He was alert, on guard, but they moved through the ladies gathered on the terrace, chatting here and there, and nothing happened. He’d started to relax again when abuptly Eleanor halted and, smiling, turned to Jacqueline.
“Let’s go down and stroll through the Garden of Night.” They were standing before the main garden stairs. Eleanor spread her arms, attracting the attention of other ladies nearby. “It’s a lovely afternoon, and I’m sure Mr. Debbington would like to view the garden with a guide who knows it well.” She focused on Jacqueline. “You haven’t taken him through it, have you?”
He glanced at Jacqueline; her expression had grown stony, rigid—distant. Her inner shields had sprung up.
“No.” The word was flat, expressionless.
Her fingers had tightened on his arm.
Eleanor shook her head, smiling in fond exasperation. “I don’t know why you won’t walk there anymore—your mama’s been gone for over a year. You’ll have to venture in there again sometime.”
With a bold, brazen smile, Eleanor reached to take his arm.
Jacqueline caught her wrist.
Eleanor jerked, taken aback. Her eyes widened.
Releasing Eleanor, Jacqueline drew a deep breath. Gerrard glanced at her, concerned, and saw her walls come down, saw her deliberately lower them, leaving her emotions exposed, letting what she felt—all she felt—show.
“I will walk there again—someday. But in case you’ve forgotten, my mother didn’t go—someone flung her to her death, into the Garden of Night. And that someone wasn’t me. Mama died down there, alone. I won’t walk there again until we learn who her killer was, until he’s been exposed, and has paid for what he did. Then, yes, I’ll walk again in the Garden of Night, and perhaps show Mr. Debbington its treasures. Until then…I fear you’ll have to excuse me.”
Her voice had gained strength with every word. Her last sentence was a regal declaration. With a cold nod to Eleanor, Jacqueline turned away. He turned, too, retaking her hand and placing it on his sleeve.
She glanced up at him, determination and resolution clear in her face. “I believe we’ve strolled long enough out here.”
“Indeed.” He glanced over the heads, into the drawing room. “Tea has been served. We should go in.”
She nodded. Head high, she didn’t look back as he steered her over the threshold. About to follow, he glanced back, noting the barely suppressed surprise—and the welling approval—in the eyes of the ladies who’d overheard the exchange. Noted, too, the stunned, utterly dumbfounded look on Eleanor Fritham’s face.
He guided Jacqueline to a quiet spot a little way from the central chaise. Leaving her for a moment, he fetched her a cup of tea. Handing it to her, he smiled—not his charming smile but a private, totally sincere expression. “Bravo!” He kept his voice low as he turned to stand beside her, facing the room. “That was very well done.”
She sipped, then set her cup on the saucer. “Do you think so?”
She didn’t look up, but glanced at the guests—at the ripple of conversation that was spreading from the French doors through the room.
“I would describe it as a command performance, except it wasn’t a performance. You spoke the truth, from the heart—everyone who heard realized how hard that was to do.”
He looked down, caught her gaze as she glanced up. “No matter how annoying Eleanor might be, in this case, she set the stage for you perfectly—and you had the courage to seize the moment and play the most difficult role.”
Jacqueline studied his eyes, drank in the undisguised, patently sincere admiration she read in them. Felt her heart lift. “I thought you said it wasn’t a performance?”
“It wasn’t.” His eyes remained steady on hers. “The role you had to play was you.”
He understood her so well. Far better than any other ever had. Jacqueline had no idea what she’d done to deserve such a boon from fate, but she wasn’t about to refuse it.
Wasn’t about to waste one precious minute she might spend in his arms.
That night, she waited until Holly left her room, counted to twenty, then rose from her dressing stool, tightened her robe’s sash, and all but flew from the room.
To his. To him.
To the pleasure she knew she would find there, and to learn more, to delve deeper into the mysterious realm that had opened between them.
Of that, she wanted to know a great deal more.
On swift, slippered feet, she sped through the gallery. Remembering the fraught scene of the afternoon—the scene she’d not simply suffered through, as until now had been her habit, but had grasped and turned to her advantage, all because Gerrard had shown her the need to be herself, and had convinced her she had the strength to do it, to play that most difficult of roles—she glanced out of the windows, down at the terrace, at the glimmer of marble that was the steps leading down, at the dark conglomeration of canopies that marked the Garden of Night, rustling in the breeze.
Frowning, she slowed, then stopped and stepped to the window. She looked to left and right, confirming that there was no breeze. Not even the tips of the tall, feathery herbs in the Garden of Vesta were stirring.
She looked again at the bushes surrounding the upper entrance to the Garden of Night. They’d definitely moved, but now were as still as the rest of the gardens. She pulled a face. “One of the kitchen cats—must be.”
Turning, she continued along the gallery, her attention reverting to her goal.
See? I told you! She’s off to his room—the trollop.”
“Keep your voice down.”
A long moment passed. Cloaked in the heavy shadows of the entrance to the Garden of Night, the first speaker stirred, and glanced, sharply, at the other. “Did you know he’s started her portrait?”
The other shrugged and made no reply.
“I tell you, it’s serious! You should hear what the old biddies are saying—how if the portrait shows her as innocent, they’ll have to think again. They’re starting to expect to have to think again.”
“Are they?” The words were softly uttered. A moment passed. “Now, that won’t do.”
“Precisely! So what are we going to do to stop it?”
Another long silence ensued. Eventually, the other spoke, voice flat, even, cold. “Don’t worry—I’ll take care of it.”
“How?”
“You’ll see. Come on.” The larger figure turned into the enshrouding darkness of Venus’s garden. “Let’s go in.”
Jacqueline reached Gerrard’s room and whisked through the door. Shutting it, she looked across the room, and saw him standing by the windows.
He’d been looking out, but had turned. No lamps were lit; cloaked in shadow, he watched as she crossed the room to him.
As she neared, she looked into his face. The planes were hard-edged, angular and unreadable. Impassive and implacable. Boldly, she walked to him. Walked into his embrace as he reached for her; his hands slid around her waist, fingers flexing, grasping, drawing her to him and holding her.
He studied her. After a moment he said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
She arched a brow. “Did you think I’d be satisfied with one night?”
His shoulders lifted slightly, but she saw the ends of his lips curve as he bent his head. “It’s an unwise man who claims to read a female mind.”
His lips brushed, then covered hers, and she decided his caution was just as well—her mind held precious few thoughts, and even those were spinning away. She sighed into the kiss, then went to sink against him, but he held her back, keeping a space of inches between them.
She didn’t know why, but followed his lead as he deepened the kiss, parted her lips and claimed her mouth—intently, completely. No quarter, but also no hurry. He took everything he could from the kiss, and left her gasping.
Reeling.
“I think,” he murmured, his eyes dark beneath the screen of his lashes, “that before we go any further we should agree on some rules.”
She blinked. “Rules?”
“Hmm. Such as…you remember I warned you that if you came to me I would expect to possess you—all of you—utterly?”
She was hardly likely to forget. “Yes.”
He drank her answer from her lips in a long, lingering sip.
“There’s a corollary to that rule.” He drew back enough to catch her eyes again. Slowly let his hands slide up until they cupped her breasts. His fingers found the tight peaks and played—delicately, too knowingly.
She could barely breathe. “What?”
“Having agreed to be mine utterly, you can’t rescind that state—you can’t not be mine until I release you, until I let you go.”
He never would. Gerrard waited, watched her fight to hold on to sufficient wit to consider his decree…Releasing her breasts, he loosened her sash, parted her robe and slid his hands beneath. Around, past her waist to slide down, over her hips to possessively caress the lush curves of her bottom.
Her gaze grew more distant, her senses following his wandering hands.
“Do you agree?” he prompted.
She refocused on his face, studied his eyes. “Do I have any choice?”
He eased her closer, moving deliberately into her. “No.”
Hands rising to his shoulders, she tipped back her head to keep her eyes on his. “Then why ask?”
“Because I wanted you to know the answer. To understand how things are…will be.”
“I see.” Jacqueline held his gaze as he drew her against him, quelled a reactive shiver at the strength in his hands, wondered what it was she saw burning behind the rich brown of his eyes. “And now I know…what next?”
“Now you know…” He bent his head. “We go on.”
On. That was precisely where she wanted to go; Jacqueline returned his kiss with fervor, eager to learn what path he’d chosen, what sensual avenue he’d set his mind upon.
He shifted, angling his head; the kiss turned heated, demanding. His arms closed around her, locking her to him, then his hands spread, molding her to him, leaving her in no doubt whatever of his rapacious need.
To her surprise, he drew back from the kiss, unhurriedly, as if he knew she was his and intended taking all the time he wished to savor her. Eventually he raised his head; she lifted her lids and looked up at him. He studied her face, searching, she didn’t know for what.
His hand tightened about her bottom, lifting her to him, blatantly shifting her hips against the ridge of his erection.
“The lamps—do you mind if I light them?”
His tone and the predatory look in his eyes suggested the question had sprung from ingrained manners; it was no true request.
“If you wish” was on the tip of her tongue; she caught it back, asked instead, “Why?”
His roving gaze returned to her eyes. “Because I want to see you.” Smoothly, gracefully, he released her, and clasped her hand. “To view you as I make love to you.”
Her senses leapt; she felt giddy. The heat in his eyes beckoned, caressed—promised all manner of illicit delights.
Eyes locked on hers, he raised her hand, brushed his lips across her fingers, then unfurled them and pressed a burningly hot kiss to her palm.
She swallowed, nodded. “Very well.”
Her voice wasn’t entirely steady. He turned her; she dragged in a breath as he led her across the room to where a pair of bronze lamps stood on either end of a narrow side table. On the wall behind the table hung a rectangular mirror, wide and high within an ornate gilt frame.
He halted before the table. Releasing her, he lit one lamp; she tracked him in the mirror as he crossed behind her to light the other. The flames flared, then steadied; he glanced at her, clearly gauging the golden light bathing her. To her surprise, he turned the lamp lower, checking the level of light, then crossed to adjust the other.
When he turned, she swung to face him. He took her hand; she expected him to lead her to the bed—instead, he moved her back, turning her, positioning her before the center of the table, facing the mirror midway between the lamps. He moved to stand behind her; over her head, he looked into the mirror—at her, her body—then lifted his gaze to her eyes. And smiled.
Not his charming social smile but that slight curving of the corners of his lips that was far more sincere—and infinitely more predatory.
“Perfect.” Reaching for her shoulders, he drew her robe down and away. He tossed it aside, over an armchair, but his eyes never left her; as he stepped closer, his gaze lowered from her face. In the mirror she followed his gaze, and saw what he did, the tight peaks of her full breasts standing proud through the fine lawn of her nightgown.
The gown was virginal white, thin and soft, now gilded by the warm glow from the lamps. She’d fastened the long placket to just above her breasts. His gaze drifted lower, over the indentation of her waist and the flare of her hips, and lower, over her stomach to the faint shadow that was the curls at the apex of her thighs. His gaze lingered, then swept slowly on and down, then unhurriedly returned to her face.
The lengthy perusal had heated her; as he studied her eyes she wondered if it showed. She was tensing to turn and face him when he shifted, and lifted her hair. She’d brushed it out; a thick rippling river, she’d left it running down her back. He speared his fingers through it, then raised his hands and lifted the spread veil forward, over her shoulders.
His face a mask, hard, unreadable, he laid the long tresses down. Shaking his fingers free, he studied the result, then artfully shifted this strand, then that, until he was satisfied.
Until her bright brown hair lay partially over her breasts, an inadequate but distracting screen, burnished by the lamplight.
Before she could comment, he reached for her; sliding his hands about her waist, he closed the last inches between them. She felt his hard warmth at her back and relaxed, but his hold on her waist prevented her from sinking back against him.
Holding her before him, he bent his head; through the strands of her hair, with his lips he found and traced her lobe, then dipped to press a long kiss to the sensitive spot behind her jaw.
“Unbutton your nightgown.”
The words whispered past her ear, distilled seduction. She inwardly smiled; catching his eye as he glanced up, into the mirror, she willingly raised her fingers to the highest button, and slid it free.
His hands rode at her waist, hot and strong, fingers tensing as her hands descended. He watched, unblinking, as she slipped each button free.
“Open it. Wide.”
Gravelly, forceful, the quiet words sent a shiver spiraling down her spine. Her gaze locked on the vision in the mirror, she grasped the sides of the nightgown and slowly lifted them apart, drew them aside, revealing her breasts, full, firm, already tight.
The lamplight flowed over her, highlighting planes and curves, casting others in shadow. His gaze didn’t race, but perused her bared flesh in an intense yet leisurely appraisal; under that blatantly assessing, flagrantly male gaze, her nipples furled into painfully tight buds.
He straightened, lifting his head. Still close behind her, he raised his hands—caught her gaze as he closed the fingers of each about the rucked shoulders of her nightgown, and eased it off, and down.
Glancing down, he ran his hands down her arms, freeing them from the gown’s sleeves. “Put your hands on the edge of the table.”
He looked up, met her eyes as, wondering, she slowly obeyed, leaning forward to place her hands on the wooden tabletop, lightly gripping the edge.
“Don’t shift your hands until I give you leave.”
Give her leave…She was suddenly very certain he was choosing his words deliberately; he was uttering them evenly, as orders, not mere directions. Instructions he expected her to obey…as if she were…his utterly.
His to do with as he pleased.
A shudder racked her, yet she felt no trepidation, not the lightest lick of fear. What she felt was excitement, the dark thrill of wanto
n desire.
And he was feeding that, scripting the moment—as he wished, perhaps, but why did he wish it? She glanced at his face, the planes austere in the lamplight, his expression stark, not so much impassive as set.
His gaze had left her face to wander down over her breasts, then lower. Her nightgown had gathered in loose folds about her hips. His hands returned, palms sliding bare across her naked skin, warm yet hard, long-fingered, strong as they lightly gripped her waist, then swept, slowly, down.
Over her hips, taking her nightgown with them until it slipped over her thighs and slid to the floor, a soft puddle at her feet.
Leaving her naked, bathed in lamplight.
Her breath caught, her lungs seized. Her nerves coiled tight, every thought, all reaction, frozen as she drank in the sight. Of herself, a golden nymph poised in the lamplight, a faerie being trapped in this world—unreal, ephemeral. Magical.
She recognized her face, her hair, her form. This was her, yet not; what was reflected in the mirror was a truth she’d never seen, a woman she’d never before known.
A siren unveiled.
She felt his gaze, hot as a flame, rove her skin, following her own as, stunned, she examined. Then he looked at her face, studied it; she realized and raised her gaze, met his dark eyes.
He raised his hands, again spanned her waist, then slowly slid them up, palms to her heating skin. Spreading his fingers over her midriff, he gripped and eased her back against him; bending his head, he set his lips to the tip of her shoulder, then traced lightly inward, nudging her head aside so he could lave the pulse thundering at the base of her throat. “Don’t speak, or move. Just look. Watch. And feel.”
She had no choice; fascination held her spellbound, trapped in the fantasy he’d created. A fantasy in which every inhibition had flown, and there was just her, him, and need.
His need to possess her utterly, hers to fulfill that need.
Desire.
It welled as his hands rose beneath the curtain of her hair and closed about her breasts. Her head fell back against his shoulder as his fingers flexed, kneaded; her breath shivered, then suspended on a gasp as he found her nipples, and squeezed. Played.
The Truth About Love Page 30