wasn’t escaping.

“You
fiend
!” Jacqueline laid into him, slapping the ruler against his thigh. “You
witless
…” Words failed her. Dragging in a breath, she brandished the ruler. “Put your clothes back on this instant! Do you hear me?
Now!
”