The Truth About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  She tilted her head, studying him, examining his words—and, he suspected, his motives. Then she inclined her head. “You’re right.”

  He looked steadily back at her. His comment, he felt sure, was also true for others—like her father, Mitchel, Jordan, even Brisenden. Their view of her was of a weak female; they were the type to assume that females were inherently less able, less strong than themselves on any plane. He’d grown up too close to too many strong women to make such a mistake. Jacqueline was nothing if not strong, and commitment only strengthened her resolve.

  If he were the killer, he’d be very wary of her.

  The thought came out of nowhere, and chilled him. Suppressing an inner shiver, he looked down at his sketches, flipping through them, rapidly evaluating what he’d done.

  Released from his scrutiny, Jacqueline watched him. For this pose, he’d stood to sketch her; he’d fallen into a comfortable wide-legged stance, broad shoulders square, his long-limbed, lean body loose and relaxed. While in the throes, he didn’t seem to feel the urge to move, as if all his vitality, all the intensity that was so much a part of him, were concentrated in his fingers and his eyes, and the brain that connected them.

  He was fascinating, compelling. To her, yes, but she wouldn’t be the only female so affected. Eleanor would find him attractive, too. He had such a high-handed tendency to command, to order…she felt her lips curve; she wasn’t even sure he was aware of it, so focused was he on his goals.

  It was that focus, intense and powerful, that would draw Eleanor—she’d want to force him to turn it on her. To surrender it to her.

  For a moment, Jacqueline wondered—did she feel the same, for the same reason? An instant’s reflection returned the answer: no. That’s where she and Eleanor differed. Eleanor would delight in using force, yet for her, the conquest would be in his willingly lavishing on her the intensity of devotion she saw in him as he sketched, as he viewed her as his subject.

  Not as her.

  A ripple of awareness skittered through her as she recalled his “price” and the reckless promise she’d made in the moonlight, that she’d meet it whatever it might be. Had he been viewing her as his subject then, or as her? At the time she’d assumed the former, but now she’d realized there were moments when he was as physically aware of her as she was of him…

  She’d thought his attentions, the hot kiss he’d pressed to her palm, had been to learn how she responded to such things, that he’d wanted to know as a painter. What if he’d wanted to know as a man?

  The idea left her feeling as if she were teetering on the brink of a precipice, unsure whether to step forward or back. Back would be safe, yet forward…as fascinating and compelling as she found him, if he beckoned, would she go?

  Another shiver, this time one of anticipation, coursed down her spine. She let her gaze slide over him again, felt the compulsion rise.

  Closing his sketch pad, he looked up. His eyes fixed on hers.

  After a moment, his gaze drifted up. “Your hair…”

  “What about it?”

  “When I paint you, it needs to be different. Can you unpin it? It’ll help if I see how we need it to be, then you can wear it that way from now on.”

  Her hair was secured in a neat chignon; raising her hands, she started removing pins. The chignon unraveled; she set the pins down, shook the long strands free, then threaded her fingers through them, drawing them out, letting them fall across and over her shoulders.

  He frowned. “No, that’s not right, either.”

  He closed the space between them in a few long strides. Setting his pad and pencils down, he sat on the coping, facing her.

  She felt her lungs constrict, but she was growing used to the effect.

  His gaze was locked on her face, gauging. He reached for her chin, turned her face to his, then reached for her hair, long fingers sliding into the unruly mass.

  She caught her breath, prayed she wasn’t blushing, prayed she’d be able to hide her reaction.

  His frown remained as he bunched her hair, shifting it this way, then that, clearly unsatisfied. Then he twisted the tresses and set the bunched curls on the top of her head. Looking into his face, she sensed him still…

  With his other hand, Gerrard reached for her chin, fought not to notice the delicacy of bones and skin as he gently gripped and turned her face first to the left, then to the right, then to the precise angle he thought was best suited for the portrait, all the while holding her hair atop her head.

  There. Angle right, and hair up, a neat knot with a tendril or two trailing down on the right, a subtle highlight to draw attention to the exposed curve of her throat.

  That was the line he wanted to capture, vulnerability, grace and strength combined. Youth, yet with intrinsic wisdom, instinctive and true. A pose that had clarity, that resonated with truth.

  Again his gaze skimmed the line of her throat, skin white and flawless, tinted by the fading golden light. Raising his gaze, he took in the medley of browns, vibrant and earthy, worldly, too, of her hair; he would capture that and use it.

  He lowered his gaze to her face.

  Met her eyes, the mossy shade darker, the gold more intense as they widened, darkened.

  Her lips were lush, edged with rose gilt.

  Time stood still.

  He raised his gaze to her eyes, saw a curiosity the counterpart of his own staring at him from the hazel depths.

  What would it be like?

  Lowering his head, tipping her face up, he touched his lips to hers.

  Felt them quiver. And took, seized, albeit gently, with all the expertise he’d learned over the years. He increased the pressure beguilingly, seductively, brushing lightly, tantalizing and tempting.

  He wanted to devour, yet it was she who captured him with a tentative response so slight it was like gossamer, a fleeting moment of innocence and pleasure. For one fraught instant he felt completely caught, taken captive—then reality returned, and he realized what he’d done.

  Realized he’d gathered her into his arms.

  Realized he’d taken the step he hadn’t yet made up his mind he would take. He’d been tempted, not solely by his own desires but by hers, too, yet the feel of her in his arms, of her lips beneath his—the feelings those sensations evoked—assured him at some elemental level that this was right.

  Yet if he was wise, he’d go slowly.

  Lifting his head, he looked down into eyes the color of woodland moss. He drew in a breath, surprised to discover his lungs parched and tight. “I’m sorr—” He broke off, unable as he looked into her eyes to utter the polite lie. He felt his jaw firm. “No. I’m not sorry, but I shouldn’t have done that.”

  She blinked up at him. “Why not?”

  He searched her eyes; she was asking with her usual candor, an open honesty he’d grown to treasure. “Because it’ll make it that much harder not to do it again.”

  The truth. She heard it; he saw comprehension widen her eyes, followed swiftly by calculation.

  “Oh…”

  He looked into her eyes, was drowning in them…With a mental curse, he shut his. “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  He gritted his teeth, and kept his eyes shut. “Look at me as if you want me to kiss you again.”

  She didn’t reply. Three heartbeats passed.

  He was debating whether to open his eyes when her soft whisper reached him.

  “I’m not good at lying.”

  Five words, and she vanquished him. Overthrew that part of his mind that was fighting to maintain control, and cast him adrift. Into the sea of desire that welled in her eyes as they met his when he lifted his lids.

  She searched his eyes, hesitated for a heartbeat, then lifted her lips to his. Touched lightly.

  He could no more resist the explicit invitation than stop the sun from sinking beneath the sea.

  Summoning what restraint he could, he kissed her back, then, unable to deny her or himself, he pressed
the caress further, aware that, just as he had expectations of the kiss, so, too, would she. He wondered what they were, why…but then he traced her lower lip with the tip of his tongue, her lips parted, and he stopped thinking.

  Jacqueline quivered as his tongue slid between her lips, held her breath as he shifted and gathered her deeper into an embrace that, no matter how alien, felt safe. His arms were steel bands, caging her, but protectively, his chest a muscled wall of comforting solidity against her breasts. His lips moved on hers, impressing, engaging. Tentatively she met his questing tongue with hers, lightly stroked—and sensed his encouragement, his appreciation.

  She relaxed, secure in his arms, and mirrored his actions. There was heat in the exchange, persuasive and tempting, beguiling yet contained, not overwhelming but tantalizing, a promise of more, later. For now, she was content returning his caresses. Raising one hand, she lightly traced his cheek, the angular planes quite different from her own, cloaked in abrading stubble lacing firm skin.

  By subtle degrees, he deepened the kiss and she, knowingly, followed. With growing confidence she kissed him back—and gloried in his response, in the continuing exchange that spun out in delight and mutual pleasure.

  The reciprocity, for she knew it was so, caught her, and held her enthralled.

  She tasted like summer wine, heady and sweet, potent and warm. Faintly illicit, carrying the promise of dark sultry nights and stirring passion. Now he’d learned, now he’d savored, he should draw back, yet still Gerrard lingered. The question of what she sought from the kiss returned; he now knew she’d shared few kisses, if any, before, not like this.

  The reluctance he felt to end the interlude was not solely on his own account.

  And that surprised him. Who was leading whom, and was that safe? The question gave him the strength to act, to gradually draw back and lift his head.

  He watched as she opened her eyes, as she blinked and refocused on his. He’d kissed many ladies in far more illicit encounters, yet this time his charm didn’t come to his aid. No glib words sprang to his tongue, no suave smile to his lips. This time, he didn’t want to end the moment, didn’t want to let her go; despite his experience, he couldn’t pretend he did.

  Looking into her eyes, a glorious medley of greens and gold, he could only hold her, and wonder…

  Jacqueline saw his equivocation, felt it in the arms surrounding her that didn’t ease. She comprehended something of what she read in his eyes; she, too, felt…distracted. As if she’d just experienced something that was important to explore further, but…the moment was already slipping away.

  Her hands had come to rest against his chest; she found a half smile and gently pushed back. After an instant’s hesitation, his arms eased, and he released her.

  “The sun’s almost gone.” She looked down the valley to where the burning orb of the sun was disappearing below the horizon. Shifting along the coping, she glanced his way. “We should go inside. It’ll soon be time to change for dinner.”

  He nodded and stood. He picked up his sketch pad, stuffed the pencils in his pocket, then he looked at her, and held out his hand.

  She met his gaze, then placed her fingers in his and let him help her to her feet.

  He released her once she was steady. Together they turned, and, side by side, without words, walked up through the gardens.

  With one long, shared glance, they parted on the terrace.

  7

  Late that night with the moon riding the sky, Gerrard stood in the balcony doorway of his bedroom staring moodily out at the silvered gardens, and considered where fate had led him.

  Not by the nose, but by another part of his anatomy, together with a section of his psyche he hadn’t previously known existed.

  He could hardly claim he hadn’t known what he was doing, that he hadn’t been cognizant of the dangers, the risks. He’d known, but had acted anyway; he couldn’t remember when last he’d been so heedlessly impulsive.

  Arms folded, he leaned against the doorjamb; eyes fixed unseeing on the shadows below, he tried to get some mental purchase on what, precisely what, was driving him. It wasn’t anything he’d experienced before.

  He knew what he wanted: Jacqueline. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d seen her watching him through the window when he’d arrived at Hellebore Hall—but what was driving him to it? The compulsion that was growing day by day, pressing him to make her his—from where did that spring?

  Lust was certainly there, familiar enough, yet this was lust of a different order, an unusual degree. He’d lusted after ladies before; it didn’t feel like this. With Jacqueline, the drive came from deeper within him, from some more primitive, more intense realm of emotion…Words, as always, failed him, yet if he painted it, it would glow with myriad shades of red, all the varied hues, not just one.

  The vision shone in his mind. After a moment, he shifted his shoulders, then settled back against the frame.

  His reaction to her, his fascination with her, was only half his problem. The other half was her fascination with him. He was aware of that to his bones; every little twitch, every instinctive feminine response she made, he felt like a sharpened spur, digging in, heightening his awareness of her, stirring his lust, and the need to slake it.

  Never before had he been in the grip of such elemental and reckless desire.

  That was what had led to that kiss. Then her curiosity, her directness, had snared him, and drawn him with her into deeper waters.

  Unwise. He’d known it at the time, but hadn’t called a halt, as he could have done.

  Worse, he knew beyond doubt that it would happen again, and it wouldn’t end with just a kiss. If he stayed and painted the portrait he was now desperate to paint, met the irresistible challenge fate had laid before him and painted the work she and her father wanted and needed him to paint…

  For long minutes, he stood gazing out at the night-shrouded gardens, grappling with what he now faced. If he stayed and painted Jacqueline’s portrait, he would risk falling in love with her.

  Would the passion, the lust, the desire—all that love encompassed—drain the passion he drew on to paint? Or were the two separate? Or complementary?

  Those were the questions he hadn’t wanted to face, that he’d hoped, at least for the next several years, to leave unbroached.

  But they faced him now, and he didn’t know the answers.

  And could think of only one way to learn them.

  Yet if he took that route and the answer to his first question was yes…he would have risked and lost all he was.

  Resigning Lord Tregonning’s commission and leaving Hellebore Hall immediately was the only way to avoid putting those questions to the test. The ultimate test. A good portion of his mind, the logical, cautious side of him, strongly urged leaving as the most sensible course.

  The painter in him said no. Emphatically no. The chance to paint the gardens aside, he would never, not ever, find such a challenging portrait, such a challenge to his talent and skills. To walk away without even attempting it smacked of sacrilege, at least to his painter’s soul.

  The man he was said no, very definitely no, too. Jacqueline trusted him; that was implicit in her behavior, in her invitation to him to be her champion, her “witting judge.” She needed him; the situation she faced was perilous, potentially life-threatening. She and her father had been right; with his reputation backed by his ability, he was the only one able to open the doors of others’ minds and free her from the peculiar web ensnaring her.

  He stood staring into the night for half an hour more. Would he continue, paint her portrait and free her, accept and embrace the likelihood of falling in love with her, and so risk losing the one thing he valued above all else, his ability to paint?

  Behind him in the darkened room, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed, a single bell-like note. With a self-deprecating grimace, he pushed away from the door frame and turned into the room. He was racking his brains to no purpose; his decision had
already been made, virtually by default; he was here, so was she—he wasn’t going anywhere. Certainly not now he’d held her in his arms and felt her lips beneath his.

  The die was cast, his direction set.

  Closing the balcony door, he reached up to tug the curtain across—a movement in the gardens caught his eye.

  He looked, and saw the bright glint again.

  A spyglass on a tripod had appeared in the room the day after he’d arrived, courtesy of Lord Tregonning; he’d already set it to scan the gardens. Striding to where it stood, he brought it to bear on the area in question, quickly focused.

  On Eleanor Fritham.

  She walked down the path out of the wood in the Garden of Diana. Her hair caught the moonlight—the glint he’d seen.

  “It’s one o’clock. What the devil’s she doing—” He broke off as, scanning ahead of Eleanor, he discovered someone else. Someone in a coat, with broader shoulders, stepping off the highest viewing platform, heading deeper into the gardens further down the valley. Some man, but he was already in denser cover, walking into the dips and shadows of the gardens. Eleanor followed, her steps light.

  In seconds, they’d disappeared, dropping lower into areas out of Gerrard’s sight.

  He put up the spyglass; he had little doubt of the meaning of what he’d seen. The Hellebore Hall gardens at night, drenched in moonlight, were the perfect setting for a tryst.

  Heaven knew, he’d felt the magic himself that afternoon.

  Inwardly shrugging, he finished drawing his curtain, and left Eleanor and her beau to themselves.

  So tell me—what’s he like?” Eleanor looked into Jacqueline’s face, her own alive with curiosity.

  Smiling, Jacqueline walked on. That morning after breakfast, Eleanor had arrived to stroll the gardens and chat, as she usually did every few days. Jacqueline had expected to have to deny her and devote her time to Gerrard, but when she’d looked his way inquiringly, he’d sensed her question and instead excused himself, saying he wished to look over his sketches from yesterday.