The Truth About Love (52 page)

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 that? 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.

G
errard 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.”

Of course.
“Perhaps. But—”

His smile deepened; he bent his head and kissed her.

She tried to hold aloof, apart, tried desperately to simply exist and not be swayed…and failed. A shuddering sigh escaped her, and she sank into his arms, parted her lips and welcomed him in.

And felt, again, the power rise between them, felt it swell and whirl and cocoon them. Felt it bind them, hold them, fuse them until they were not the same separate beings they once had been.

When he lifted his head, she was defeated—not by him, but by that power. He, too, seemed caught. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, gravelly. “I thank you for the thought, sweetheart.” He brushed a kiss to her knuckles, then met her eyes. “But that’s not how it’s going to be.”

For a long moment, she felt as if she was drowning in his eyes, then he said, “Timms said something, not long ago, when she was twitting me about love and my attitude to it. I can’t remember her words, but I remember her meaning: when it comes to love, what will be will be—it’s not up to us to decree.”

Those words were patently, self-evidently true. There was no point arguing. However…“I won’t agree to marry you.”

He held her gaze, then nodded. “Very well. If you insist, we won’t make the announcement yet.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He met her look blankly. Unyieldingly. But she could be unyielding, too; if she gave in, even to a secret betrothal, he would use it to, as he would see it, protect her. “No, I am
not
agreeing. Not yet. Once we’ve exposed our madman, you can ask me again.” A memory stirred. “Knights who champion ladies can’t claim their reward until after the dragon is slain.”

His eyes narrowed; the look in them held more than a touch of hard arrogance, of his customary ruthlessness. His lips thinned, but then he nodded. “Very well.” He drew a deep breath, his chest swelling against her breasts. “We’ll take the portrait back to Hellebore Hall and, hand in hand, side by side, wait for the murderer to appear.”

B
ut first they had a family dinner to attend, all the while concealing the complex web of emotions that, it seemed, hour by hour steadily grew, wove and twined more tightly, linking them ever more incontrovertibly.

He, of course, encouraged it, and she was helpless to prevent it.

They’d arranged to show the portrait in the drawing room; it stood in pride of place before the empty hearth. Before any others arrived, Minnie, Timms and Millicent stood in a semicircle in front of it—and simply stared.