The Truth about Love

Inwardly, she frowned.

“Hmm,” Eleanor purred. She stretched, raising her arms, pushing them up and out.

Glancing at her face, lifted to the sun, Jacqueline noted again the impression she’d gained the instant she’d seen Eleanor that morning. Eleanor’s expression was that of a contented cat stretching languorously in the sunshine.

Jacqueline had seen that expression before; Eleanor had been with her lover last night.

A spurt of some feeling rushed through her, not quite jealousy, for how could one be jealous over something one didn’t know-a yearning, perhaps, to…live a little. Eleanor was only a year older than she, yet for years Jacqueline had felt the gap between them widening. Before Thomas disappeared, they’d seemed much closer in experience, even though Eleanor had already taken a lover, but when Thomas walked away and never came back… from that point on, her life had stalled. Then her mother had died and life had been suspended altogether.

She’d been alive but stationary, going nowhere, learning nothing, not growing, or experiencing any of those things she’d always thought life and living were about.

She was tired of life passing her by.

It would continue to do so-leaving her to experience all that might be only at a vicarious distance-until Gerrard completed her portrait, and forced those around her to see the truth, and start the process of finding who had killed her mother and avenging her death; only once all that had occurred would she be free to move forward and live again.

Restlessness seized her. She stood and shook out her skirts, surprising Eleanor.

“I should get back to the house-I promised Gerrard I would make myself available to sit whenever he wishes, and he must have finished with his sketches by now.”

Contrary to her expectations, Gerrard wasn’t looking for her; he hadn’t sent or come searching for her. Treadle told her he was still in his studio.

She’d told Eleanor that Gerrard had insisted all sittings be private, just her and him, and that he’d made it clear he’d show none of his sketches or preliminary work to anyone; disappointed, but also intrigued, Eleanor had sauntered off, heading home through the gardens.

Jacqueline had returned to the house, only to discover her presence wasn’t required-not by anyone, least of all the ton’s latest artistic lion.

Disappointed-and irritated that she felt so-she found a novel and sat in the parlor. And tried to read.

When Treadle rang the gong for luncheon, she felt hugely relieved.

But Gerrard didn’t appear for the meal. Millicent, bless her, inquired, saving Jacqueline from having to do so; Treadle informed them that Mr. Debbington’s man had taken a tray up to the studio. Apparently his master, once engrossed in his work, had been known to miss mealtimes for days; part of Compton’s duties was to ensure he didn’t starve.

Jacqueline wasn’t sure whether to feel impressed or not.

When at the end of the meal, Millicent asked whether she would join her in the parlor, she shook her head. “I’m going to stroll on the terrace.”

She did, slowly, from one end to the other, trying not to think about anything-especially artists who kept all their intensity reserved for their art-and failed. Reaching the southern end of the terrace, she looked up-at the balcony she knew to be his, then lifted her gaze higher, to the wide attic windows of the old nursery.

Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned.

Muttering an unladylike curse, she swung on her heel and headed for the nearest door, and the nursery stairs beyond.

Gerrard stood by the nursery windows looking out at the gardens-and not seeing a single tree. In his hands, he held the best of the sketches he’d done yesterday. They were good-the promise they held was fabulous-but…

How to move forward? What should his next step be?

He’d spent all day weighing the possibilities. Should he, for instance, insist that Millicent be present through each and every sitting from now on?

His painterly instinct rebelled. Millicent would distract, not just him, but Jacqueline. It had to be just the two of them, alone-in intimate communion, albeit of the spiritual sort.

His problem lay in keeping the spiritual from too quickly transforming to the physical. That it would at some point he accepted, but she was an innocent; wisdom dictated he rein in his galloping impulses to a walk.

A tap sounded on the door. “Come.” He assumed it was a maid sent to fetch the tray Compton had brought up earlier.

The door opened; Jacqueline walked in. She saw him, met his gaze directly, then, closing the door behind her, looked around.

It was the first time she’d been there since the area had been converted for his use. Her gaze scanned the long trestle table and the various art supplies laid out along its length; she noted the stack of sketches at one end, then glanced at the sheets he held in his hand.

Then her attention deflected, drawn to the large easel and the sized, blank canvas that stood upon it, draped in cheesecloth to protect it from dust.

Walking slowly into the room, she considered the sight, then transferred her gaze to him. “I wondered if you wanted me to sit for you.” She halted two paces away, beside the window, and waited.

He looked into her eyes, studied her face, then lightly tossed the sketches he’d been examining-for hours-onto the table; folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the window frame, and looked at her. “No-you wondered what was wrong.”

She eyed him, not so much warily as considering what tack to take.

He sighed, and raked one hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration Vane had broken him of years ago. “I’ve only just met you, yet I feel I’ve known you forever.” And felt compelled to protect her, even from himself.

She hesitated, puzzled. “So…?”

“So I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Paint the portrait?”

He glanced up, saw consternation and fear fill her face. “Yes-but don’t look at me like that.”

Her eyes locked on his. “How else? I need you to paint that portrait. You know that- you know why.”

“Indeed, but I also know…” With two fingers, he gestured between them. “About this.”

The careful look returned to her eyes. “This what?”

Exasperated, he waved between them. “This, between us-don’t pretend you don’t understand, that you don’t feel it.”

For a long moment, she met his gaze steadily, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Then she drew a tight breath, and lifted her chin. “If this is about that kiss yesterday-”

“Don’t apologize!”

She jumped.

He pointed a finger at her nose. “That was my fault entirely.”

She huffed at him, a derisive sound. “I can’t imagine how me kissing you could be your fault. I wasn’t under any spell, no matter what you might think.”

He had to press his lips tight to stop them from curving. He straightened. “I didn’t mean to suggest I’d bespelled you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you thought I was so blinded by your charms I didn’t know what I was doing?”

“No, I didn’t think that, either. I do think I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”

“Why?” She searched his eyes. Her expression grew troubled, sad. She swallowed. “Because of-”

“No!” He suddenly realized what tack her mind had taken; he cut her off with a gesture. “Not because of the suspicion leveled at you-good God!” His hand was running through his hair again, thoroughly disarranging the neatly cut locks; he abruptly lowered it. “It’s nothing to do with that.” It was all to do