Together with Mitchel and Barnaby, Gerrard strolled back to the drawing room.
They crossed the threshold to the gentle strains of a sonata. Gerrard looked at the pianoforte set in one corner, but it was Millicent at the keys. Jacqueline was seated at one end of the central chaise, a lamp on the table beside her, the soft light sheening on her tumbling curls as, head bent, she plied her needle over a piece of embroidery.
He headed her way, eager to learn of her interests, her pastimes-of her.
She looked up, smiled politely, then made to gather up the embroidery; a basket sat by her feet.
“No-I’d like to look.” He smiled when, surprised, she blinked up at him. He summoned his charm. “If I may?”
She stared at him for a moment, then made a small gesture. “If you wish.” Her tone stated she didn’t understand why he would.
Sitting beside her, he cast an inevitably critical eye over the fine linen she spread on her lap so he could see. His gaze raced over it, then slowed. It was his turn to blink. He leaned closer, looked harder.
He’d expected the usual embroidery ladies wasted their time with, some conventional scene done in conventional style. That wasn’t what she was creating.
And creating it was.
His painter’s eyes drank in the lines, the balance of shapes and colors, the use of varying textures to give the illusion of depth. “This isn’t from a pattern.”
No question. After a moment, she said, “I make it up as I do it. I have a picture in my head.”
He was barely conscious of nodding; he hadn’t expected her to have any artistic streak, but this…He pointed to a patch above the center. “You’ll need a visually strong element there-it’s the focal point.”
The look she cast him was faintly irritated. “I know.” She gathered the linen, tucking the strands of silk she was working with into the folds. “There’s a sundial there.”
He could see it; that would work. He glanced at her as she bent to tuck the embroidery into the basket. “Do you paint or draw?”
She hesitated, then answered, “I draw a little, but mostly in preparation.” She looked back, met his eyes. “I do watercolors.”
Not perhaps the easiest of confessions to make to the country’s foremost landscape artist; his landscapes were watercolors. “You must show me your works sometime.”
Her eyes, currently more green than gold, snapped. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“I mean it.” His tone, clipped and definite, faintly impatient, emphasized that fact. “I want to-will need to-see them.”
She held his gaze, faintly puzzled; beyond that, he couldn’t read her thoughts. Then she said, “Speaking of painting, are the amenities provided adequate to your needs? If there’s anything more you require, please ask.”
A clear change of subject, but she’d given him precisely the opening he wanted.
“The amenities are satisfactory, however, there are a number of aspects we need to discuss.” He glanced at the pianoforte; Barnaby was turning music for Millicent and chatting with Mitchel. Before dinner, he’d asked Barnaby to keep Millicent and any others occupied to clear his way with Jacqueline. Barnaby had grinned widely, but wisely made no comment beyond assuring him he’d be delighted to oblige.
He returned his gaze to Jacqueline’s face. “I find music rather distracting. Perhaps we could walk on the terrace, and I’ll explain what will be necessary to create the portrait your father wants.”
She hesitated, her gaze on his face yet not, he would swear, seeing him, then she nodded. “That would be helpful.”
Rising, he offered his hand. Again she hesitated, yet this time he knew why; he was aware of how she steeled herself before placing her fingers in his. He gripped, and felt a surge of purely male satisfaction at the faint tremor he detected before she suppressed it. He drew her up, then released her; suavely waving her to the French doors open to the terrace, he reminded himself it formed no part of his plan to discompose her, much less make her wary of being in his company.
Side by side they strolled out, into the soft night. Onto the terrace he’d seen from his balcony. Below his room, the terrace was relatively narrow; here it spread wide, an area in which guests from the drawing room and the ballroom next door could gather and admire the view.
Tonight the view was shrouded in shadows, the moon a mere sliver shedding just enough light to limn all it touched in silver, transforming the gardens into a fantastical landscape, yet his attention remained on the creation who walked beside him, not on those spread before him.
She’d walked to the right, away from the area he was increasingly certain contained the Garden of Night. It was said to be best viewed in the evening, yet he felt no urgency over exploring it just yet; he’d see it in daylight first, tomorrow maybe.
He glanced at Jacqueline. Her gown of pale green silk faded to beaten silver in the faint light; her skin appeared translucent; only the rich color of her hair retained its warmth. Her expression was calm, composed, yet he sensed she was thinking rapidly.
It seemed wise to speak before she could distract him. “I mentioned to your father the necessary demands that sitting for a portrait places on the subject-he wasn’t sure you were aware of the details.”
Strolling slowly beside him, Jacqueline told herself to concentrate on his words, and ignore the voice that uttered them. “What are those demands-in detail?”
Lifting her head, she met his eyes, dark in the night, and marveled again that she was so quiveringly aware of him in a way she’d never been of any other before. She battled to quell a shiver, difficult to excuse given the warmth of the gentle, perfumed breeze wafting about them.
After a moment, he replied, “Initially, I’ll demand a great deal of, if not most of, your time, although largely in social settings, much the usual round of your life. I need to gain a strong sense of who you are, how you feel about many subjects.” He glanced out at the gardens. “How you react to things, your likes, dislikes, and the reasons behind them. The subjects you’re happy to talk of, and those you’d rather avoid.”
They walked on for a few paces, then he looked at her. “Basically, I need to get to know you.”
She studied his face. The light was good enough for her to make out his expression, but she couldn’t read his eyes. His expression he controlled; his eyes were more revealing. What he was suggesting was frankly unnerving. “I thought portraitists paint”-she gestured-“at best what they see.”
His lips quirked in wry acknowledgment of the qualification. “Most do. I don’t. I paint more.”
“How so?”
He didn’t immediately answer; as they walked on, she sensed he was considering the question for the first time. Eventually, he said, “I think it’s because every person I’ve painted to date is someone I’ve known for years, someone I’m connected to, whose background and family I know.” He met her gaze. “What I paint goes far deeper than a face and an outward expression. Just as with landscapes I paint not just the detail but the atmosphere as well, so, too, with people. It’s the intangibles that are most powerful.”
She nodded and looked ahead. “I’ve heard of your reputation, but I’ve never seen any of your works.”
“All are in private hands.”
She glanced at him. “You don’t show them?”
“Not the portraits. They were created as gifts.” He lightly shrugged. “And to see if I could.”
“Do you mean to say my portrait will be the first for which you’ve received a commission?”
Her tone was even, the question direct if somewhat forward; nevertheless, it struck a nerve. Gerrard halted, and waited until she did the same and faced him. “Miss Tregonning, why do I get the impression you’re assessing my abilities as a portraitist?”
She blinked at him, then equally succinctly replied, “Probably because I am.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Surely you didn’t expect me to simply agree to be painted by”-she gestured-“someone whose talents are unknown to me?”
“Just any old artist” was what she’d meant to say. He narrowed his eyes; she didn’t react, her expression remained open. “Your father gave me to understand that you’d agreed to allow me to paint your portrait.”
She frowned slightly. Her gaze remained steady on his face. “I agreed to sit for a portrait. Not to sit for any particular painter. Papa chose you-I’ve yet to decide whether you meet my requirements.”
Again he had cause to thank Vane and Gabriel Cynster for teaching him the knack of impassivity in the face of
