The Truth About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Of course. “Perhaps. But—”

  His smile deepened; he bent his head and kissed her.

  She tried to hold aloof, apart, tried desperately to simply exist and not be swayed…and failed. A shuddering sigh escaped her, and she sank into his arms, parted her lips and welcomed him in.

  And felt, again, the power rise between them, felt it swell and whirl and cocoon them. Felt it bind them, hold them, fuse them until they were not the same separate beings they once had been.

  When he lifted his head, she was defeated—not by him, but by that power. He, too, seemed caught. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, gravelly. “I thank you for the thought, sweetheart.” He brushed a kiss to her knuckles, then met her eyes. “But that’s not how it’s going to be.”

  For a long moment, she felt as if she was drowning in his eyes, then he said, “Timms said something, not long ago, when she was twitting me about love and my attitude to it. I can’t remember her words, but I remember her meaning: when it comes to love, what will be will be—it’s not up to us to decree.”

  Those words were patently, self-evidently true. There was no point arguing. However…“I won’t agree to marry you.”

  He held her gaze, then nodded. “Very well. If you insist, we won’t make the announcement yet.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. He met her look blankly. Unyieldingly. But she could be unyielding, too; if she gave in, even to a secret betrothal, he would use it to, as he would see it, protect her. “No, I am not agreeing. Not yet. Once we’ve exposed our madman, you can ask me again.” A memory stirred. “Knights who champion ladies can’t claim their reward until after the dragon is slain.”

  His eyes narrowed; the look in them held more than a touch of hard arrogance, of his customary ruthlessness. His lips thinned, but then he nodded. “Very well.” He drew a deep breath, his chest swelling against her breasts. “We’ll take the portrait back to Hellebore Hall and, hand in hand, side by side, wait for the murderer to appear.”

  But first they had a family dinner to attend, all the while concealing the complex web of emotions that, it seemed, hour by hour steadily grew, wove and twined more tightly, linking them ever more incontrovertibly.

  He, of course, encouraged it, and she was helpless to prevent it.

  They’d arranged to show the portrait in the drawing room; it stood in pride of place before the empty hearth. Before any others arrived, Minnie, Timms and Millicent stood in a semicircle in front of it—and simply stared.

  Then Minnie turned to Jacqueline, and took her hand. “My dear, I confess I had no idea matters were quite so bad.” She glanced back at the portrait. “But I can see they are.” She looked up at Gerrard. “Dear boy, this is the best you’ve ever done—and for more than one reason.”

  Timms gruffly concurred. “It conveys so much—there’s so much of you both in it—hopefully it’ll accomplish all you need.”

  The doorbell pealed; guests started to arrive. Without exception, all were amazed and somewhat stunned by the portrait. Jacqueline’s head spun with all the comments, but she’d met everyone before, knew them, felt comfortable in their company, felt at home within their circle.

  Despite all the portrait so eloquently revealed, although she did indeed feel her emotions exposed, she didn’t feel vulnerable. In part it was a matter of trust—of trusting all those around her—but it was also a reflection of the strength she drew from the light in Gerrard’s eyes when they rested on her, from the touch of his fingers lightly trailing her arm as he passed by.

  Nothing occurred to mar the evening. The conversation about the dinner table was all about the portrait, of what others saw in it, of their hopes for it. Of the situation that awaited her, Gerrard, Millicent and Barnaby at the Hall, and how they planned to resolve it.

  Warm wishes flowed all around them, but in the glances the men shared, Jacqueline read a seriousness, and a readiness to support in whatever manner was required, that was almost medieval. A rallying to the clarion call, a warriorlike response from elegant gentlemen who were clearly only one small step removed from their sword-wielding ancestors.

  It was obvious that Gerrard was cut from the same cloth.

  None of the men dallied about the table; all rose and followed the ladies back to the drawing room, back to the portrait. Powerful and evocative, it dominated the gathering.

  “It takes my breath away.” Amelia stood before it, examining it anew. “But not in a pleasant way.”

  Jacqueline had met the twins, Amanda, Countess of Dexter, and Amelia, Viscountess Calverton, at a number of functions. They were a few years older than she, but so full of life she’d been immediately drawn to them. Their husbands, both tall, handsome men, cousins in fact, stood nearby; they’d been teased over the dinner table about their rivalry over who would fill their nursery first—both twins had given birth to firstborn sons within a month of each other, then, later, to daughters, again within the space of a month.

  “It gives me the shivers.” Standing beside Amelia, Amanda realistically demonstrated. She turned to Jacqueline. “I hope that whatever that represents”—she pointed to the louring, threatening Garden of Night—“is defeated and behind you.”

  Jacqueline looked at the painting. “Not yet.” She met the twins’ eyes. “We hope it soon will be.”

  “Humph!” Amanda swung to Gerrard. “All I can say is, if you can see all that well enough to paint it, you’d better be intending to take her hand and pull her out of there.”

  Gerrard’s lips curved in a relaxed and open smile. “Rest assured, I fully intend to do just that.” He shot a glance at Jacqueline. “And, indeed, lead her rather further.”

  Into a new life. His eyes stated that clearly; for a moment, Jacqueline was lost in the promise that glowed in his brown eyes.

  Amelia made a strangled sound, smothering some comment. Both Jacqueline and Gerrard looked to see the twins exchanging glances, then Amanda shook her head with mock severity at Amelia, and took her sister’s arm. “No—don’t say a word. Whatever word we do say will be taken amiss, so…let’s retire and leave these two to their own devices.”

  With smiles that could only be construed as regally smug, the twins swept off to join their husbands.

  “Grandes dames in the making,” Gerrard muttered.

  Another Cynster lady Jacqueline had grown close to was Flick—Felicity—Demon Cynster’s wife. Demon Harry was Vane’s younger brother, an ex-hellion if ever there was one. The resemblance between him and Vane was not strong physically, but Jacqueline saw it in myriad little things. Like the hard glint in Demon’s blue eyes when he paused beside Gerrard to discuss their return to Hellebore Hall.

  Flick tugged her hand, distracting her. “You must promise to come to Newmarket later in the year.” She held up a hand, imperious for all she was a slip of a thing. “With Gerrard or without him, regardless, I’ll expect to see you.”

  She could only smile, and agree. Dillon Caxton, Flick’s cousin and, as Jacqueline understood it, Demon’s protégé in many ways, joined them. He was startlingly handsome in Byronic fashion; his manners were assured, his address polished, but Jacqueline sensed he held himself back, behind an inner wall of reserve.

  Nevertheless, he was a close friend of Gerrard’s; after chatting easily with Flick and herself, Dillon turned to Gerrard and asked if he would introduce him to Barnaby. “Demon mentioned his hobby. There’s a little matter at Newmarket that I think might interest him.”

  Gerrard raised his brows, but readily agreed.

  He left her with Flick, but returned within minutes, much to Flick’s amusement.

  The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant whirl. The last guests to depart were Horatia and her husband, George.

  “Take care, dear.” Horatia touched cheeks. “And we’ll see you later in the month.”

  Without waiting for a response, Horatia turned to Gerrard. “Whatever you need to do in Cornwall, don’t take too long about it. We’ll expect to hear the end o
f this story when we see you both at Somersham.”

  Gerrard innocently swore he wouldn’t drag his heels.

  Jacqueline narrowed her eyes at him; another of his ambiguous comments, or so she suspected.

  When, later, he joined her in her bed, when, later, she was lying pleasured witless and at peace in his arms, she realized she’d started seeing her—their—future from his family’s perspective. And coveting what she saw.

  Yet…

  Gerrard shifted, then pressed a kiss to her temple. “What is it?”

  She hesitated; when the words came, she let them fall as they would—nothing but honesty between them. “I haven’t had a future for so long, I’m finding it hard, difficult, to believe in what might be.”

  “Us?”

  That simple little word encompassed so much.

  “Yes.”

  She wondered if he would reassure her with the obvious phrases. Instead, after some minutes, he murmured, “It’s as Timms said: what will be will be. All we can do is go forward, together, and see what lies along our path—what fate has in store for us.”

  If she’d had any doubt that he was following her thoughts accurately, they were banished when his voice hardened.

  “But first, together, we have to catch a murderer.”

  The next day they set out to do just that with single-minded focus. Gerrard seemed even more driven than over painting the portrait in the first place; his impatience infected her.

  The day flew with preparations. By evening, all was ready for their departure early the following morn. Barnaby, of course, was to join them. If it hadn’t been for the distance, Minnie and Timms would have come, too.

  “You’ll have to tell us everything when you return.” Minnie drew Jacqueline down, kissed her cheek, patted her hand, then released her.

  She and Millicent retired early.

  Later, Gerrard came to her room. To her bed. To her.

  There were no longer any shields, any doubts, any questions between them. Only the unvoiced threat of a murderer.

  That only made them more determined, more open and defiant in their ardor. Their bodies twined, their hearts soared, their senses steeped in the pleasure of the other, giving, taking, lavishing, receiving, until the world shattered, and the glory took them.

  And their souls flew, hand in hand, side by side.

  20

  We were thinking of a ball,” Millicent said. She drew a deep breath, then added, “Here.”

  “Here?” Lord Tregonning shot her a startled look, then returned to studying the portrait.

  Gerrard exchanged a glance with Jacqueline, then Barnaby. They hung back in a semicircle in the drawing room. They’d arrived that afternoon, and decided to hold this, the first display of the work, before dinner.

  Eventually, Lord Tregonning nodded. “Yes. You’re right. A ball held here will bring out the entire county.”

  Millicent let out the breath she’d been holding. “Precisely. And with this on show”—with an extravagant gesture she indicated the portrait—“they’ll be avid to see it. We won’t need to do anything more.”

  “Indeed.” Lord Tregonning turned to Gerrard, and held out his hand. “I had hoped, but I never imagined it could be this…impressive. So unquestionably the truth.”

  Mitchel Cunningham had joined them. He stood a little back, but he, too, was staring at the portrait. Recalling her earlier suspicion that Mitchel hadn’t believed in her innocence, Jacqueline moved to stand beside him; when he glanced her way, she nodded at the portrait. “What do you think?”

  He looked again at the canvas, then his expression grew grim. “Frankly, I owe you an apology.” He glanced at her. “I was never sure…but now.” He looked at the portrait, shook his head. “This slays all doubt.”

  Jacqueline smiled. She wouldn’t have called Mitchel a sensitive soul, yet the portrait had shaken him. “I’m hoping others will see that as clearly.”

  “I’m sure they will.” Mitchel continued to stare at the painting. “Indeed, this leaves them no choice.”

  Treadle appeared to announce dinner. Gerrard, who’d been speaking with her father and Millicent, motioned to Compton, standing unobtrusively by, to remove the portrait, then turned to look for her.

  Still smiling, she went to join him. Together, they headed for the dining room, discussing how best to manage the portrait’s public unveiling.

  Millicent was adamant it had to be kept hidden until the ball. “If we let it be seen before, rumors will abound. Some will judge it before they see it, and seek to sway others with their opinions, and so on. After all the effort put into its creation, we should ensure we use it to greatest advantage.”

  “Indeed.” Barnaby paused in eating his soup. “I have to say I’m still amazed by its power—it’ll drive home our point in dramatic fashion.”

  “Lady Tannahay is one we should invite to a private showing.” Gerrard set down his spoon. “Are there any others we need on our side?”

  Everyone agreed on the Entwhistles, but when Lord Tregonning suggested Sir Godfrey, Millicent was emphatic in excluding him. “Best we give him the shock of his life in a social setting. Privately, he’ll dither, and not be sure what to think.”

  Her tone was caustic; the rest of them exchanged glances, and let the matter of Sir Godfrey lie.

  “How soon?” his lordship asked. “One can hardly organize a ball in one day.”

  “Three days,” Millicent declared. “Three nights from now, we’ll throw open the doors and invite everyone to admire Jacqueline’s innocence, and think of what that means. If anything’s going to rattle our murderer, knowing everyone will be wondering who he is should do it.”

  Their plans filled the following hours; they retired at eleven. At half past the hour, Jacqueline slipped into Gerrard’s room, and into his arms.

  She was late leaving the next morning. Deeming it easier to explain her presence wandering the corridors in nightgown and robe if he wasn’t by her side, she insisted he let her return to her room by herself. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the way.

  Her caution proved wise; she met Barnaby within twenty feet of Gerrard’s door. She blushed, but Barnaby greeted her without a blink, explaining he was on his way for a walk in the gardens. Then she encountered two maids in the corridor; they blushed—for her, she presumed. Glancing in a wall mirror, she saw her eyes were slumbrous, her hair beyond disarranged, her lips subtly swollen. No point pretending how she’d spent her night. Crossing the gallery to the other wing, she saw Treadle in the hall below—and he saw her. That was what came of succumbing to reckless passion.

  Not that she regretted it.

  Reaching her room, she decided she didn’t care what anyone thought. If the murderer had taught her one thing, it was to grab love with both hands and enjoy it. Celebrate it when it was there, offered to her.

  What will be will be. Timms was very wise.

  Given her recent activities, she ought to have been exhausted. Instead, she felt energized—fired by impatience to identify her mother’s murderer. Thomas’s murderer. He who had held her life in thrall for too long.

  She rang for Holly. As she washed and dressed, she felt confidence well. Not since Thomas died had she felt so positive, so eager to face the day. She felt as if, after a long night, the sun was finally rising once more on her world—and she had Gerrard to thank for it.

  Her champion. She grinned, gave her curls a last tweak, then headed for the breakfast parlor.

  Gerrard was already seated, along with Mitchel. Barnaby had arrived just ahead of her. He held the chair beside Gerrard for her, then sat alongside.

  The three of them chatted, tossing ideas back and forth about the ball. Considering all that had to be done. Mitchel was subdued. After cleaning his plate, he rose and bid them a good day. Barnaby asked if he would be around later, in case they needed assistance with arrangements for the ball.

  Mitchel shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ll be out for most of the day
—we’ve the rotation of crops to organize.”

  Nodding, Barnaby raised a hand in acknowledgment. Jacqueline smiled; Mitchel bowed and left.

  She, Gerrard and Barnaby fell to organizing with a vengeance, expecting Millicent to join them any minute.

  But Millicent didn’t appear.

  Jacqueline had just registered that her aunt was unusually late when Millicent’s maid peeked into the parlor. Jacqueline saw her. “Gemma?” The maid looked shaken. Jacqueline pushed back her chair. “Is anything wrong?”

  Gemma edged into the room, bobbing a curtsy. “It’s Miss Tregonning, miss. I don’t rightly know where she is.” Gemma’s eyes were wide. “Have you seen her?”

  A chill touched Jacqueline’s heart, then spread. She rose. Chairs scraped as Gerrard and Barnaby rose, too.

  It was Barnaby who spoke, calmly, evenly. “She must be somewhere. We’ll come and help look.”

  It didn’t take long to find her.

  Gemma and another maid had already searched upstairs. Gerrard asked Treadle to gather the footmen, then went with Jacqueline and Barnaby out onto the terrace, to look, and then to plan.

  They walked to the main steps leading down to the gardens, searching the various areas they could see. Jacqueline called; Gerrard filled his lungs and shouted, “Millicent!” but there was no answering wave, no reply.

  Beside Jacqueline, he halted at the top of the steps. Glancing down, he saw marks, dirt streaked across the pale marble.

  There’d been a light shower during the night. He looked down the steps, confirming that the well-worn patch of path at the bottom was damp. There were similar, small, telltale streaks all the way up the steps.

  “Barnaby.” He wasn’t sure if it was his artist’s imagination running amok, but…when Barnaby looked at him he pointed to the streaks.

  Barnaby crouched down, with his eyes followed the trail up the steps, then swiveled and looked along the terrace. The faint streaks led on, smudged here and there, but then ended—where the balustrade overlooked the Garden of Night.