The Truth About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Head back on the edge of the tub, steam wreathing about her face, she closed her eyes and thought back to all she and he had ever said on the subject. She couldn’t be sure she recalled his words verbatim, but he’d insisted he could make no promises. She’d accepted his attentions on that basis; he’d said nothing since to suggest he’d changed his mind.

  Yet Minnie, Timms and Patience were convinced…and they didn’t even know of the interludes in the alcove off Gerrard’s studio.

  Didn’t know of all that had grown between them.

  Cocooned in the warm water, veiled by the steam, detached from the world, she looked inward. And asked herself, in light of all that had evolved between them over the past weeks, what she wished now. She thought, considered, weighed as well as she could the connection, the link, the indescribable communion that between them transformed the physical act into an emotional, almost spiritual experience. A transcendent moment of glory, for which she now yearned.

  She’d wanted to know, to learn, and he’d shown her, taught her, and more. He’d given her all that; she was more grateful than she could say. Simply thinking of the feelings that welled and spilled through her when they joined was wonderful. Joyous.

  He’d shown her that—all a woman could be.

  She was grateful, happy, and would gladly sup further at his table. For herself, yes, she would accept any extension of their time together, and take full pleasure in all they could share, but would she go so far as marriage?

  To that, no ready answer sprang to mind. She hadn’t considered the concept, not for years; she was no longer sure how she felt in that regard.

  Yet with regard to him, how he felt, she knew he’d accepted the commission to paint her because of the professional challenge, and he’d stuck with it because of a chivalrous determination to see her free. He hadn’t seduced her—she’d insisted on it. As her portraitist, he’d wanted to learn more of her, all he could of her; that their interaction had subsequently evolved to its present extent wasn’t something she could, or wished to, lay at his door.

  It had simply happened. It simply was.

  She couldn’t hold him responsible. To her mind, there was no justification to even mention the subject of marriage, let alone expect him to be thinking of it. Even if, on reflection, she decided marriage to him might suit her, it wouldn’t, to her mind, be honorable to even raise the matter, much less expect him to agree.

  The water had grown cold. Rising, she stepped onto the rug spread before the hearth, and reached for the towel the maid had left ready. Drying herself, she followed her thoughts. Between them, all seemed clear and straightforward. However…

  She couldn’t leave the ladies who’d been so kind to her, who’d so openly taken her to their hearts, believing there was a wedding in the wind. That would be deceitful, and she’d never been that—Eleanor’s province, not hers.

  Yes, she’d tried to correct their mistake, and yes, they’d routed her comprehensively, but that didn’t absolve her from doing all she could to convince them that she wasn’t, as they clearly supposed, Gerrard’s intended, his fiancée in all but name.

  So how was she to convince them they were wrong?

  Proof. She needed some words, action or evidence that clearly indicated he wasn’t thinking of marrying her. Something actual, factual…

  She brightened; crossing to the bellpull, she rang for the maid. After dinner, they were to attend a party, with dancing, at Lady Sommerville’s. Collecting suitable, citable evidence in such a venue shouldn’t be too hard.

  18

  One of the great attractions of a trip to London was the chance of visiting the very best modistes. With Millicent, Jacqueline had taken full advantage of the capital’s amenities; when, that evening, she climbed Lady Sommerville’s staircase on Gerrard’s arm, she felt positively glowing in a gown of amber silk surprinted with a delicate dark bronze tracery.

  She’d donned the new gown to bolster her confidence; she also hoped it would make her task that evening easier by attracting the attention of other gentlemen.

  During their evenings’ entertainments, Gerrard always hovered by her side, presumably to ensure she remained untroubled, and so he could whisk her away when the clocks struck ten. She was his subject; naturally, he wanted her in the right frame of mind to pose for him. There was nothing more behind his attentiveness, his hovering, than that. They were lovers, true, and he was possessive in that sphere, but in general in society, she could see no reason for him to be so.

  Not unless he was thinking of marrying her, which he wasn’t. That was what she needed to prove.

  After greeting Lord and Lady Sommerville, she and Gerrard swept into the ballroom. It wasn’t a huge room, and this wasn’t, she’d been told, a large party, yet she was pleased to note numerous dark coats dotted amid the bright satins and silks.

  Gerrard steered her in Millicent’s wake; they eventually stopped beside a chaise on which Lady Horatia Cynster sat. Exchanging pleasantries, Millicent settled beside her ladyship; with Gerrard, Jacqueline moved to stand to one side of the chaise.

  Intent on her plan, she lifted her head and eagerly scanned the guests.

  Gerrard seized the moment to less than approvingly scan her. Where the devil had she gotten that gown? The silk hugged her figure, clung to her breasts, outlined the quintessentially feminine curve of her waist and the evocative flare of her hips. As for the long line of her legs that always transfixed him, the fine material flirted and seduced, first revealing, then concealing as she moved. Worse, whenever she moved, the light corruscated over the complex fabric, drawing the eye to her delectable curves.

  And not just his eye.

  Mental alarm bells rang. Glancing around, he inwardly swore. It was summer. The crowd was small and commensurately more select—and of quite a different caliber to that of a ball during the Season. There were few bright young things in evidence; they were all attending country house parties in the hope of snaring a husband. Likewise, the younger gentlemen had in the main been hauled off by their fond mamas, to either do their duty by their sisters, or to look over the field, also at those same house parties.

  The vast majority of those left in town, including all those strolling or prowling through Lady Sommerville’s ballroom, weren’t interested in snaring a husband or wife. They were, however, definitely interested in members of the opposite sex.

  Too many of the gentlemen had already noticed Jacqueline.

  He used the term “gentlemen” generically; many of the males present were wolves of the ton. He knew them; on the rare occasions he could be persuaded to attend such affairs, he was normally classed among their number.

  Some dark emotion, one that made him feel like snarling, rose when he saw one of his peers cast his eye assessingly over Jacqueline. This would definitely be the last time she wore that gown in public, at least not until they were married, and perhaps not even then.

  The intrigued gentleman noticed his hard stare; they locked eyes. After a moment, the gentleman’s lips curved; he inclined his head and moved on.

  Just as well.

  Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, then surreptitiously drew out his watch and checked. It was just nine o’clock; he had an hour to endure before he could legitimately whisk her away. The obvious alternative tempted, but Horatia was there. Patience’s mama-in-law, she regarded him as a cross between a nephew and a grandson; she would notice any change in his schedule and report it.

  Beside him, Jacqueline shifted; she slid her hand onto his arm. “Let’s stroll. Most others are.”

  She started walking; he fell in beside her, not at all sure mingling with his strutting peers was a wise idea. But she was on his arm; he could steer her clear of any—

  Halting, she half turned and smiled, inviting the attention of a couple nearby. “Good evening.”

  Gerrard looked, and inwardly groaned.

  Two unquestionably eager steps brought Perry Somerset, Lord Castleton, to Jacqueline’s side. Beside
Perry, rather more reluctantly, came Mrs. Lucy Atwell, Perry’s current paramour.

  Tall and stylishly handsome, Perry reached for Jacqueline’s hand, and threw Gerrard a glance. “Do introduce us, old chap.”

  Inwardly gritting his teeth, he did; Perry bowed elegantly.

  Lucy and Jacqueline exchanged polite nods.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Tregonning.” Lucy’s fine eyes roved Jacqueline’s gown. “I must compliment you on your attire—Cerise?”

  “No, Celeste.”

  “Ah.” Lucy flashed him a measuring look. “I’ve heard Mr. Debbington has been burning the midnight oil—literally—in painting a fabulous portrait of you. Do you find his demands difficult to meet?”

  “Not at all.” Jacqueline’s smile was transparently assured. “I quite enjoy it.”

  “Indeed?” Lucy’s brows arched; the look she threw him was arch, too. She knew that prior to Jacqueline, he’d only painted people he was close to; she was searching for some reason—the most obvious reason—as to why he was painting Jacqueline, but had refused to paint her, stunning though she was.

  Before he could steer the conversation into safer, less ambiguous waters, Perry asked if they’d visited Kew Gardens.

  That was such a strange question to hear coming from Perry, a rakehell who rarely saw the sun, both Gerrard and Lucy stared at him.

  “No,” Jacqueline brightly replied. “But I’ve heard they’re impressive.”

  “I’ve heard the same about the gardens at your home,” Perry said. “Perhaps you’d like to view Kew one afternoon, to compare?”

  “No.” Gerrard laid his hand over Jacqueline’s on his sleeve. “I’m afraid we don’t have time—the sittings are quite arduous.”

  Jacqueline looked at him. “But I don’t sit in the afternoons.”

  He met her eyes. “You will be, starting tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “And the very last thing we need is more freckles.”

  She stared at him; she didn’t possess a single freckle, not anywhere, and he knew it.

  The squeak of violins cut through the room.

  “Perhaps some other time,” Perry said cheerily. “Meanwhile, if you would grant me the honor—”

  “I’m afraid I’m before you, old boy.” Gerrard clamped his fingers about Jacqueline’s hand; catching her eye, he raised her fingers to his lips. “My dance, I believe?”

  She thought—actively thought—about refusing him. He saw it in her eyes. What she saw in his—the emotion that flared in response—apparently convinced her to acquiesce with good grace.

  He returned his gaze to Lucy and Perry. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  “Of course.” Lucy was looking daggers at Perry, who hadn’t yet noticed.

  Gerrard led Jacqueline to the dance floor, then swung her into his arms and stepped into the swirling throng. If he was wise, he wouldn’t make any comment. After all, what could he say?

  “Why this sudden urge to consort with strangers?” Even to his ears, the question sounded ludicrous; worse, his tone registered as aggrieved.

  He wasn’t surprised when she looked at him, her eyes wide. “What on earth do you mean? They’re other guests. I thought we should be sociable.”

  Why? He bit his tongue and looked over her head, steering her into a turn. The soft shush of her skirts against his trousers, the feel of her supple body, pliant under his hand at her back, soothed his unexpected irritation. What was he so agitated over? A few words?

  Or because she’d sought Perry’s attention?

  He didn’t like the answer. Drawing her fractionally closer, he immersed himself in the dance, gave himself up to the predictable pleasure of waltzing her around the room. The whirling left them cocooned in time and space, alone in the middle of a crowd.

  Alone with her—that was how he preferred to be. Until now he’d thought himself a social animal, at least when he wasn’t painting, but with her, when it came to her, he was discovering new aspects of himself every day.

  Jacqueline remained silent, content to whirl safe in his arms while she thought through what had just occurred. Eventually, she looked up at Gerrard. “Is there an understanding between Lord Castleton and Mrs. Atwell?”

  His lips thinned. “Yes.”

  “Ah. I see.” She looked away. In stopping Castleton from claiming her hand, Gerrard had been steering her clear of stepping on Mrs. Atwell’s toes. Very properly. He hadn’t been acting possessively but protectively; it was sometimes difficult to tell.

  She revisited her plan; it still seemed viable, but she clearly needed to make a few adjustments. Next time, she would have to find someone to entertain Gerrard, someone he was willing to be entertained by.

  At the end of the dance, by mutual accord they resumed their stroll.

  Finding someone she could be certain Gerrard would be willing to be entertained by wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped, but by dint of steady application, she finally set eyes on the perfect group.

  “Mrs. Wainwright, what a pleasure to see you.” She smiled at the stylish matron and bobbed a curtsy, then exchanged greetings with the lady’s two unmarried daughters, Chloe and Claire. Jacqueline had met the trio at a number of afternoon engagements, and at a musicale.

  The family knew Patience and Gerrard well; their home lay near Gerrard’s estate in Derbyshire. Gerrard shook hands and bowed. Chloe and Claire’s eyes lit; they responded warmly, and asked after his horses.

  Delighted to have found such young ladies, of suitable age and perfectly sensible, to keep Gerrard company, Jacqueline turned her smile on the last member of the group—a handsome, well-dressed gentleman whose features declared him to be Chloe and Claire’s older brother, Rupert. Jacqueline recalled some mention of him.

  “Hello!” Smiling, she gave him her hand. “You must be Rupert.”

  “I confess I am.” With a delighted smile, Rupert bowed, all long-limbed grace. His eyes twinkled as he straightened. “Whatever tales they’ve told of me are probably true.”

  She laughed.

  “I heard you’re in town sitting for Gerrard—that’s quite a coup. Have you had time to see much of London?”

  “A little—not perhaps as much as I’d have liked, but…”

  Gerrard chatted with the Wainwright girls, simultaneously monitoring Jacqueline’s exchange with Rupert. He knew Rupert, knew his propensities, but Rupert was behaving himself—as usual when under his mother’s eagle eye.

  Confirming that Mrs. Wainwright did indeed have her eye on Rupert, Gerrard relaxed, and gave his attention to Chole and Claire; he’d known them all their lives.

  He didn’t see the danger, until it was too late.

  “There’s the musicians again.” Rupert swept Jacqueline a bow. “Can I tempt you onto the floor, Miss Tregonning?”

  Gerrard whipped around—but he’d danced the last dance with Jacqueline.

  “Thank you.” Jacqueline smiled gloriously and gave Rupert her hand. “That would be delightful.”

  No, it wouldn’t be. Gerrard inwardly swore; Mrs. Wainwright tensed, and shifted nervously. In something close to mounting panic, he watched Jacqueline, oblivious, smile and chat to Rupert as he led her to the floor…

  Turning to Chloe, he reached for her hand. “If you would grant me the honor of this dance, Miss Wainwright?” He barely waited for her agreement before leading her in her brother’s wake.

  The music swelled as they reached the floor; he swung Chloe into his arms, his gaze fixed on Jacqueline. They started revolving; he steered them as close to Jacqueline and Rupert as he could.

  Chloe sighed. “Nothing will happen until the end of the dance.”

  When he looked down at her, she rolled her eyes resignedly. “He uses the dance to butter them up—you know what he’s like. When the music ends, she’ll be curious to see whatever it is he’s invented this time, but still convinced he’s perfectly trustworthy.”

  “As most of us know, he’s not.”

 
“Indeed. But there’s nothing you can do until the dance finishes, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop staring at them, and pay attention to where we’re going!” Chloe tugged at his shoulder; they barely avoided another couple.

  Gerrard colored. “Sorry.” He hadn’t blushed in decades.

  He tried to comply with Chloe’s edict—he knew she was right—but logic couldn’t prevail against the dark impulses surfacing; time and again, he darted glances at Jacqueline as, laughing and smiling gaily, she circled the floor in Rupert’s expert arms.

  Jaw clenched, his teeth almost grinding, Gerrard waited for the waltz to wind to its conclusion.

  Whirling around the room, Jacqueline wondered if any other man was ever going to meet, let alone eclipse, the standards Gerrard had set. Her senses assessed Rupert, and despite his obvious expertise, found him wanting. In just what way, she couldn’t say, but it was simply not the same as waltzing with Gerrard. Inwardly sighing, she continued to respond to Rupert’s conversation. He certainly had a glib tongue. They’d touched on various topics; he’d now steered the conversation to gardens.

  Why they all thought she must be interested in gardens she had no idea. Yes, the gardens of Hellebore Hall were fantastic, but she’d grown up with them; she took their extravagant beauty and power largely for granted.

  As if sensing how mild was her interest, Rupert shifted the conversation to statuary, specifically statues of Greek and Roman gods.

  “I say.” His hazel eyes lit. “There’s a fascinating statue in the library here. Have you seen it?”

  She shook her head. “This is only the second time I’ve visited here.”

  “Ah, well—this is not to be missed. I’m sure Lady Sommerville, if she’d thought of it, would have suggested you view it. Coming from a house surrounded by gardens devoted to various gods, you’ll appreciate it—it’s a fabulously lifelike depiction of a thoroughly remarkable naked god. I’ve never been able to decide which one—perhaps you could hazard a guess.”

  The music slowed; their feet halted. Rupert took her hand. “Come—let me show it to you. I assure you, it’ll take your breath away.”