The Truth About Love (51 page)

He paused before the door, met her eyes. All lightness had flown from his. After a moment, he murmured, “It won’t be long now.”

She nodded; Masters opened the door and they went in. The portrait would soon be finished—and then, between them, they’d have to face whatever was destined to be.

H
e was a font of ambiguous comments, utterances she could interpret in at least two ways, if not three.

That afternoon, Jacqueline posed beside the column in the studio, while Gerrard, with complete and utter absorption, painted her onto his canvas.

He’d let her peek before she’d taken up her position; there wasn’t that much more to do, but these final stages would be crucial to the overall quality and impact of the work.

She’d learned to be silent, to let her mind wander while keeping absolutely still, keeping her hand raised, her head tilted just so. Her expression didn’t matter; her face and features would be the last things he would paint, working from the multitude of sketches he’d already done. So she didn’t have to guard her thoughts. At present, his interest was fixed on her raised hand.

His focus had always intrigued her; it reached deeper, signified far more than mere concentration. Devotion and dedication were the concepts that sprang to mind, along with ruthless, relentless determination. He brought all three to the task, driven, quite clearly compelled.

From the corner of her eye, she glanced at him, briefly let her gaze drink in the sight of him standing poised behind his easel in shirt-sleeves, breeches and boots, wielding his brushes with consummate skill.

In arranging to have him paint her portrait, she hadn’t been searching for a champion, but she’d got one. He’d driven up and claimed the position, just like a knight of old, sworn to defend her honor, her reputation, against the world. That was the commitment he brought to her portrait; she no longer questioned that for him—as with the portrait of Patience and her children—this work meant more. He was painting it for her, in defense of her, yet the doing of it gave something to him, too.

The ability to vanquish those who’d dared threaten her.

Her gaze rested on him; now her eyes had been opened, she could see so much more. A chivalrous protectiveness he might feel for any lady, but the possessiveness that in her case went hand in hand with a protectiveness that was rigid, absolute, and knew no bounds, made it impossible to imagine that, success achieved and her dragons vanquished, he would simply shake her hand and drive away.

She hadn’t looked for marriage, not to him or any other, yet it seemed he was intent on bringing that to her, too.

As her successful champion, he could request a reward. Shifting her gaze, she wondered when he would ask. Of what he would ask, she no longer had any doubt.

How she would answer, she still didn’t know.

I
t all hinged on whether she loved him.

She felt like a Shakespearean heroine, gazing at the moon, asking: What is love?

Two nights had passed since the morning they’d farewelled Patience, since Gerrard had informed her he would be painting for longer hours. She’d posed through the afternoon and into the late evening of both days. He’d retired with her to the bed in the alcove, but later had returned to his canvas.

This morning, when at dawn he’d walked her back to her room, he’d told her he wouldn’t need her again. He was painting her face, her features; not only didn’t he need her for that, but he’d explained he didn’t want the distraction of setting eyes on her during the process.

She’d borne her banishment with good grace, but she’d grown accustomed to being awake at dawn. To being with him through the dark watches of the night.

Restless, she’d come to her window, to stare at the waning moon and ask the ancient question. Much good had it done her.

The lamps were still burning in the attics; she could see the reflection in the glasshouse panes. He was still working…Lips setting, she straightened. If he was, he needed to rest. He’d been painting almost around the clock for more than two days.

The night was hot and sultry; a thunderstorm grumbled in the distance as she slipped through the shadows of the upper corridor and eased open the door to the hidden stair. The boards didn’t creak as she quietly climbed; at the top, she opened the door to the studio, and peered in.

He wasn’t in front of the canvas. She looked around, then slipped in and closed the door. He wasn’t in the main section—but the portrait was.

It was complete, finished; she didn’t need him to tell her so.

It was remarkable, powerful. It drew her. She stood before it and stared, transfixed. The woman in the painting was her, yet a her with so much on show, so much plainly at stake, emotion welled and blocked her throat.

Amazing.
She would never have believed he’d seen all that, much less that he could with mere paints depict it—her inner fears, the sense of imprisonment that had dogged her for the past year, her desperation to escape it, to flee. To leave it all behind, knowing, simultaneously, that she couldn’t.

He hadn’t painted simple innocence, although innocence was plainly there, but the emotions that gave innocence its credibility. Loss, confusion, and a sense of betrayal that had sunk to the soul.

She shivered; despite the heat, she wrapped her arms about her and clutched her wrapper close.

The setting was potent, frightening. Even safe in London in the attics of his house, she could taste the danger, the suffocating tension. Raw menace seeped from the dark leaves of the garden, trying to engulf her and draw her back, into the shadows. The moonlight was faint, a mere suggestion of illumination, not strong enough to light the path ahead.

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.

H
e 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.

J
acqueline 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.”