about the gardens as they’d walked. He was a landscape artist; the gardens would be of consuming interest, yet she had a suspicion he’d asked more because she’d expected him to, more to put her at ease, to soothe her leaping nerves…he couldn’t know how he affected her, could he?
Facing forward, she pushed the disturbing notion out of her conscious mind. “The Garden of Athena, goddess of wisdom, is laid out in formal style, using primarily olive trees, sacred to the goddess.” Her knowledge of the gardens was extensive; from childhood, she’d quizzed the gardeners, some of whom were older than her father and remembered the changes the decades had wrought.
They took the fork she indicated and strolled on into the fanciful landscape of the Garden of Artemis, home to a host of topiary animals, lions and tigers among them, the goddess’s especial followers.
The sun shone strongly; the temperature was significantly higher than it had been when they’d set out. She slowed her pace; Millicent had to be tiring. She and her aunt had only recently become close, but she’d quickly grown fond of Millicent.
Ahead, the main steps up to the terrace rose in a curving flight of white marble with the same waist-high balustrade that ran the length of the terrace itself. The path they were following led to the bottom of the steps, then curved away into the Garden of Night.
She’d thought she was up to it, to taking them at least a little way into that most famous area of the gardens, but the closer they got to the heavy, large-leaved, dark green foliage that enclosed it, she felt instinctive resistance rise, until it was choking her.
It was broad daylight, she chided herself, yet her mind instantly conjured how dark, almost subterranean, the garden felt regardless of the hour, with its wide still pool into which the spring all but silently flowed, the closeness of the humidity the spectacularly rampant growth held in, the muted quality of the light, so diffused and broken by the thick canopy that even at noon the garden resembled a cavern, and above all else, the claustrophobic stillness and the heavy, suffocating medley of perfumes.
Dragging in a breath past the vise that, with each step, tightened about her lungs, she halted at the foot of the stairs. “I have several matters I must attend to before luncheon, which will be served shortly, so perhaps, Aunt”- she glanced at Millicent-“we should go inside?”
Approaching on Barnaby’s arm, Millicent nodded. “I think so.” The long walk had clearly wearied her. She furled her parasol. “I must speak with Mrs. Carpenter before luncheon.”
Relieved, Jacqueline turned to Gerrard and Barnaby. “If you wish to go on, that path leads through the Garden of Night, and then into the Garden of Poseidon.” She managed a light smile. “As Papa has doubtless told you, you should feel free to explore the gardens at will.” Glancing at Barnaby, she considered reiterating her warning about venturing onto Cyclops, then remembered Gerrard’s words, and thought better of it.
Barnaby had been peering ahead; he flashed her a grin. Reaching for her hand, he bowed over it. “Thank you for a fascinating tour.” Straightening, he looked at the Garden of Night. “I’m sure we can manage on our own from here.”
She smiled and shifted her gaze to Gerrard, expecting to see a similar eagerness to explore in his face. Instead, he was watching her, studying her.
Her breath caught; her lungs seized.
Millicent, thank heavens, spoke to him, deflecting his attention. By the time his too acute gaze returned to her, she’d recovered and was ready. She inclined her head, her lips lightly curved. “I hope you feel comfortable within the gardens now, sir, enough to go about on your own.”
“Indeed.” His brown eyes held hers. “If you’re sure we can’t tempt you to accompany us, and leave those ‘several matters’ until later?”
Her smile felt tight. “Quite sure. Unfortunately…” She broke off before completing the lie. Millicent moved past her, starting up the steps. She reminded herself she owed him no explanation. Drawing a determined breath, she met his eyes. “I’ll see you at luncheon, sir. Treadle will ring the bell on the terrace, so you’ll be sure to hear it.”
His disturbingly intent gaze lingered on her face, but then he bowed. “Until then, Miss Tregonning.”
Inclining her head, she turned and followed Millicent up the steps. Her senses pricked, nervously flickering. Gaining the terrace, she paused, then looked back.
Gerrard hadn’t moved. He’d remained where she’d left him, watching her…as if he knew how tight her lungs were, how tense her nerves…how her heart was thudding.
His eyes met hers. For an instant, all about them stilled…
She turned and followed Millicent across the terrace and into the house.
4
After luncheon, another quiet meal, Gerrard retreated to his studio while Barnaby hied out to explore Cyclops and the gardens in general.
Earlier, they’d explored the Garden of Night-a curious, dramatic and vaguely disturbing place. The atmosphere had been all Gerrard’s dream had promised, not just darkly Gothic but with a sinister undertone carried in the oppressive stillness. The more cheery Garden of Poseidon had lightened their mood before Treadle’s gong had summoned them back to the house.
Closing the nursery-cum-studio door, Gerrard got to work. His purpose was defined-to set out all he needed, to unpack the boxes the footmen had left stacked against the walls and lay out paints, pads, pencils and the various paraphernalia with which he habitually surrounded himself-yet while his hands were busy, his mind remained engrossed.
Thinking of Jacqueline Tregonning.
Reliving, reviewing, all the moments he’d thus far shared with her, and trying to make sense of them, trying to wring every last iota of meaning from each, to get some firm concept-some concept he could accept as firm enough-of what she was, of what, with her, he was dealing with.
His initial view of her had been that she had character. That had proved true, yet her character was complex, far more so than he’d expected. He’d labeled her an enigma, and she still was to him.
He hadn’t, yet, made any real headway in understanding her. His observations to date had yielded not answers but yet more questions.
And that surprised him.
He would, he felt, have coped with that surprise, with the challenge she posed, well enough, if it hadn’t been for the rest of it-the aspects of their interaction he hadn’t foreseen, and wasn’t sure how to deal with.
Despite his experience, this was one situation he’d never before had to face. Not even when his subjects had been ravishing beauties, the twins for example, had he found himself wondering what their lips would taste like.
He kept telling himself that the sexual attraction he felt would fade, would merge into his customary, curious- yet-detached attitude as he learned more of Jacqueline. Instead, thus far at least, the more he learned, the closer he drew to her, the more powerfully the attraction flared.
Throwing the heavy locks on a case, he laid it open on the floor, then hunkered down to examine the pencils and charcoals neatly arrayed within. He tried to focus on his art, on the practical acts necessary to bring it to life, tried to channel his edginess into that, and didn’t succeed.
Selecting two pencils, he closed the case. Straightening, he crossed to where the table he’d requested sat at right angles to one end of the wide windows. Sketch pads lay stacked, the lightly textured paper he favored for first drawings spread ready, virginal white, waiting for his impressions, his first attempts at capturing them.
Such a sight always brought a surge of excitement, of eagerness to plunge into a new work; he felt the expected lift, the sharpening of his senses, yet there was something else, something more compelling, hovering in his mind, distracting him.
Laying down the pencils, he breathed in and closed his eyes-and vividly recalled how her eyes, moss, amber, gold and brown, had appeared in that fraught instant on the shore.
He focused on that moment, one that kept replaying in his brain; he remembered what he’d felt, how the feelings had flowed.
