His lips set; he opened her door and guided her in. She’d expected him to ring for her maid and leave her. Instead, he led her to her dressing stool, sat her gently down, and proceeded to pull the pins from her hair.
She stared at him in the mirror. “Ah…my maid can do that. You should go to the studio.”
He shook his head. “I want to see you settled.”
She tried twice more to get him to leave, to no avail. Then, to her even greater astonishment, after tucking her into bed, he hesitated, frowning down at her, then shrugged out of his coat. “I’ll sleep with you for a while. The portrait will go faster if I take a break, and without you…”
The suspicion that he knew she wasn’t truly ill and was calling her bluff, as it were, occurred only to be dismissed; the look on his face was a transparent medley of concern and worry.
Guilt jabbed at her, but she desperately needed time to think. How she was to accomplish that with him lying naked beside her…
He slid under the covers and reached for her. She half expected him to make love to her; instead, he gathered her gently into his arms, settling her against his warmth. He bent his head, searched for her lips, but there was no passion in his kiss, only gentleness.
“Go to sleep.”
With that order, he relaxed beside her, around her, sinking deeper into the soft mattress.
He fell asleep in minutes.
She didn’t.
Listening to his breathing, she turned her mind to all she had to sort through—the observations, the revelations, the inescapable conclusion.
He did, indeed, intend to marry her.
That much was now beyond doubt. Viewing his behavior from that perspective, there was no contradiction, no reason to question the conclusion everyone, it seemed, had reached.
What was in question was how she felt, not just about his wanting to marry her, but about his failure to mention the matter despite having opportunities aplenty.
She felt she should be angry, yet that seemed too simple, too superficial a response. Decisions on marriage were too serious, too important, to be governed by such reactions.
Timms had warned her to think of her answer; that was assuredly sound advice. Yet in evaluating him, and his desire for her, the one uncertainty she even now could not resolve was the element that had, from the first, been a complicating factor between them. Was his interest in her, passionate and intense though it was, primarily a painter’s fascination, something that would dissipate once he’d painted her enough to satisfy his obsession—or was there something deeper, more enduring, behind it?
She couldn’t answer that question, no matter how she examined, analyzed and thought. Unless he told her which alternative was the truth, she wouldn’t see it, not until it was too late. Without him telling her, without him being willing to reveal that much to her, she wouldn’t be able to answer him.
Stalemate. She turned her mind to the other aspect she had to resolve. He hadn’t said anything, had given not the slightest indication he wanted her for his bride, yet it wasn’t hard to see that should she wish to refuse him, her position—thanks to him—was now seriously weak.
She glanced at him, lying slumped beside her, one heavy arm thrown over her waist. He was lying on his stomach, his face by her shoulder…She had to resist a sudden urge to run her fingers through his heavily tousled hair.
He’d manipulated her. She was increasingly sure that was true. Increasingly sure that he’d made the decision to marry her relatively early in their acquaintance, perhaps even before he’d taken her to his bed. At her insistence, true enough, yet she wasn’t sure, any longer, just who had been inciting whom.
It was patently obvious he’d realized she hadn’t read his direction, that she hadn’t understood his ultimate aim. Studying his profile in the dimness, she wasn’t the least bit amused by what was in effect deceit by omission. Admittedly, he, and many others, too, would consider his actions as being “for her own good”; that in no way excused them, not to her.
Almost as if he could feel her disapproval, even in his sleep, he stirred, heavy and warm beside her. His arm tightened about her as if checking…with a soft gusty sigh, all tension left him and he slipped into deep sleep again.
Even asleep, he was possessive. And protective.
She looked at him, felt him half surrounding her. A warm feeling, part elation, part simple joy, rose within her, spread, then flooded through her, slowly subsiding.
How was she to answer him when he asked?
Was she prepared to cut off her nose to spite her face?
Was she prepared to live her life without him, without experiencing that warm feeling in the night, that elation—that simple joy?
The answer to that wasn’t one she needed to search for; it was there, in her mind, clear and shining, unequivocally true.
Was that love? Did she love him?
She still wasn’t entirely sure. She would think more on that, yet for now, how was she to manage this—manage him? How was she to cope?
She sighed and turned her mind to that—and fell asleep.
19
Jacqueline walked into the breakfast parlor the next morning—and found Gerrard seated at the table, working his way through a plate of ham and sausages. He met her gaze, and murmured a greeting.
She returned it; wondering, she went to the sideboard.
The older ladies didn’t come down for breakfast; normally she was the only one there. Gerrard had been gone from her bed when she’d woken. Given the shifting landscape between them, she felt rather odd taking the chair opposite him at the otherwise empty table and nodding to Masters as he poured her tea. Almost a preview of how things might be.
Masters stepped back. Lowering his coffee cup, Gerrard caught her eye. “I received a message from Patience this morning. She, Vane and their brood are returning to Kent this afternoon. Given I’m not sleeping away the morning, I thought I’d go around and bid them farewell. I wondered if you were free to accompany me? You did promise Therese, and she won’t forget.”
Jacqueline’s expectation of a boring morning spent indoors evaporated. “Yes, thank you. I will come.” Aside from all else, it would give her a chance to reassess Patience’s view of her and Gerrard; his sister knew him better than anyone.
They left after breakfast, as soon as she’d changed her gown. The day was fine and sunny; they elected to walk the few blocks to Curzon Street.
Bradshaw opened the door to them. The atmosphere within the house was one step away from bedlam. Piles of boxes were already growing on the hall floor; footmen and maids were scurrying frantically.
“There you are!” From the gallery, Patience waved and came hurrying down the stairs. “What a blessing!” She embraced Gerrard, then Jacqueline, with equal fervor.
“We thought we’d come and bid the monsters adieu,” Gerrard said.
Patience put her hand over her heart. “If you can distract them for half an hour, I’ll be forever in your debt. They want to help, but they’re driving the staff demented.”
Smiling, Jacqueline turned to the stairs. “Are they in the nursery?”
“Yes—do go up. You know the way.” Patience turned away as her housekeeper bustled up.
Gerrard joined Jacqueline on the stairs and together they went up.
They spent nearly an hour with the children, Gerrard on the floor with the boys, drawing and talking of manly activities, Jacqueline with Therese in her lap, sitting in the window seat telling stories of princesses and unicorns, and playing with ribbons.
Retying Therese’s ribbons for the third time, Jacqueline watched Gerrard deal with the two boys. He was clearly first oars with them. And with Therese, but the little girl seemed determined to redirect her attention to Jacqueline, demanding acknowledgment in return, totally assured, as if convinced she had the right.
As if she saw Jacqueline as the female half of Gerrard.
Jacqueline would have dismissed the thought as reading too much into t
he actions of a small child, but she couldn’t. Therese’s certainty shone in her big blue eyes…and she hadn’t even seen Gerrard and Jacqueline in any social setting. Was it truly that obvious, even to babes?
Eventually, two nursemaids came to take the children down for luncheon. They made their good-byes, boisterous on the part of the boys, more dignified from Therese.
“And you’ll come with Uncle Gerrard when he visits us in the country.”
Crouching down, Jacqueline smiled and tweaked Therese’s ribbons. “I’ll come if I can, but that might not be possible.”
Therese frowned. Gerrard came to say good-bye. Brightening, she waved her arms; he obliged, and swung her up.
Jacqueline rose. Therese wrapped her arms tight about Gerrard’s neck and whispered something into his ear. His eyes shifted to Jacqueline, then he looked back at Therese as she eased her hold and leaned back.
He smiled. “All right. But…” He tickled Therese and she squealed. “You’re a devil’s imp, I’m sure.”
Therese giggled and squirmed. Gerrard set her down, and watched her hurry to join her waiting nursemaid. In the doorway, Therese blew kisses to both Jacqueline and him, then ran off; her laughter echoed back along the corridor, then faded.
Gerrard took Jacqueline’s arm. She glanced at his face; he was still smiling. “What did she ask?”
He met her eyes, then shrugged. “Just about when I’ll next come down to visit them.”
She wanted to press for details, but wasn’t quite game; she didn’t want to precipitate a decision she hadn’t yet made.
Downstairs, they found Patience and bade her farewell; clearly distracted, she hugged them both. “We’ll see you at the summer celebration.”
The comment was general; Jacqueline made no response. She’d heard of the summer gathering of the Cynster clan held at the ducal estate.
They found Vane in his study, up to his ears in investment reports. He smiled, rose and shook their hands; his gaze rested on her warmly, as if he, too, saw her as someone rather closer than a friend.
Indeed, as Gerrard followed her from the study, leaving Vane to his work, she realized no one would describe her as Gerrard’s “friend.” That label had never fitted, but just what she was…
What she might be, what she would consent to be, she hadn’t yet decided.
They strolled back to the front hall. Gerrard paused amid the chaos. He glanced around, then took her hand. “Come—I want to show you something.”
He led her into the dining room, yet to be stripped of its plate and cocooned under Holland covers. Guiding her around the table, he halted before the hearth, looking up at the picture hanging over the mantelpiece.
It had already commanded her eyes, her attention. It was a portrait of Patience, seated, with her three elder children gathered about her. Who had painted it was not in doubt.
Jacqueline stared, her gaze drawn again and again to Patience’s face as she gazed down at her children. The emotion that glowed there was remarkable; it tugged at the heart, soothed the soul—reassured that the world was right, would be right, as long as such encompassing, all-powerful feeling existed within it.
“Of all the portraits I’ve done with children, this meant the most to me.” Beside her, his gaze on the portrait, Gerrard spoke quietly. “Patience was my surrogate mother for years—for me, painting this was the final step in growing up. As if in recognizing and bringing to the canvas what she feels for her children, the infinite depth that isn’t duplicated in any other relationship, I let her go.” His lips quirked. “And possibly let her let go, too.”
She said nothing, but looked again at the evocative portrait.
He shifted. “I have to admit, in painting that, I learned a great deal about motherhood.”
After a moment, he wound her arm with his; they left the room, and with a good-bye to Bradshaw, quit the house.
They walked briskly back. Gerrard glanced at her as they turned into Brook Street. “I’m going to the studio—I’ll want you to pose this afternoon, and then through the evening. You’ll have to cry off any engagement.” He frowned, looking ahead, not waiting for any agreement. “I’ll need the next two evenings entire from you to complete it as it should be.”
She could hardly argue; she nodded and climbed the front steps beside him. “I’ll tell Millicent.” And then send cards to the ladies whose entertainments they’d agreed to attend.
He paused before the door, met her eyes. All lightness had flown from his. After a moment, he murmured, “It won’t be long now.”
She nodded; Masters opened the door and they went in. The portrait would soon be finished—and then, between them, they’d have to face whatever was destined to be.
He was a font of ambiguous comments, utterances she could interpret in at least two ways, if not three.
That afternoon, Jacqueline posed beside the column in the studio, while Gerrard, with complete and utter absorption, painted her onto his canvas.
He’d let her peek before she’d taken up her position; there wasn’t that much more to do, but these final stages would be crucial to the overall quality and impact of the work.
She’d learned to be silent, to let her mind wander while keeping absolutely still, keeping her hand raised, her head tilted just so. Her expression didn’t matter; her face and features would be the last things he would paint, working from the multitude of sketches he’d already done. So she didn’t have to guard her thoughts. At present, his interest was fixed on her raised hand.
His focus had always intrigued her; it reached deeper, signified far more than mere concentration. Devotion and dedication were the concepts that sprang to mind, along with ruthless, relentless determination. He brought all three to the task, driven, quite clearly compelled.
From the corner of her eye, she glanced at him, briefly let her gaze drink in the sight of him standing poised behind his easel in shirt-sleeves, breeches and boots, wielding his brushes with consummate skill.
In arranging to have him paint her portrait, she hadn’t been searching for a champion, but she’d got one. He’d driven up and claimed the position, just like a knight of old, sworn to defend her honor, her reputation, against the world. That was the commitment he brought to her portrait; she no longer questioned that for him—as with the portrait of Patience and her children—this work meant more. He was painting it for her, in defense of her, yet the doing of it gave something to him, too.
The ability to vanquish those who’d dared threaten her.
Her gaze rested on him; now her eyes had been opened, she could see so much more. A chivalrous protectiveness he might feel for any lady, but the possessiveness that in her case went hand in hand with a protectiveness that was rigid, absolute, and knew no bounds, made it impossible to imagine that, success achieved and her dragons vanquished, he would simply shake her hand and drive away.
She hadn’t looked for marriage, not to him or any other, yet it seemed he was intent on bringing that to her, too.
As her successful champion, he could request a reward. Shifting her gaze, she wondered when he would ask. Of what he would ask, she no longer had any doubt.
How she would answer, she still didn’t know.
It all hinged on whether she loved him.
She felt like a Shakespearean heroine, gazing at the moon, asking: What is love?
Two nights had passed since the morning they’d farewelled Patience, since Gerrard had informed her he would be painting for longer hours. She’d posed through the afternoon and into the late evening of both days. He’d retired with her to the bed in the alcove, but later had returned to his canvas.
This morning, when at dawn he’d walked her back to her room, he’d told her he wouldn’t need her again. He was painting her face, her features; not only didn’t he need her for that, but he’d explained he didn’t want the distraction of setting eyes on her during the process.
She’d borne her banishment with good grace, but she’d grown accustomed t
o being awake at dawn. To being with him through the dark watches of the night.
Restless, she’d come to her window, to stare at the waning moon and ask the ancient question. Much good had it done her.
The lamps were still burning in the attics; she could see the reflection in the glasshouse panes. He was still working…Lips setting, she straightened. If he was, he needed to rest. He’d been painting almost around the clock for more than two days.
The night was hot and sultry; a thunderstorm grumbled in the distance as she slipped through the shadows of the upper corridor and eased open the door to the hidden stair. The boards didn’t creak as she quietly climbed; at the top, she opened the door to the studio, and peered in.
He wasn’t in front of the canvas. She looked around, then slipped in and closed the door. He wasn’t in the main section—but the portrait was.
It was complete, finished; she didn’t need him to tell her so.
It was remarkable, powerful. It drew her. She stood before it and stared, transfixed. The woman in the painting was her, yet a her with so much on show, so much plainly at stake, emotion welled and blocked her throat.
Amazing. She would never have believed he’d seen all that, much less that he could with mere paints depict it—her inner fears, the sense of imprisonment that had dogged her for the past year, her desperation to escape it, to flee. To leave it all behind, knowing, simultaneously, that she couldn’t.
He hadn’t painted simple innocence, although innocence was plainly there, but the emotions that gave innocence its credibility. Loss, confusion, and a sense of betrayal that had sunk to the soul.
She shivered; despite the heat, she wrapped her arms about her and clutched her wrapper close.
The setting was potent, frightening. Even safe in London in the attics of his house, she could taste the danger, the suffocating tension. Raw menace seeped from the dark leaves of the garden, trying to engulf her and draw her back, into the shadows. The moonlight was faint, a mere suggestion of illumination, not strong enough to light the path ahead.
The Truth About Love Page 37