Cecily searched her face. A spark of surprise showed in her eyes.
The others, too, were watching her, yet they clearly accepted her words as fact. Giles assured Gerrard he’d make sure his father introduced them to Sir Harvey, then the group made their farewells and headed on to the lake, Cecily subdued, apparently thinking.
Jacqueline felt a surge of satisfaction over that.
Turning back to Gerrard, she found him waiting to catch her eye, approval in his. “You handled that well. Every person who shifts their view is one more the killer has lost his hold over. After tonight, I predict he’ll be cursing and gnashing his teeth.”
She smiled, but sobered quickly. “We can but hope.”
Three more groups trailing down from the house found them. After successfully dealing with Cecily, Jacqueline handled the careful comments—about her joining in the decorating again, about her dancing again after her mother’s death, of the dreadful finding of Thomas’s body and speculation over his death, and his parents’ likely feelings—with aplomb.
Yet every mention of Thomas, of the suspicions that lingered in people’s minds, was a reminder of how widely the poison had spread.
Gerrard saw that realization grow, read it in her more sober demeanor when the others moved on. When the last lantern was up and the gardeners left them, he pulled out his watch. “There’s half an hour left before luncheon.”
All those who’d passed had gone to the lake; they could glimpse it glinting through the trees.
“I could use a moment away from the throng.” Pocketing his watch, he glanced around. “In all these acres, there must be somewhere else we can go for a moment of rustic peace?”
She smiled. “There’s a pond upstream. None of the others will have gone there—they always head for the summerhouse.”
“I’ve a fondness for ponds.” He waved her on.
She led him down a path lined with tall trees; within minutes they were out of sight and sound of the lake.
“You’re doing very well.”
She glanced at him, but said nothing. She was growing more comfortable, more consistently leaving her inner barriers down. More consistently and confidently being herself.
That was part of the reason he’d come, to simply be here if she’d needed help. But she’d weathered Cecily Hancock’s malicious spite well; she hadn’t needed him to intervene, yet he’d had to be there.
He glanced at her, very conscious of the other, more major part of his reason for remaining by her side.
She hadn’t yet agreed to be his.
He’d thought that by now she would have, or at least would have given him some sign of acceptance, of intent. His strategy dictated he shouldn’t pressure her. He’d weakened once; he remained determined not to do so again.
But…
He glanced briefly at her profile as she walked beside him. That night in the nursery…had he, perhaps, overplayed his hand? He looked ahead, matching his strides to her shorter ones. He’d been so utterly confident she would come to him; last night, even while he was painting, he’d broken off, again and again, to glance past the canvas at the door, and its knob.
Every little sound had had him focusing on that knob, waiting for it to turn. But it hadn’t.
Had he read her wrongly?
Two seconds of remembering how she’d writhed under his hands, under his mouth, eliminated that as a possibility. Which meant that something—some thought, some consideration—was holding her back.
Causing her to hesitate, to rethink and assess.
He drew in a breath, felt a tightness reminiscent of desperation close about his chest. Nonsense—it could only be a temporary hesitation. If she needed reassurance, he was willing and able to give it; if it transpired he needed to adjust his approach, to modify his stance, his declared position, he was willing to do that, too.
Perhaps she simply needed a little encouragement?
Jacqueline kept her gaze on the trees ahead, on the path as she led him on, yet she was acutely aware of the glances he threw her, of the way his gaze lingered on her face.
As if he found her as puzzling as she found him. Just as she was so constantly aware of him, he, too, was absorbed with her; his attention, his focus on her, never really wavered.
The trees thinned; the path opened out into a clearing, dividing to encircle a deep pond fed by the stream that ultimately flowed on to fill the lake. The surface of the pond was still, reflecting the surrounding canopies and the sky. Rushes fringed the edge; waterlilies spread in patches, white and pink splotches floating on dark green leaves.
“We’ve circled around—the house isn’t far.” She indicated another path on the far side of the pond, then led the way to a large flat rock on which a stone bench sat, the perfect place to sit and look out over the pool, and reflect.
He paused beside the rock, looking at the other path, then back at the path they’d come down. “I see.” Stepping onto the rock, he waited for her to sit and draw in her skirts, then sat beside her. He pointed across the pond to where in the middle distance water shimmered silver through the trees. “The lake, I take it?”
“Yes.” She managed not to jump when he took her hand. Her nerves flickered, then pulled tight. She shifted to face him as he raised her hand to his lips, turned it and, catching her eye, holding her gaze, pressed an ardent kiss to her palm.
She felt the lingering caress to her toes, had to fight to quell a reactive shiver.
Before she was free of the effect, he shifted and reached for her face. His long fingers curled about her nape, his thumb cradling her jaw as he drew her to him.
Drew her lips to his, and kissed her.
Ardently.
Making no secret of his desire for her, or of what he wanted.
Richly textured, his tongue found hers and stroked, caressed, then commanded her response. Demanded it, drew her to him and into their play. Into a passionate exchange, an exploration of another degree, on yet another level of their evolving interaction, of their mutual desire.
Hot, increasingly urgent, hungry, yet contained.
Not restrained yet limited, delimited; there was no sense of being swept away, but of meeting him, matching him, of sharing control.
The kiss drew her in, lured her deeper. Quite how it happened she didn’t know, yet when she managed to lift her head enough to draw in a shallow breath, she discovered he’d leaned back against the stone bench and she was leaning over him, his face clasped between her hands, her lips parted as she looked down into his eyes.
“Why?” She searched his eyes, glowing richly brown beneath the distracting fringe of his lashes. “You want so much from me, but why do you want me to decide?”
Beneath her, he stilled—a stillness that communicated the intent focus of his thoughts. Her question had caught him off balance; he was rapidly searching for an answer.
She resisted the urge to press, to reframe the question; it was clear enough and she knew he understood.
He moistened his lips. His gaze lowered to hers, then his hands firmed about her waist. He didn’t lift her from him, but simply held her, then he raised his gaze to her eyes. “I told you—I want all, everything that’s in you to give.”
“What do you mean by that, and why do you want it?”
“Because…that’s what desire is, between a man and a woman. A wanting.”
“You told me yourself, intimated at least, that what you wanted from me was more. More than the usual, the norm.” Whatever that might be. She waited. And sensed for the first time a degree of uncertainty, of, not confusion but wariness in him.
Why would he be wary of her?
When he said nothing, just ran his large, warm palms up and down her back, she arched her brows. “You’re being very mysterious.”
Something flared in his eyes. “There’s nothing mysterious about this.”
He must at some point have lifted her; she was half sitting on his lap. She could feel his erection riding against her
hip. The growl that had edged his voice, the strength in his hands, only emphasized the aura of danger, of being in the arms of a sexual predator.
Yet she felt no fear, not the slightest lick of trepidation. She looked down into his darkening eyes, and knew that no matter how blatantly he hungered for her, no matter how frankly he displayed his ardor, harming her, hurting her, either physically or emotionally, wasn’t any part of his game.
Why she felt so safe, so secure, so sure when in his arms, she didn’t know, couldn’t explain.
She kept her eyes locked on his. “You haven’t answered my question.”
When his lips remained sealed, she reiterated, “Why do you want more from me? Why is it important I agree to that?”
He exhaled. His gaze dropped to her lips; his own remained set in a stubborn line.
She leaned closer, boldly skated her parted lips over his. “I’m seriously considering not making my decision until you answer my question.”
She’d breathed the words over his lips; she felt his chest swell, knew she’d succeeded in twisting the rack. Two could play at ultimatums. Pressing closer, she kissed him, held his face between her hands, covered his lips with hers and challenged him to take…
The rustle of leaves was soft. She heard, but didn’t react, too caught up in evoking his reaction, in the promise of his rapacious mouth.
A theatrical gasp had her jerking upright, turning to see—
One hand clamped over her lips, Eleanor stood at the edge of the clearing, eyes wide, locked on her.
Beside Eleanor stood Matthew Brisenden, an expression like a thundercloud darkening his face.
Jacqueline could happily have strangled them both.
Biting back an unladylike curse, she tensed to struggle from Gerrard’s arms, to slide from his lap, but his hands firmed, and she obeyed the instruction.
Smoothly, unhurriedly, he lifted her and set her on her feet. Retaining one hand, he rose and stood beside her.
With unshakable savoir faire, he nodded to Eleanor and Matthew. “Miss Fritham. Mr. Brisenden. Have you been down by the lake?”
Gerrard kept his tone polite, faintly bored, as if he was discussing a stroll in the park. A kiss did not qualify as a major indiscretion; he refused to allow them to treat it as such.
Matthew glowered at him. Gerrard quashed the impulse to smile in return. He’d never expected to be thankful to see Brisenden’s disapproving countenance, yet he was. Who knew what he might have revealed if Jacqueline had continued her persuasion?
A gong sounded, resonating through the trees.
“Ah—luncheon.” Setting Jacqueline’s hand on his sleeve, he raised his brows in polite query at Eleanor and Matthew, and waved to the path leading to the house. “Shall we?”
They had no option but to follow as he led Jacqueline up the path; Eleanor did so quite readily; Matthew would, Gerrard suspected, have preferred to call him out, but, still glowering darkly, tramped reluctantly behind them.
Eleanor, unsurprisingly, came up on his other side. Acknowledging her with the most distant of nods, he kept his attention on Jacqueline, instituting a conversation about the various trees they passed; there were times when his hobby was distinctly useful.
Jacqueline responded glibly; far from being embarrassed or trepidatious over being discovered indulging, he sensed she was irritated, sharply annoyed with her importunate friends.
The observation gave him heart; perhaps he’d achieved something today.
Something aside from having attracted Eleanor’s attention in a way he’d up to now avoided.
He’d known his share of predatory females; Eleanor was definitely one. Now that she’d seen evidence of his interest in Jacqueline, specifically the nature of that interest, her blood was up. She thought he was interested in dalliance, and was about to offer her charms.
He was defensively aware of the speculative glances Eleanor threw him as they walked back to the terrace. She didn’t attempt to join his and Jacqueline’s conversation, but eyed him as if she was measuring him to the last inch, and deciding just how to harness him.
She was destined for disappointment, but what intrigued him more was that Jacqueline was aware of Eleanor’s avid interest. He saw it, saw Jacqueline notice Eleanor’s assessing looks, saw comprehension and more in Jacqueline’s eyes.
But she didn’t look at him. Didn’t glance up to see if he’d noticed, or if he was responding. Not a hint of jealousy, or possessiveness, invested her demeanor, but she was watching, noting, nonetheless.
Was she so sure of him, of her hold on his senses?
Or did she truly not care?
The latter option bothered him more than he liked. Even more than her earlier question and her threat of waiting for him to answer before she declared herself his. That was definitely not part of his plan.
They were first to the terrace, but to his relief, the others came up in a laughing, chattering throng before they’d finished helping themselves to the cold meats and pastries set out on a table.
Barnaby was among those returning from the lake. Gerrard summoned him with a look; encouraging Jacqueline to draw the younger girls to their table, they endeavored to hold Eleanor at bay.
Temporarily defeated, she joined Jordan’s circle, but she paid scant attention to her brother’s discourse. Her eyes remained fixed on Gerrard, occasionally sliding to Barnaby, but returning, always, to Gerrard. Jordan’s gaze also frequently came his way.
Inwardly, Gerrard swore and remained on guard.
Just as well; as they all left, going down the front steps in a gay, noisy group, exchanging promises and challenges for when they met again that evening, Eleanor maneuvered to come up beside him. He led Jacqueline to his curricle. His grays stamped, unimpressed by the high-pitched voices; a groom held on to their bits, reverently crooning.
Barnaby had gone to the other side of the curricle; it was just roomy enough to accommodate three.
Alongside, Jordan’s curricle stood waiting with a pair of showy bays between the shafts.
“I wonder, Mr. Debbington…” Boldly, Eleanor gripped his arm, forcing him to halt and face her. She smiled. “I wonder if I might suggest Jacqueline and I swap places, at least until the turnoff to the manor.” She let her gaze sweep his horses, then turned her eyes on him. “I’ve a great penchant for powerful beasts. I find them quite fascinating.”
Gerrard resisted the urge to roll his eyes; even more smoothly than she, he replied, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’ve arranged to take an alternative route.”
“Oh?” Eleanor’s gaze and tone sharpened. “To where?”
In a different direction to the one she was heading in; beyond that, Gerrard had no clue. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would so impertinently question him.
Before he could utter the annihilating setdown spontaneously forming on his tongue, Jacqueline’s fingers tightened on his sleeve; leaning forward, she spoke across him. “Mr. Debbington expressed an interest in viewing the church at Trewithian. With luck, we’ll just have time to head that way, then return to the Hall.”
Eleanor deflated. “Oh. I see.”
Jacqueline smiled lightly; reaching out, she lifted Eleanor’s hand from Gerrard’s other sleeve, squeezed it in farewell and released it. “We’ll see you tonight.”
Eleanor nodded, disappointed, but amiable enough. “Yes, of course.”
Gerrard blinked, and hurriedly added an abbreviated farewell; Barnaby, already in the curricle, waved. With not the slightest sign she understood that she’d just been put in her place, Eleanor inclined her head, and turned away.
For one instant, Gerrard stared. Then he inwardly shook himself, turned and helped Jacqueline into his curricle, followed, gathered the reins, sat, and set his horses trotting.
“Phew!” Barnaby leaned back as the wheels rolled smoothly down the drive. “That was a near-run thing.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “Quick thinking, too. You have my heartfelt gratitude for saving us, m�
�dear.”
“Indeed.” Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, and caught her eyes; they were lightly dancing. “Should I really turn east?”
She looked at the gates, rapidly approaching. “I think we’d better. But it’s a pleasant drive and not that much further. Especially with such”—she gestured to his grays—“powerful beasts.”
Gerrard laughed; so did Barnaby.
Her smile deepening, Jacqueline looked ahead.
Despite the roundabout route, they returned to Hellebore Hall in good time. Gerrard drove straight to the stables, then he, Jacqueline and Barnaby walked across the field toward the house. Pegasus watched over them; Jacqueline smiled as they passed the statue.
Over her head, Gerrard glanced at Barnaby. “Did you learn anything?”
Barnaby had intended subtly sounding out the younger generation over the source of the whispers. He’d questioned Lord Tregonning; thinking back, all his lordship could recall was that after he’d emerged from his grief over his wife’s death, Sir Godfrey and Lord Fritham had both behaved as if everyone knew that Jacqueline had been responsible. Everyone had behaved in that way, avoiding speaking of the incident, and if they couldn’t, referring to it as an accident. Lord Tregonning had accepted the unspoken verdict; his grief had left him unable to question it, and without detailed knowledge to challenge it.
Only later, when the pall of grief had fully lifted, had he come to find that unspoken verdict hard to swallow.
Barnaby had been hunting, bloodhoundlike trying to track the whispers to their source. Gerrard wasn’t sure it would prove possible, but he was grateful Barnaby was so tirelessly investigating every possible avenue.
Hands in his pockets, Barnaby grimaced. “Only that the whispers have been spread over a long time—no one remembers from whom they first heard the suggestion that Jacqueline was responsible for her mother’s death. The association with Thomas’s death is an extension of that.” After a moment, he went on, “Jordan and Eleanor are the most open in their support.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “I gathered they’ve always been quick to take your part.”
The Truth About Love Page 24