Gerrard considered. “The black.” Leaving Compton to fig out his evening clothes, he turned back into the bedroom and headed for the glass-paned doors that opened onto the balcony.
The private semicircular balcony ran half the length of the room. Because of the odd shape of the house and the angle of the room next door, no other room was visible, and vice versa; both balcony and room were essentially private, and offered a unique and stunning view over the gardens.
Gerrard stepped out, entranced.
Even through the lengthening shadows of approaching dusk, the gardens were magical—fantastical shapes rose out of the twilight, a plethora of fairy-tale landscapes scattered across and down the valley, each opening out from the last, then merging into the next.
On the horizon, the sea shimmered gold in the last light of the dying sun, then melted through shades of gilt and silver laid over blue to become the iridescent surf breaking on the rocks clogging the inlet’s narrow beach. He let his gaze slowly travel nearer, noting how the gardens became progressively more structured the closer they got to the house. In the ring of areas adjoining the house, he glimpsed a garden of round boulders on one ridge, a formal Italianate garden nearer at hand, statuary in another section and a towering pinetum on the other ridge.
He could hear the tinkling music of water running over rock. Looking down toward the sound, he saw a terrace below the balcony. The terrace skirted the house on the valley side, giving views and also access to the gardens; he could just make out steps leading down in several places. Toward the middle of the house, a denser, darker patch of thick vegetation ran right up to the terrace, perhaps even extending beneath it.
That, Gerrard guessed, on a mild surge of satisfaction, had to be the famous Garden of Night.
Tomorrow, he’d explore. He tried to focus on the prospect, only to find his mind drifting, insistently, back to Jacqueline Tregonning.
How was he going to gain her trust, gain her confidence enough to learn all he wanted to know?
Considering the best way to approach a young lady he now knew wasn’t as conventional as he’d blithely assumed, he wandered back into the room, absentmindedly shutting the door on the darkening gardens.
Dinner was a curious experience. The food was excellent, the conversation beyond subdued. The hour passed in oddly peaceful quiet, with long stretches of silence, yet strangely without any sense of repression. They spoke as necessary, but there was no compulsion to fill the gaps.
Gerrard was fascinated. Both he and Barnaby had been watchful, quick to match their hosts’ behavior. Both found the family intriguing, Barnaby because, as a student of crime, he found the vagaries of human nature absorbing, while for Gerrard, Jacqueline’s interaction with her family would inevitably form the cornerstone of his mental picture of her, the basis of the understanding he ultimately brought to her portrait.
Regardless of the relative silence, the established procedures were followed; when the covers were drawn, the ladies rose and left the gentlemen to pass the port. Mitchel asked Barnaby about the curricle-racing scandal. Lord Tregonning grasped the moment to inquire whether the room he’d been given met with Gerrard’s approval. On being assured it did, his lordship nodded and lapsed once more into comfortable silence.
Gerrard sat back, comfortable, too, and considered his best way forward with Jacqueline. At the end of a restful twenty minutes, they all rose and quit the dining room. Lord Tregonning left them in the hall, heading for his study. Together with Mitchel and Barnaby, Gerrard strolled back to the drawing room.
They crossed the threshold to the gentle strains of a sonata. Gerrard looked at the pianoforte set in one corner, but it was Millicent at the keys. Jacqueline was seated at one end of the central chaise, a lamp on the table beside her, the soft light sheening on her tumbling curls as, head bent, she plied her needle over a piece of embroidery.
He headed her way, eager to learn of her interests, her pastimes—of her.
She looked up, smiled politely, then made to gather up the embroidery; a basket sat by her feet.
“No—I’d like to look.” He smiled when, surprised, she blinked up at him. He summoned his charm. “If I may?”
She stared at him for a moment, then made a small gesture. “If you wish.” Her tone stated she didn’t understand why he would.
Sitting beside her, he cast an inevitably critical eye over the fine linen she spread on her lap so he could see. His gaze raced over it, then slowed. It was his turn to blink. He leaned closer, looked harder.
He’d expected the usual embroidery ladies wasted their time with, some conventional scene done in conventional style. That wasn’t what she was creating.
And creating it was.
His painter’s eyes drank in the lines, the balance of shapes and colors, the use of varying textures to give the illusion of depth. “This isn’t from a pattern.”
No question. After a moment, she said, “I make it up as I do it. I have a picture in my head.”
He was barely conscious of nodding; he hadn’t expected her to have any artistic streak, but this…He pointed to a patch above the center. “You’ll need a visually strong element there—it’s the focal point.”
The look she cast him was faintly irritated. “I know.” She gathered the linen, tucking the strands of silk she was working with into the folds. “There’s a sundial there.”
He could see it; that would work. He glanced at her as she bent to tuck the embroidery into the basket. “Do you paint or draw?”
She hesitated, then answered, “I draw a little, but mostly in preparation.” She looked back, met his eyes. “I do watercolors.”
Not perhaps the easiest of confessions to make to the country’s foremost landscape artist; his landscapes were watercolors. “You must show me your works sometime.”
Her eyes, currently more green than gold, snapped. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“I mean it.” His tone, clipped and definite, faintly impatient, emphasized that fact. “I want to—will need to—see them.”
She held his gaze, faintly puzzled; beyond that, he couldn’t read her thoughts. Then she said, “Speaking of painting, are the amenities provided adequate to your needs? If there’s anything more you require, please ask.”
A clear change of subject, but she’d given him precisely the opening he wanted.
“The amenities are satisfactory, however, there are a number of aspects we need to discuss.” He glanced at the pianoforte; Barnaby was turning music for Millicent and chatting with Mitchel. Before dinner, he’d asked Barnaby to keep Millicent and any others occupied to clear his way with Jacqueline. Barnaby had grinned widely, but wisely made no comment beyond assuring him he’d be delighted to oblige.
He returned his gaze to Jacqueline’s face. “I find music rather distracting. Perhaps we could walk on the terrace, and I’ll explain what will be necessary to create the portrait your father wants.”
She hesitated, her gaze on his face yet not, he would swear, seeing him, then she nodded. “That would be helpful.”
Rising, he offered his hand. Again she hesitated, yet this time he knew why; he was aware of how she steeled herself before placing her fingers in his. He gripped, and felt a surge of purely male satisfaction at the faint tremor he detected before she suppressed it. He drew her up, then released her; suavely waving her to the French doors open to the terrace, he reminded himself it formed no part of his plan to discompose her, much less make her wary of being in his company.
Side by side they strolled out, into the soft night. Onto the terrace he’d seen from his balcony. Below his room, the terrace was relatively narrow; here it spread wide, an area in which guests from the drawing room and the ballroom next door could gather and admire the view.
Tonight the view was shrouded in shadows, the moon a mere sliver shedding just enough light to limn all it touched in silver, transforming the gardens into a fantastical landscape, yet his attention remained on the creation who w
alked beside him, not on those spread before him.
She’d walked to the right, away from the area he was increasingly certain contained the Garden of Night. It was said to be best viewed in the evening, yet he felt no urgency over exploring it just yet; he’d see it in daylight first, tomorrow maybe.
He glanced at Jacqueline. Her gown of pale green silk faded to beaten silver in the faint light; her skin appeared translucent; only the rich color of her hair retained its warmth. Her expression was calm, composed, yet he sensed she was thinking rapidly.
It seemed wise to speak before she could distract him. “I mentioned to your father the necessary demands that sitting for a portrait places on the subject—he wasn’t sure you were aware of the details.”
Strolling slowly beside him, Jacqueline told herself to concentrate on his words, and ignore the voice that uttered them. “What are those demands—in detail?”
Lifting her head, she met his eyes, dark in the night, and marveled again that she was so quiveringly aware of him in a way she’d never been of any other before. She battled to quell a shiver, difficult to excuse given the warmth of the gentle, perfumed breeze wafting about them.
After a moment, he replied, “Initially, I’ll demand a great deal of, if not most of, your time, although largely in social settings, much the usual round of your life. I need to gain a strong sense of who you are, how you feel about many subjects.” He glanced out at the gardens. “How you react to things, your likes, dislikes, and the reasons behind them. The subjects you’re happy to talk of, and those you’d rather avoid.”
They walked on for a few paces, then he looked at her. “Basically, I need to get to know you.”
She studied his face. The light was good enough for her to make out his expression, but she couldn’t read his eyes. His expression he controlled; his eyes were more revealing. What he was suggesting was frankly unnerving. “I thought portraitists paint”—she gestured—“at best what they see.”
His lips quirked in wry acknowledgment of the qualification. “Most do. I don’t. I paint more.”
“How so?”
He didn’t immediately answer; as they walked on, she sensed he was considering the question for the first time. Eventually, he said, “I think it’s because every person I’ve painted to date is someone I’ve known for years, someone I’m connected to, whose background and family I know.” He met her gaze. “What I paint goes far deeper than a face and an outward expression. Just as with landscapes I paint not just the detail but the atmosphere as well, so, too, with people. It’s the intangibles that are most powerful.”
She nodded and looked ahead. “I’ve heard of your reputation, but I’ve never seen any of your works.”
“All are in private hands.”
She glanced at him. “You don’t show them?”
“Not the portraits. They were created as gifts.” He lightly shrugged. “And to see if I could.”
“Do you mean to say my portrait will be the first for which you’ve received a commission?”
Her tone was even, the question direct if somewhat forward; nevertheless, it struck a nerve. Gerrard halted, and waited until she did the same and faced him. “Miss Tregonning, why do I get the impression you’re assessing my abilities as a portraitist?”
She blinked at him, then equally succinctly replied, “Probably because I am.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Surely you didn’t expect me to simply agree to be painted by”—she gestured—“someone whose talents are unknown to me?”
“Just any old artist” was what she’d meant to say. He narrowed his eyes; she didn’t react, her expression remained open. “Your father gave me to understand that you’d agreed to allow me to paint your portrait.”
She frowned slightly. Her gaze remained steady on his face. “I agreed to sit for a portrait. Not to sit for any particular painter. Papa chose you—I’ve yet to decide whether you meet my requirements.”
Again he had cause to thank Vane and Gabriel Cynster for teaching him the knack of impassivity in the face of extreme provocation. He let a moment go by—a fraught moment in which he reined in his reaction, and found words in which he could acceptably express it. “Miss Tregonning, do you have any idea how many petitions, if not outright pleas, I’ve received to do portraits of young ladies of the ton?”
“No, of course not, but that’s neither here nor there. This is me, my portrait, not theirs. I’m not one to be ruled by the opinion of the giddy horde.” She looked at him with slightly more interest. “Why did you refuse them? I assume you did?”
“Yes. I did.” His words were excessively clipped; she didn’t seem perturbed in the least. Her eyes remained on his, waiting…“I wasn’t interested in painting any of them. Now, before we go any further”—before she asked the obvious next question—“it seems I should share with you the particulars I made clear to your father. I paint what’s there, both in a face and behind it. I won’t alter, exaggerate or suppress what I see—any portrait I paint will be a faithful representation not just of how the person appears, but also of who they are.”
She’d raised her brows at his fervor, but all she said was, “And what they are?”
“Indeed. In the final work, what they are will show through.”
She held his gaze for a moment—a frankly assessing moment—then she nodded, once, decisively. “Good. That’s precisely what I need—what my father needs.”
She turned and walked on. Gerrard mentally shook his head, then followed, still grappling with the way the situation had swung around. Apparently his painting her was not, as he’d thought, a case of his conferring a boon on her; it seemed there’d been a real question of whether she’d condescend to sit for him!
The possibility of her not doing so forced him to tread carefully. Lengthening his stride, he came up with her. He glanced at her face; her expression was uninformative, her eyes veiled. “So…” He felt forced to ask the plain question. “Will you sit for me?”
She halted and faced him. Calmly, she met his gaze. For the first time, he felt he was seeing further—that she was letting him sense something of the woman she was, and the strength she possessed—the reason, surely, for her steadiness, her assurance, so much stronger than usually found in young ladies of her age…
“How old are you?”
She blinked. “Why? Does it matter?”
His lips thinned at the faint amusement in her tone. “I need to get to know you, to understand you, and knowing how old you are helps to get an idea of your life, and what questions to ask, what else I need to know.”
She hesitated; he sensed her withdrawing, being more careful. “I’m twenty-three.” She lifted her chin. “How old are you?”
He recognized the diversion, but calmly replied, “Twenty-nine.”
Her brows rose. “You seem older.”
It was hard to remain on his high horse when she was so determinedly ignoring convention. “I know.” The understated elegance he’d absorbed from Vane always had made him appear more mature.
He continued to hold her gaze. “So do you.” Also true.
She smiled fleetingly, a genuine, amused if faintly wry expression. It was the first spontaneous smile he’d seen from her; he immediately determined to see more.
They stood for a moment, each studying the other, then he said, “You haven’t answered my question.”
She held his gaze for a moment longer, then her lips slowly curved. Swinging around, she started strolling back toward the drawing room. “If you’re half the painter you believe yourself to be”—she glanced over her shoulder, caught his eye, then faced forward and strolled on—“then, yes, I’ll sit for you.” Her words drifted back to him. “Papa chose well, it seems.”
He watched her walk away, aware to his bones of her bold yet veiled challenge, and his response to it. Deliberately, he fixed his gaze on her exposed nape, then let it slide caressingly down her back, tracing the line from shoulder to hip, to ankle…then he stirred, and followed
her.
3
He spent a restless night and was awake and out on his balcony to see the sun rise over the gardens.
And consider Jacqueline Tregonning.
She was so very different from what he’d expected. They were closer in age than he’d anticipated, although in terms of worldly experience, his was far greater. Regardless, there had to be some experience, some incident in her life to account for the steel he sensed in her. It wasn’t simply strength of character, latent and unrecognized, but mature inner strength that had been tried, tested and found true; she possessed the inner fortitude of a survivor.
Which begged the question: What had she survived?
Whatever it was, did it also account for the shadows in her eyes? She might be self-confident and strangely assured, yet she wasn’t lighthearted; she was definitely not carefree, as by rights she ought to be. It wasn’t precisely sorrow he sensed coloring her world, nor yet simple sadness. She wasn’t of a maudlin or morose disposition.
Hurt? Perhaps, but something, certainly, had caused her reserve, her distancing from those about her. It wasn’t her nature but a deliberate choice—that’s why he’d noticed it.
What had happened to her, and when, and why did its effects still linger?
Compton arrived with his washing water; Gerrard quit the balcony to shave and dress. On his way downstairs, he remembered the other nagging question his evening’s interlude with Jacqueline had left circling in his brain.
What had she meant by saying she, and her father, needed the portrait to show what, specifically what, she was?
Inwardly frowning, he walked into the breakfast parlor. Courtesy of his room being all but at the end of the farthest wing, he was the last to arrive. He inclined his head to Lord Tregonning, at the table’s head, nodded to Millicent and Jacqueline, then headed for the sideboard.
Treadle deftly lifted the lids of the chafing dishes. After making his selection, he returned to the table and took the chair next to Barnaby—opposite Jacqueline.
The Truth About Love Page 5