The Truth about Love

The painter in him said no. Emphatically no. The chance to paint the gardens aside, he would never, not ever, find such a challenging portrait, such a challenge to his talent and skills. To walk away without even attempting it smacked of sacrilege, at least to his painter’s soul.

The man he was said no, very definitely no, too. Jacqueline trusted him; that was implicit in her behavior, in her invitation to him to be her champion, her “witting judge.” She needed him; the situation she faced was perilous, potentially life-threatening. She and her father had been right; with his reputation backed by his ability, he was the only one able to open the doors of others’ minds and free her from the peculiar web ensnaring her.

He stood staring into the night for half an hour more. Would he continue, paint her portrait and free her, accept and embrace the likelihood of falling in love with her, and so risk losing the one thing he valued above all else, his ability to paint?

Behind him in the darkened room, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed, a single bell-like note. With a self- deprecating grimace, he pushed away from the door frame and turned into the room. He was racking his brains to no purpose; his decision had already been made, virtually by default; he was here, so was she-he wasn’t going anywhere. Certainly not now he’d held her in his arms and felt her lips beneath his.

The die was cast, his direction set.

Closing the balcony door, he reached up to tug the curtain across-a movement in the gardens caught his eye.

He looked, and saw the bright glint again.

A spyglass on a tripod had appeared in the room the day after he’d arrived, courtesy of Lord Tregonning; he’d already set it to scan the gardens. Striding to where it stood, he brought it to bear on the area in question, quickly focused.

On Eleanor Fritham.

She walked down the path out of the wood in the Garden of Diana. Her hair caught the moonlight-the glint he’d seen.

“It’s one o’clock. What the devil’s she doing-” He broke off as, scanning ahead of Eleanor, he discovered someone else. Someone in a coat, with broader shoulders, stepping off the highest viewing platform, heading deeper into the gardens further down the valley. Some man, but he was already in denser cover, walking into the dips and shadows of the gardens. Eleanor followed, her steps light.

In seconds, they’d disappeared, dropping lower into areas out of Gerrard’s sight.

He put up the spyglass; he had little doubt of the meaning of what he’d seen. The Hellebore Hall gardens at night, drenched in moonlight, were the perfect setting for a tryst.

Heaven knew, he’d felt the magic himself that afternoon.

Inwardly shrugging, he finished drawing his curtain, and left Eleanor and her beau to themselves.

So tell me-what’s he like?” Eleanor looked into Jacqueline’s face, her own alive with curiosity.

Smiling, Jacqueline walked on. That morning after breakfast, Eleanor had arrived to stroll the gardens and chat, as she usually did every few days. Jacqueline had expected to have to deny her and devote her time to Gerrard, but when she’d looked his way inquiringly, he’d sensed her question and instead excused himself, saying he wished to look over his sketches from yesterday.

He’d headed upstairs, presumably to his studio, leaving her free to stroll with Eleanor, and appease her friend’s rampant curiosity. “You’ve seen him.” She glanced at Eleanor. “You’ve spoken with him. What did you think of him?”

Eleanor mock groaned. “You know very well that’s not what I meant, but if you want to know, I was taken by surprise-appreciative surprise, I hasten to add. He’s not at all what I’d expected.”

Indeed. Jacqueline stepped down from the upper viewing stage onto the path that led through the Garden of Diana and farther to the Garden of Persephone, and the spot where she and Eleanor most often sat and talked.

“He’s not quiet, not reserved, but contained, isn’t he?” Eleanor, eyes on the path, ambled beside her. “He watches, observes, but doesn’t react, yet there’s all that energy-all that strength and intensity-you can sense it, almost see it, but you can’t touch it, and it doesn’t touch you.”

She shivered delicately; glancing at her, Jacqueline saw an eager, frankly knowing smile playing about her lips.

Eleanor caught her gaze; her eyes shone. “I’d wager Mama’s pearls he’s a fantastic lover.”

Jacqueline felt her brows rise. Eleanor had had lovers-she’d never known who, or if there’d been one or more; Eleanor had freely described her experiences, but only in terms of the feelings, the excitement, the physical sensations.

Through Eleanor, she’d learned more than she would otherwise know, yet only in the abstract.

Until now.

He kissed me, and I kissed him.

The words hovered on her tongue, but she drew them back. Held back from sharing that piece of information she knew Eleanor would relish. She could imagine her friend’s subsequent questions: how had it felt, what had he done, was he masterful, what had he tasted like?

Wonderful, he’d opened her eyes, yes, he was masterful, but gentle, too-and male-he’d tasted like the essence of male.

Those would be her answers, but she was reluctant to share them. The incident yesterday hadn’t been intended, not by either of them. He hadn’t played with her hair intending to seduce her into a kiss, of that she was sure. And she…she hadn’t known that after his lips had touched hers once, she’d ache to feel them again-that she’d want, and be so brazen as to invite, so much more.

Yet he had, and she had. She wasn’t yet sure how she felt, or should feel, about either of those happenings.

While Eleanor had always shared the intimate details of many aspects of her life, she had always been more reserved, more circumspect in what she let out. But she knew Eleanor well; she would have to say more.

“Sitting for him has been quite different from what I expected. He’s only done pencil sketches so far, and he’s very quick with those.”

“Do you have to strike a pose? Jordan said he met you and Gerrard in the gardens yesterday, but that he’d finished by then.”

“Not finished-we were in between gardens. We strolled through, trying various spots. It’s not so much striking a pose as just sitting as he tells me to sit, then talking.”

“Talking?” Eleanor drew back to look at her. “About what?”

Jacqueline smiled and kept walking. Their usual bench lay just ahead, set between two flower beds. “Anything, really. The topics aren’t all that important. I’m not even sure he listens to what I say, not to my words.”

Eleanor frowned. “Why talk, then?” Reaching the bench, they sat. “It’s so I’m thinking of something-because of course I have to think of whatever I’m talking about. He’s more interested in what shows in my face.”

“Ah.” Eleanor nodded. They sat quietly for a few moments, then she said, “Mr. Adair’s quite interesting, isn’t he?”

Suppressing a cynical smile, Jacqueline agreed.

“He’s the third son of an earl, did you know?”

There followed a largely one-sided discussion of Barnaby’s character and person, with occasional comparisons to Gerrard. Jacqueline interpreted those with the ease of familiarity; as she’d expected, Eleanor found Gerrard the more attractive, an attraction only heightened by his apparent unattainability, his disinterest, but she viewed Barnaby as the easier conquest.

“Gerrard probably reserves all his intensity for his painting-artists can, I believe, be terribly selfish in that way.”

When Eleanor’s pause made it clear she expected a response, Jacqueline murmured, “I suspect that’s so.”

But he hadn’t been selfish yesterday. He’d been…what? Kind? Generous, certainly. He must be accustomed to dallying with experienced lovers; with her untutored kisses, she was very far from that. Yet he hadn’t seemed disappointed. Or had he just been polite?