The Truth about Love

Holding the amber gown before him, he shot her a sidelong glance; arrested, his gaze lingered. “Indeed.” He drank in the way the lamplight flowed over her skin, gilding it with the softest of gold washes. He drew in a shallow breath. “I might very well paint you in candlelight. Here-hold this.” Thrusting the amber gown into her hands, he dived back amid the rest.

“This”-he pulled out a bronze silk sheath and tossed it at her-“and this.” He added a gown in figured green satin to the pile growing in her arms. “Although”-he glanced back at the last gown-“that might be too dark. We’ll see.”

Returning to the wardrobe, he flipped through the contents, making more selections. “I have a certain look in mind-the color and style of your gown will be critical.”

Jacqueline watched him, bemused and suspicious. She accepted the dresses he piled in her arms, and wondered. At last, he stepped back, reached for the wardrobe doors-and shot her a swift glance that was too saber-sharp, too assessing, to be casual.

He met her gaze; she raised a brow.

His lips twisted, rather grimly. He closed the wardrobe doors and reached for her hand. “Come here.”

He towed her, her arms full with seven gowns, over to the hearth. Two lamps stood on either end of the mantelpiece, spilling strong, steady light out over the room.

“Here.” Drawing her about, he positioned her before the mantel, a foot or so from the lamp on one end. He stood back, looked, then shifted her a fraction closer to the lamp. He seemed to be judging the play of light on her hair.

“That’s it. Now turn your face up a little, toward the lamp.” His fingers touched, lingered beneath her chin. “Just so.” He cleared his throat. “Now.” Scooping the gowns out of her arms, he selected one in spring green, and flung the rest over her armchair.

Ignoring the thought of her maid’s protests, Jacqueline watched as he shook the spring-green gown out, looking at it, then at her; his gaze drifted down her body…she recalled how fine her nightgown and robe were, recalled she was standing before the fire.

Abruptly, he held up the gown, as if to preserve her modesty-although he’d already looked and, she would wager, his keen artist’s eyes had seen all there was to see. He handed her the gown. “Hold this against you and let me see.”

She did as he asked, mystified, wondering why she was humoring him, yet she stood before the fire, bathed in light, and allowed him to hand her gown after gown. Some he dismissed, others he returned to; the selection he’d chosen covered a range of colors from deepest forest green-a color, once she’d held it up, he rejected out of hand- to old gold, another shade that on examination didn’t meet with his approval.

“Somewhere in between,” he muttered, returning to a gown of eau de nil silk.

That he was in truth evaluating her gowns was plain enough, but the swift searching glances he every now and then directed her way assured her that wasn’t his sole aim. Indeed, as he returned to assessing gowns in various shades of bronze, she was increasingly sure his interest in her gowns and on the play of candlelight on her hair was not so much an aim as his excuse.

Finally, he stood back. Hands on hips, he studied her, head tilted, a critical expression in his eyes, a slight frown on his face. “That’s the closest you have to the right color-an intense bronze but with more gold than that is what we need. And, of course, the drape is all wrong, but at least now I know what’s necessary.”

“Indeed.” She waited until his gaze rose to her eyes, then asked, “So why are you really here?”

He held her gaze, then opened his mouth.

“And don’t tell me it was to study my gowns.”

He shut his lips, pressed them tight. His eyes held hers as he debated, then his lips eased and he exhaled through his teeth, not quite a sigh, not quite an exhalation of frustration. “I was worried.”

A muttered confession. “About what?”

“About you.”

He didn’t sound pleased about it. When she looked her befuddlement, he reluctantly elaborated, “About what you might be thinking and feeling.” His hand rose, fingers spearing into his hair, but then he stopped and lowered his arm. “I was worried about how the revelations of the day had affected you.” He glanced away, his gaze falling on the pile of her discarded gowns. “But I did want to evaluate your gowns. I want to complete the portrait as soon as possible.”

A vise of cold iron closed about her chest. “Yes, of course.” Turning away, she moved to lay the bronze silk gown she’d been holding over the chair. “I expect you’ll want to leave as soon as possible.”

Guarding her expression, smoothing her features to rigid impassivity, she turned to face him-and found him, hands on hips, frowning, quite definitely, at her.

“No-I don’t want to leave as soon as possible. I want to complete the portrait and free you”-abruptly he gestured-“from all this-the suspicion and the well-meaning prison all around have created for you.”

The expression glowing darkly in his eyes made her heart leap, then thud. Oh seemed redundant. She moistened her lips-watched his eyes trace the movement of her tongue. “I thought”-she sucked in a breath and steadied her voice-“that perhaps, after this last, you might wish to leave-that you might wish you’d never agreed to paint my portrait.”

“No.” What rang in his tone brooked no argument. He held her gaze steadily. “I want you free of this intolerable situation…” His hesitation was palpable, but then he continued, his words precise and clear, “Free so we-you and I-can pursue what’s grown-growing-between us.”

Gerrard saw the “Oh” form in her mind, more tellingly saw her features ease as the control she’d imposed on them faded. He was searingly aware of an almost overpowering urge to close the distance between them and take her in his arms, to comfort her physically and emotionally, in every way open to him.

Not a good idea.

Dragging in a breath that was too tight for his liking, he forced himself to turn to the fireplace. “So-how do you feel about Thomas’s death?”

Not an easy question to make sound idle, not least because it wasn’t; he definitely wanted to know. He didn’t look at her, but studied the lamp on the mantelpiece. He felt her gaze on him, felt her consider-sensed the change in the atmosphere when she decided to tell him.

She rounded the chair; he turned his head and watched as she smoothed the gown she’d laid over it, then, drawing her robe closed, folding her arms, she paced across the room in a brooding, feminine way. Halting before the windows, she lifted her head and stared out at the dark. “It’s odd, but the point that upsets me most is that I can’t remember his face.”

He leaned back, setting his shoulders against the mantelpiece. “You haven’t seen it for over two years.”

“I know. But that’s a real measure of the fact that he’s gone. That he’s been gone, dead, for a long time, and I can’t change that.”

He said nothing, just waited.

After a while, she drew in a deep breath. “He was a nice…boy, really.” She glanced across the room at him. “He was kind, and we laughed, and I liked him, but…whatever might have been, might have come to be between Thomas and me-that I’ll never know.”

Abruptly, she swung from the windows and came pacing back, her brows knitted, her gaze on the floor. Halting a yard from him, she looked up and met his eyes. “You asked how I feel. I feel angry.”

She pushed back the hair that had swung forward, shielding one side of her face. “I’m not sure why I feel so strongly, and not just on Thomas’s behalf. The killer took something he wasn’t entitled to take-Thomas’s life, yes, but that wasn’t all. He struck because we-Thomas and I-would have had a marriage and a family, and that the killer didn’t want us to have. That’s why he killed-he wanted to deny us that.”

Her breasts swelled as she dragged in a huge breath. “He had no right.” Her voice shook with a medley of emotions. “He killed Thomas and stymied me-locked me into a cage of his making. And then he killed my mother.” Her face clouded. “Why?”

When she refocused on him, Gerrard pushed away from the mantelpiece. “With your mother, it can’t have been jealousy, or any variation of that. Perhaps she learned something the killer didn’t want known, either something about Thomas’s death, or something entirely different.”