“Better?” She raised a questioning brow at Gerrard.
He sighed, and nodded. “Yes, thank you. Are these the satins?” He picked up a stack of fabric swatches.
Jacqueline, Helen and he stood at her worktable; Helen and he discussed lines and made sketches while Jacqueline quietly listened, but when, design and drape agreed, they turned to choosing the fabric, she joined in with decided views of her own.
Her eye for color was as good as his, and she had a sound appreciation of what suited her. They all quickly agreed that a certain brassy bronze shot-silk shantung was perfect.
“See—with the drape, it’ll catch the light differently, so you’ll get all the curves highlighted, especially in lamplight.” Helen draped a long swatch of the material over Jacqueline’s shoulder, angling over her breasts to her waist, then stood behind her and pulled the material tight. “There.” Reaching forward, Helen adjusted the silk. “What do you think?”
Gerrard looked; his lips slowly curved. “Perfect.”
They made arrangements for fittings over the next four days, then Gerrard led Jacqueline out to join their now thoroughly bored supporters. In a much better mood than when they’d arrived, he ushered them out to the carriages.
He drove Jacqueline back to Brook Street, only to find an unmarked black town carriage waiting outside his house, with a too familiar groom in attendance.
“Her Grace?” he resignedly asked Matthews, one of Devil Cynster’s grooms.
Matthews grinned sympathetically. “The Dowager and Lady Horatia, sir.”
Heaven help him. He loved them all, but…
Beneath all else, he was just a tad worried that Jacqueline would find his female connections, especially en masse, too overpowering, and take flight. Yet as he squired her inside and into the drawing room, he reminded himself that this—her introduction to his extensive family circle before he asked her to marry him—was only fair. If she accepted him, she’d be accepting them, too.
He’d debated mentioning marriage before they’d left Cornwall, but he’d only just started his campaign to illustrate the benefits of matrimony sufficiently for the idea to occur to her before he broached it; he was perfectly sure she’d yet to start thinking along his required lines. The visit to the capital would provide both settings and circumstances to extend his campaign beyond the sensual—he intended her to see and appreciate what life as his wife would be like—but he hadn’t until now considered how she, used to being very much alone, would react to a family framework in which ladies were never alone, but part of a large familial group whose members frequently visited, openly shared experiences and were perennially interested.
In everything.
Evidence of that last gleamed in two pairs of aging but still handsome eyes as he guided Jacqueline to the chaise on which the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Horatia Cynster sat, waiting to greet them.
“I am enchanted, my dear, to meet with you.” Helena’s eyes danced as, releasing Jacqueline’s hand, she raised her pale eyes to his face. “Gerrard—such a happy circumstance that Lord Tregonning chose you to paint this so important portrait, n’est-ce pas?”
He returned a noncommittal murmur; it was never wise to give the Dowager more information than strictly necessary. That was the rule the family’s males had learned to live by; unfortunately, there was very little the Dowager’s pale green eyes missed—and even less that her exceedingly sharp mind failed to correctly interpret.
Lady Horatia Cynster, Vane’s mother, the Dowager’s sister-in-law and most frequent companion, was less overtly intimidating, but almost equally dangerous. “I remember meeting your mother, my dear, many years ago at a ball. She was exceedingly beautiful—there’s much I can see in you that I remember in her.”
“Really?” Eyes lighting, Jacqueline sat in the armchair before the chaise. “Other than from Lady Fritham, our neighbor who was Mama’s childhood friend, I’ve never heard much of Mama before she married Papa.”
“Ah, I remember.” The Dowager nodded. “It caused quite a stir, that marriage—that she, such a diamond, chose to leave the ton so completely and retire to Cornwall. Horatia, do you recall…”
Between them, Helena and Horatia recalled a number of stories of Jacqueline’s mother during the short time she’d graced the capital’s ballrooms. Leaning forward, asking questions, Jacqueline eagerly absorbed all they said.
Gerrard found himself redundant. Found himself swallowing a certain surprise at how easily Jacqueline had found her feet with such ladies.
He wasn’t, of course, at all surprised by their eager embracing of her.
From the moment Barnaby had suggested visiting London, he’d known he’d have no chance of disguising his interest in Jacqueline as purely professional. Within the family, it wasn’t even worthwhile making the attempt; they’d see right through him, and laugh and pat his cheek—and tease him even more unmercifully.
It was bad enough when Horatia turned from the conversation to smile up at him, and say, “Dear boy, such excitement! The whole tale is so romantic. Of course, none of us will breathe a word, not until the deed is done and all settled, but you’ve certainly enlivened what was shaping up to be a deathly dull summer.”
Her eyes twinkled up at him; he inclined his head—she could have been talking about the portrait and his rescuing Jacqueline, or about his impending nuptials—it was impossible to tell. To his relief, sounds of an arrival heralded the return of Patience, Minnie and Timms, and spared him having to answer. They all bustled in, ready to tell Helena and Horatia about their visit to the unusual dressmaker—and even more eager to quiz Jacqueline on all that took place in Helen’s workroom.
The level of feminine chatter rose, blanketing the room. Minnie called for tea; Gerrard seized the opportunity to make his excuses and escape.
Before he could, Patience stopped him with a raised hand. “Dinner tonight,” she informed him. “Just the family.” She saw the look in his eyes and smiled, understanding, yet in no way relenting. “It’s so quiet at present, everyone is only too glad to have an excuse not to eat at their own board.”
By “the family” she meant any of the wider Cynster clan in town; during the Season, most lived in London, but during the summer, they came and went as business and family affairs dictated.
He could refuse, citing his work on the portrait, but…He glanced at Jacqueline, then looked back at Patience and nodded. “Usual time?”
She smiled, an all-knowing older sister. “Seven, but you might come a trifle earlier and visit the nursery. There have been complaints regarding your absence.”
The thought made him grin. “I’ll try.”
With a general nod, he turned away, and made good his escape. Within that circle, Jacqueline clearly needed no protection.
He, on the other hand, needed to protect his sanity. Climbing the stairs, he took refuge in his studio.
17
Later that night, Jacqueline stood in Gerrard’s studio, and watched him sketch her into the portrait. Everyone else had retired to their beds.
In the front hall when they’d returned from dinner, he’d explained the routine he intended to follow, working through the nights as the scene was set in moonlight, then sleeping through the morning before rising to reassess and prepare through the afternoon, so that at night he could paint again. His clear aim was to complete the portrait as soon as possible.
Everyone understood why that was desirable. On the journey to town, they’d discussed and agreed that while there was no need to bruit the purpose behind the portrait to society at large, it was necessary that Gerrard’s family understood both the urgency and importance behind the work. As he’d explained, their discretion could be relied on, and their knowing would ensure that no vestige of scandal attached to her because of her attendance in his studio, whatever the hours, regardless of the privacy.
Having met his family, she now fully understood. It was comforting knowing they were so supportive, indeed, so int
erested and determined that all would go well for Gerrard and their endeavor, and her, too.
He’d posed her beside a plaster column, her right hand raised, palm placed lightly to the column’s surface; in the portrait, the column would be the side of the archway that was the lower entrance to the Garden of Night. Her hand would be holding aside a piece of creeper.
He’d shown her what he’d done so far; she could see the effect he was aiming for. It would be powerful, evocative. Convincing.
All she needed the portrait to be.
She stood unmoving, her gaze fixed as he’d instructed, to the left of where he worked behind his easel; her mind roamed, to all else she’d seen and learned that day.
The visit to Helen Purfett’s salon had been interesting; they would return tomorrow afternoon, and the three afternoons after that, for fittings, but it would be just the two of them. Millicent, Minnie, Timms and Patience had lost interest in the process, although they were still exceedingly keen to see her in the finished product.
She hesitated, then remembered Gerrard was not yet sketching any details, just the lines of her body, her limbs. He’d promised tonight would be a short session, a training for the hours that would come; for now she could let her expression relax—let her lips curve as she recalled the rest of her day.
During their journey, she’d wondered whether she would find his relatives, especially the ladies, intimidating; they were, after all, members of the haut ton, and had been all their lives. Admittedly, she wasn’t all that easily intimidated, yet the transparently warm welcome they’d accorded her, and the ease with which she’d found herself relaxing into, as it were, the bosom of his family, had not just surprised her, but left her feeling amazingly buoyed.
Not just reassured, but more—as if she was one of them, accepted and embraced.
Millicent, too, seemed happy and gratified. Her aunt had already formed a bond with Minnie and Timms; they were much of a kind, absorbed with observing the lives of those around them.
By the time she’d gone up to dress for dinner, she’d lost every last trepidatious reservation. She’d looked forward to the prospect of his family dinner with genuine anticipation.
To her surprise, he’d arrived at the house while she was dressing. He’d paced in the drawing room, then whisked her into his carriage the instant she was ready, leaving Millicent to follow later with Minnie and Timms. They’d driven to Patience’s house in Curzon Street—and gone straight to the nursery.
Her smile deepened. She hadn’t until then thought of Gerrard with children, but the trio who’d yelled and come pelting toward him had been totally sure of their reception. With, it had proved, complete justification. He’d devoted half an hour to them. After quelling their rowdy greetings, he’d introduced her; the children had smiled and accepted her in the same, trusting manner their parents had—as if, because she was with Gerrard, she was beyond question a rightful member of their circle.
He’d filled their ears with tales of the gardens of Hellebore Hall. She’d sat quietly and listened; the little girl, Therese, had climbed onto her lap with sublime confidence that she would be welcome. She’d smiled and settled the warm bundle of soft limbs and body, then rested her cheek on the child’s head and listened to Gerrard paint her home as she’d never seen it.
Yet she recognized it. That was his talent, to see and be able to convey the magic in landscapes, in the combined creations of nature and man.
When they heard the gong summoning them downstairs, she’d been as reluctant to leave as the children had been to let them go. To her surprise, Therese had kissed her cheek and solemnly informed her she had to come with Gerrard when next he visited.
Touched, she’d smiled. Leaning down, she’d brushed a kiss to Therese’s forehead, then lightly ruffled her golden curls. A strange feeling, warm and appealing, had bloomed inside her—even now, reliving it, she wasn’t sure what it had meant.
They’d gone down to dinner. It should have been an ordeal, a test she’d had to face. Instead, it had been a relaxed and entertaining affair with much laughter, conversation unlimited, and goodwill on all sides.
She hadn’t expected the men to be so charming. No one had had to tell her that they wielded considerable power, not just in society but in wider spheres. Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, was the head of the family, a mantle he’d been born to and carried with flair. He was impressive, yet he’d smiled and teased her; his duchess, Honoria, had dismissed her powerful husband with a haughty wave and welcomed her warmly.
Yet despite their outward ease, in the drawing room after dinner she’d noticed the men—Devil, Vane and Horatia’s husband, George—gathering around Gerrard with their port glasses in hand. The subject of the discussion had been serious; she was certain she knew what it had been.
Unconditional, instinctive support—that’s what had been behind that purposeful discussion. From the corner of her eye, she focused on Gerrard, still wielding his pencil, absorbed; she wondered if he knew how lucky he was to have a family like that. Not just behind him but all around him.
Always there to lend a hand.
He looked up, caught her eye, then he looked back at his work; a moment later, he stepped back. Head tilted, he glanced from it to her and back again, then he sighed, waved her to him, and turned aside to lay down his pencil.
She lowered her hand, worked her arm back and forth as she walked to him.
He met her before she rounded the easel, caught her waist and steered her back from the canvas. “There’s not enough there to make sense of yet.”
From a distance of inches, she met his eyes, searched them. “I can pose for longer—I’m not that tired.”
He shook his head. His gaze dropped to her lips. “I don’t want to overtax you.”
He bent his head and his lips found hers; as he whirled her senses into the flames, she wondered if her potential tiredness had prompted him to call a halt, or whether the strength of his desire—which apparently had escalated over five nights of abstinence—wasn’t instead the principal force driving him.
Regardless, he wanted her—here, now, as desperately as, within mere seconds, she wanted him. Their desire was mutual, wonderfully so, freeing them both from any hesitation. She offered her mouth, willingly offered her body; she was his to possess.
Gerrard knew it; her eager surrender was pure joy, the vital element that again and again reassured him, that soothed his primitively possessive soul—that side of his nature only she connected with. Only with her had he experienced it; only with her could he explore it and, it seemed, be whole, complete in a way he never had been before.
Between them, passion rose, heated and demanding. Without breaking the kiss, he stooped and swung her up into his arms. Her hands clutching his shoulders, urgently gripping, he carried her down the long narrow room. Ducking a shoulder between the tapestry hangings screening the room’s end, he walked through—to the wide boxed bed set under a pair of dormer windows on the western end of the house. If he’d been painting all night and couldn’t face the short walk home, this was where he collapsed.
Compton had made up the bed; with clean sheets, white pillows and a green satin comforter, it sat waiting.
Lifting his head, he waited for Jacqueline’s eyes to open, held her gaze for an instant, then smiled, wickedly, and tossed her on the bed.
She half swallowed a shriek, then laughed as, in a froth of skirts, she sank into the soft mattress; he’d had her pose in the gown she’d worn to dinner. Eagerly she looked to right and left, noting the sparse furniture in the alcove. He shrugged out of his shirt, then bent and eased off his boots, watching her all the while.
By the time her gaze returned to him, he was unbuttoning his trousers. She watched, her gaze steady, direct, then she lifted her eyes to his, and raised her hands to the buttons of her bodice.
Undid them, not shyly but with the sultry deliberation of a siren.
His lips curved, not in a smile but in blatant expectation.
He stripped off his trousers. Naked, he stood at the end of the bed and flipped her skirts up to her hips. Reaching out, he let his fingertips glide down the fascinating curves of her legs, tracing, then he caught one garter and rolled it down, removing it, her stocking and slipper in one smooth caress. He repeated the action on her other leg, paused for a moment to admire the result, then joined her on the mattress. Pushing her skirts to her waist, he straddled her thighs, and reached for the gown’s shoulders as, on her elbows, she struggled to slide her arms free. Between them, they managed it; he drew the gown off over her head and tossed it aside.
Before he could, she tugged the drawstring of her chemise loose, and drew the fine garment up and off.
He had no idea where it landed, had no eyes for anything except her. Here, naked in his bed beneath him. He leaned forward, covered her lips and kissed her with all the passion in his soul, then he closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her.
Sitting back, he set her down straddling his thighs; he didn’t need to urge but simply guide her as she shifted forward, over his erection, then sank down and took him deep.
Into the heavenly heat of her body. Their eyes locked, held, and he felt as if she drew him into her soul.
He thrust in, deeper, nudging her womb. Her sheath was a velvet clamp, tight yet giving, slick and scorching as it contracted about his rigid length.
She spread her knees wider, pressed lower, then, satisfied she’d taken him all, she leaned forward; hands splaying, needy and greedy across his chest, she licked one nipple.
He caught his breath, then bent his head and nudged hers up. Their lips met, and the intimate fusion they both craved began.
Without reservation. Without restriction.
Hotter, harder, more intense, ultimately more primal, more primitive and powerful. It was as if with every day that passed they grew closer, learned more of the other, appreciated and thus knew there was yet more they could ask, more they could give. More they could give that the other would want. Would value.
The Truth About Love Page 33