Millicent was only too ready to do so; Gerrard sat back and watched while she, with sterling support from Barnaby, explained all that was now known of how Thomas Entwhistle had died.
By the time they’d taken tea, disposed of a plate of delicious cakes, and their tale was told, Lady Tannahay had dropped all pretense of idle interest.
“Well!” She sat back and regarded them all, then brought her gaze to rest on Jacqueline. “My dear, I do hope you’ll permit me to share this news—all you’ve told me—with Sir Harvey and Madeline Entwhistle. Poor dears, they’ve never been sure what to think, and”—Lady Tannahay’s bright eyes flashed—“I can imagine only too well what that doddering fool Godfrey Marks would have said—or more to the point, not said, if you take my meaning.”
Her ladyship fell silent, apparently pondering the failings of Sir Godfrey, then she refocused on Jacqueline. “While knowing Thomas’s body has finally been found is a relief in itself, knowing more—especially who they don’t have to suspect—will greatly ease Harvey and Maddy’s minds. Please do say I may tell them all you’ve told me?”
Jacqueline smiled, understanding and compassion in her eyes. “Indeed, ma’am, we had hoped you might consent to act as ambassador. We wouldn’t wish to intrude on the Entwhistles at this time, not while the questions that must still be in their minds have yet to be laid to rest.”
Lady Tannahay beamed. “You may leave it to me, child. I’ll ensure the facts as Mr. Adair and others have determined them are conveyed accurately to Harvey and Maddy.” She set down her teacup, and looked inquiringly at Millicent. “You will be attending the Summer Hunt Ball, won’t you?”
Millicent smiled brilliantly. “Indeed we will. And so will Marcus.”
Lady Tannahay’s eyes widened. “Oh, my!” After a moment, she added, in the tone of one anticipating some excellent entertainment, “How positively delightful.”
11
They returned to Hellebore Hall thoroughly satisfied with their afternoon’s endeavors. The evening passed quietly. After dinner, Gerrard excused himself, leaving Barnaby to convey his apologies and entertain Jacqueline and Millicent in the drawing room. Climbing the stairs, he imagined Jacqueline laughing gaily at one of Barnaby’s tales, and felt something within him stir; as he unlocked the door to the studio and went in, he realized what that something was.
Jealousy.
He stood for a moment, then pocketed the key and closed the door; faintly uneasy, he crossed to the table where the sketches he’d earlier selected lay waiting.
The sight of them helped push his unsettling, uncharacteristic reaction from his mind.
He’d instructed Compton to leave the five lamps stationed about the room alight. The flames had had time to steady; they cast even, un-flickering light across his easel, and the large blank canvas clamped upon it. For long moments, he stood staring at the sketches, absorbing all they conveyed—shape, form, energy. Then he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on a chair. Rolling up his sleeves, he searched through his pencils; selecting one with a lead worn to precisely the right angle, he picked up the first sketch, and turned to the canvas.
He worked steadily, pausing only to exchange one sketch for the next. Each represented another aspect, another layer of the menacing mystery with which he wanted to imbue his setting—the entrance to the Garden of Night. Never had he worked like this before, from the surroundings inward. He was driven by instinct, by unfathomable conviction that that was the way this portrait had to be approached.
It made sense, in a way, although he barely paused to consider it; Jacqueline would be the central and crucial last element—the core, the meaning, the purpose behind the portrait. She would be the life in it; no matter how potent the surroundings, they wouldn’t—couldn’t—overwhelm her.
The clock doubtless ticked, but he remained oblivious, wholly absorbed in his work. Beyond the window, darkness closed in and night fell. On the floors below, the house quieted as the other occupants settled into their beds.
A slumbering silence enshrouded the house.
He sketched on, his pencil flying ever faster as the surroundings took shape, as he sketched in the barest outline of a figure as a future guide. The tones, the shading, formed in his mind, bringing the collection of fine lines to life, at least to his eyes.
The stairs beyond the studio door creaked, the sound sharp enough to penetrate his absorption. He glanced at the door, frowning. Compton knew better than to interrupt, as did Barnaby, not unless there was some desperate reason, something he had to know.
He heard someone moving beyond the door, then a light tap sounded on the panels.
Not Compton, not Barnaby.
Even while his mind informed him who his midnight visitor most likely was, the knob turned and the door opened.
Jacqueline looked in.
She saw him; raising her brows, she half smiled. “May I come in?”
He looked at the canvas, at the thousand lines he’d laid down in the past hours; he couldn’t seem to focus. He looked back at her, half expecting her to be fuzzy, but his vision was clear and sharp; every sense he possessed had no difficulty locking on her.
Laying aside the last sketch, he waved her in, and promptly lost all interest in the canvas; he couldn’t drag his eyes from her as she stepped through the door, shut it, then turned and, smiling lightly, came toward him.
She was wearing a heavier robe than last night. This one was of ivory satin, belted at her waist, yet judging from the gauzy glimpses he caught at throat and calf, the nightgown beneath was close to diaphanous.
His mind immediately wanted to find out; his body reacted, not just to the question, but even more to the likely answer.
Dragging his gaze up to her face, fixing his eyes on hers, he stepped away from the easel. Grabbing a sketch pad and pencil in one hand, he grasped her elbow with the other, and turned her down the room. “Since you’re here, you have to let me sketch you.”
She looked at him; amusement flirted about her lips. “I do?”
He nodded; jaw set, he marched her to the window seat. And managed to release her. “Sit there.”
She did, and looked up at him, ivory satin spread about her. Her hair, lit by the lamps, glowed rich and warm and inviting, as were her lips, lush and full, softly sheening…
He forced himself to look around, then lifted his coat from the straight-backed chair and dropped it to the floor. Setting the chair at a safe distance, he sat; placing his ankle on his knee, he balanced his sketch pad—and looked at her. Instructed himself to view her as just another subject—and failed.
He made a swirling motion with one finger. “Swing around and lean one elbow on the sill.”
She did, shifting her hips, lifting one knee onto the padded seat to accommodate the pose.
The robe gaped, both over her breasts, and below her knees. Her nightgown was indeed diaphanous. The glimpses of pale, smooth skin left his mouth dry.
“Just stay there.” His voice had grown gravelly. He shut his lips, and drew—not one of his usual quick sketches but a study, a detailed work of line and shade that showed more, conveyed more.
And captured him fully, in a completely different way than any work before.
Even as he recorded the vulnerable line of her throat, the sirenlike quality of her luscious lips, the provocative curves of breasts, hips and thighs outlined beneath the subtle sheen of satin, he was simultaneously conscious of his own fascination, not, as was usual, with the medium with which he worked, but with his subject.
Conscious of his deepening enthrallment, helpless to resist.
Twenty minutes must have passed, and she made no complaint, but simply watched him steadily with her green-gold eyes. He captured that direct gaze, then studied what he’d drawn—there was no element of challenge in her eyes, but a simple certainty, a reflection of that steadiness of character that had attracted him from the first.
He looked up, and met her gaze. “There’s no need to seduce
me.”
If she could deal in blatant honesty, so could he.
Her eyes widened slightly, then the curve of her lips deepened. “Isn’t there?”
“No.” After a moment, he added, “You don’t seem to realize how dangerous this could be…to you.” And him. He no longer recognized the landscape into which they’d journeyed; when it came to her, he was no longer sure he recognized himself.
Jacqueline held his gaze, dark and frankly stormy, while she considered his words, his warning. Eventually, she replied, “I have thought of it, but I’ve decided the greater danger lies in inaction.”
He frowned, but she had no intention of explaining further. She had thought, at length; to her, her conclusions were sound. She had no guarantee he would remain in her orbit beyond the completion of her portrait; that evening, Barnaby had told her that that might mean she’d lose Gerrard’s company in less than two months.
Going slowly, carefully, was no longer an option. She wanted to know, to explore fully whatever it was that stirred and flared whenever they were close. He’d made it clear he would make no promises; that was as may be—she still had to know, had to grasp the opportunity fate had handed her, to explore this until now unknown arena.
Who knew when next she’d get the chance? He was the first and only man who’d ever made her feel like this.
Even more critically, what if, by not acting but instead taking the safe road, they missed something—unknowingly passed up an experience that, if given a chance to evolve and bloom, might lead to some vital development for them both?
Beyond doubt, not acting was the greater risk.
Lowering her elbow, she shifted, facing him. His gaze lowered, drawn to her full breasts outlined beneath her robe; his frown deepened, a degree of puzzlement quite clear.
“What is it?” she asked.
Lips thinning, he lifted his gaze to her face. “I was wondering if this was the natural outcome of keeping young ladies like you hidden away until the advanced age of twenty-three.”
She laughed.
Although patently distracted again, he continued, “If so…I can guarantee it’ll become all the rage.”
His eyes openly roamed, then returned to hers. He looked at her; desire burned steadily in his eyes, yet he didn’t move. Gave no sign at all that he would.
She set her feet to the floor, and slowly stood. Paused until her robe and nightgown slithered down, then she walked the few paces to stand before him. Boldly reaching for the sketch pad, she took it; his fingers tightened for an instant, then he let it go.
Turning it, she studied what he’d drawn.
Felt not so much shock as satisfied surprise warm her—was that truly her? There was a quiet sultriness in her face, a sirenlike quality in her gaze. A lush invitation in every line of her body, a body she recognized well enough, but had never before seen as blatantly sexual.
Now she saw through his eyes, understood, and was pleased.
She glanced at him, saw that he’d been tracking her emotions, her thoughts, in her face. “It’s very good.”
She handed the pad back to him. He took it, but his eyes didn’t leave her face. “Accurate, would you say?”
There was something in his eyes that warned her she was standing very close to some edge. She drew breath, found her lungs had constricted, not with fear but anticipation. “Yes.”
He dropped the pad; the pencil rolled away across the floor.
He reached for her, and drew her down onto his lap, into his arms—into a kiss that within a minute had set fires alight everywhere under her skin.
Raising one hand, he cradled her head, and pressed her lips wide. Angling his head, he filled her mouth, and took everything she offered, all she freely yielded. She clutched the fine linen of his shirt, fists clenching tight, then realized…slowly straightening her fingers, she spread her hands.
Over his chest. Beneath her thighs, his felt like rock, solid and un-giving; the arms about her felt like iron bands, not crushing her yet holding her captive. But his chest felt like cushioned stone, warm, unyielding yet comfortable. She sank her fingers into the heavy muscle and pressed closer, drawn by his heat.
By the urge to get closer still. Pushing her arms up over his shoulders, she pressed her already heavy, already aching breasts to his chest—and felt his pulse leap. Sensed the catch in his breathing, then his fingers shifted about her jaw, his lips firmed—and fire and molten heat poured from him, flooded through their fused lips and into her.
Gerrard’s head was spinning. Again. Just being near her when she was thinking sexual thoughts was enough to arouse him. Painfully.
Kissing her was sheer torture.
He couldn’t stop.
Yet some part of his mind knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what script he should follow. That he had such a side to him was something of a revelation; more ruthless, more primitive, and passionate, possessive and protective in the extreme, driven by primal instincts and content to be so, such maleness was something he’d associated with Devil and Vane, and the other Cynster males he knew—not him.
Until he’d met her, he hadn’t met this side of himself, hadn’t known it existed. Now he did.
Now it felt right, and he embraced it; he had no choice.
He tugged the sash of her robe free, slid his palm beneath the satin, skated over warm skin shielded by filmy silk, then closed his hand firmly about her breast, and provocatively, possessively, kneaded.
Instinct informed him what he wanted her to feel, what he needed the interlude to achieve. Settling her more firmly in his arms, his lips on hers, he set out to educate her senses, to educate the passion he sensed in her.
Jacqueline let herself flow on the heated tide he sent rushing through her. She felt no fear, no hesitation, but gave herself up to the wild and thrilling ride. Eagerness buoyed her, anticipation and expectation were a giddy mix roiling through her veins; excitement flowered and desire burgeoned, powerful and compulsive.
His lips and tongue demanded her attention; his hand on her breast shattered it. His long fingers teased, taunted, then soothed. She gasped through their kiss, gripped his head with both hands and with her lips and tongue urged him on.
She wanted to know all; pressing heated kisses on his firm lips, inviting ever more in return, she made that plain.
She was perfectly certain he understood. His hands, palms and fingers spread, traced her body; her robe hung from her shoulders, wide open, no impediment as he pandered to her senses and, she was sure, his. There was hunger in his touch, quite blatant, an element of desire she’d not before encountered—it sent frissons of mindless anticipation sliding through her.
This and more—she wanted to know it all, to experience all there was, all that might be. When his lips left hers she sighed, floating in the warmth they’d created, wits whirling yet able to follow as he bent his head and, nudging her chin up, set his lips to her throat. Paid homage to the sensitive region beneath her ear, then skated down, tracing the long line to her collarbone, pausing to hotly lave the pulse point above it, then his lips glided over the fine silk covering her breast, and fastened about one tightly budded nipple.
She tensed in expectation of a repeat of the sharp sensation she’d felt before, but his ministrations this time only soothed; he licked, laved, dampening the silk until it clung to her skin, then his tongue swirled and her world shook. Trembled.
Her breasts, full and tight, ached; he switched his attention to the other, repeating the subtle torture, then divided his time until she thought she would scream.
The instant before she did, he lifted his head, covered her lips with his, filled her mouth with his tongue and, like a marauding pirate, plundered. His hands slid lower, outlining her waist, gripping momentarily, fracturing her attention, then gliding lower to sculpt her hips. To learn her form as an artist might; for one moment, she wondered…then his fingers brazenly pressed between her thighs, stroked her curls, pushed past them to reach the throbbing f
lesh beyond, then pressed further and probed, and she lost all ability to think.
Discovered to her surprise that she could only feel, that there was such a state as being overwhelmed by her senses. Heightened to almost excruciating sensitivity, they commanded every last ounce of her concentration, held her ruthlessly focused on his touch, on the openly predatory way in which he was caressing her. She’d offered, and he was taking. Despite her whirling wits, that fact registered clearly.
She was in complete agreement.
Reassured he was taking the road she’d wished to take, she dragged in a breath, and turned her attention to him. To other aspects she’d yet to explore.
Like his chest. His shirt was of the finest linen; through it she could feel his flesh, feel the muscles shifting beneath her fingers as like a cat she kneaded. But that wasn’t enough; she wanted to feel his skin. Leaning her elbows on his chest, trying not to think too much about the far too evocative play of his fingers between her thighs, she set her hands to his cravat.
Sensually captured by the tactile wonder of the hot, slick flesh his fingers caressed, Gerrard didn’t realize what she was about until she wrestled his shirt wide, and laid his chest bare.
She wrenched back from the kiss to look—one glance at her face, at the expression that lit her eyes, and he was lost. Slayed by a desire so deep, so complete, it spared no part of him, left no vestige of his self, his soul, free. From that instant, he was hers, no matter she didn’t know it. From beneath heavy lids he watched her face, enthralled by the play of emotions across it, by the directness he’d from the first seen in her, and valued for what it was.
All that it was—the most arousing element in any sexual enounter was the response of the other. With her, he would never need to wonder, not even to think—she lavished her appreciation on him, and in so doing enslaved him.
The Truth About Love Page 21