Despite her certainty, her unwavering sureness, she was too new to this. Too innocent to simply seize. Easing his fingers from the scorching slickness of her body, he gently drew her nightgown down. He continued to ignore his clamoring demons, and simply watched her.
When her lids finally fluttered, then rose, he leaned down and kissed her, openly possessive, then drew back. Even in the dim light, he could sense her confusion, could feel it in the way her fingers gripped his sleeve. He reached for them; taking her hand in his, he kissed her fingers, then leaned over her once more to brush her mouth. “Not yet.” He murmured the words against her swollen lips, then drew back and sat up.
Her fingers tensed on his. She frowned. “I…don’t understand.”
He let his lips twist wryly. Sliding his fingers from hers, he reached for his boots. “I know. But there’s no need to rush-and going any further now would be rushing.”
That was crystal clear in his mind. Regardless, he was a man, not a saint; he wasn’t strong enough to hold against any entreaties, especially from her, especially now. Boots on, he rose and reached for his coat. “Sleep well- I’ll see you in the morning.”
He forced himself to shrug on his coat, then turn and cross to the door. Opening it, without looking back he went out and quietly shut it behind him.
As he walked to his room, he owned to amazement. His nature wasn’t gentle or understanding; it certainly wasn’t self-sacrificing. In situations such as this, he was commanding and demanding. If a lady offered, he took.
She’d urged him to take her, had wanted him to, her invitation clear and repeated, yet for her, for the sake of what he and she needed to explore, for the sake of what was growing between them, he’d found it, if not easy, then at least possible, more,
Quite what that said of what was growing between them, he didn’t want to think.
Contrary to his expectations, he slept well enough-the sleep of the righteous, no doubt. By the time he walked into the breakfast parlor, he was focused on one thing-pressing ahead with the portrait.
Elements of it were clear in his mind, yet the exact composition still eluded him. Until he had that clear, he couldn’t start.
Immediately after breakfast ended, he commandeered Jacqueline-who seemed perfectly ready to be commandeered-simultaneously rejecting a suggestion from Barnaby that they ought to ride into St. Just and listen to what was being said about Thomas Entwhistle’s murder.
Unperturbed, Barnaby shrugged, and went without them.
Gerrard paced the terrace until Jacqueline joined him, then, her hand locked in his, he towed her into the gardens.
He took her first to the Garden of Apollo, to where the sundial stood in its small section of lawn. Setting down his sketch pad and pencils, he led her to the sundial, and posed her as he wished, standing beside it. He looked at her face; her eyes met his.
For one long instant, they studied each other-he searched for any hint of the maidenly fluster he’d expected but thus far had failed to detect. Last night, she’d bared her breasts to him, let him touch her intimately, writhed and gasped beneath him as he’d brought her to glory; he’d more than half-expected some degree of retreat.
Instead, her customary certainty shone from her eyes. Steady, unwavering, sure. They stood only a foot apart, yet a light smile flirted about her lips…as if she knew what he was looking for and was delighting in confounding him.
He humphed, then bent his head and swiftly kissed her. “Stay there.” Without meeting her eyes again, he turned and strode back to his sketch pad.
That exchange set the tone for their morning. They talked, but their words remained light, their meaning superficial, their true communication carried by looks, glances, fleeting touches. They were both not on edge, but aware-each hyperaware of the other, but also aware of other sensations, like the lilting breeze, the caress of the sun, the perfumes and colors and shifting shade as they moved about the gardens.
The luncheon gong rang and they returned to the house. Millicent joined them; Barnaby had yet to return and Mitchel remained in his office.
Millicent appeared a trifle distracted. “I’m not at all sure how best to handle the inquiries.”
Gerrard frowned. “Inquiries?”
“Well…” Millicent waved her fork. “A
As usual, concentrating on his work had driven all other considerations from his head. He looked at Jacqueline, and sensed her drawing back, sealing herself off behind that inner barrier she’d perfected to deal with her world.
“Can you manage alone?” He looked at Millicent. “I’m afraid I need Jacqueline for the rest of the day. I need to define the exact pose before I can start the portrait-and we clearly need the portrait finished without delay.”
Millicent thought. “Actually, it might be better if Jacqueline
Gerrard smiled, but glanced at Jacqueline, his question in his eyes.
She met his gaze, chin firm, but then nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, Aunt. The less opportunity they have to air their mistaken beliefs, the better.”
But when he led her back to the gardens, her concern remained. He said nothing; her distance wasn’t an issue as today he was working with her body, her pose, not her face and expressions. Those he was coming to know very well. As for her body…
Her distraction helped, allowing him to concentrate on her figure, on the lines of her body, without evoking in her the sort of awareness that would, in turn, arouse him. Distract him. He took her into the Garden of Poseidon, posing her again at the head of the long pool, some yards before the entrance to the Garden of Night. He positioned her, then stepped back and sketched, not so much her-he merely outlined her body-but the setting.
Exercising a painter’s sleight of hand, he altered the perspective so that in the sketch she appeared to be standing within the entrance, framed by it.
The afternoon light was perfect, illuminating the entrance yet leaving all beyond it in shadow. In the portrait, the scene would be lit by moonlight-the hardest of all lights to use-but today’s clarity gave him all the lines he would need, sharply delineating every vine leaf, every twisting, trailing shoot.
Once he had her outline set within the frame, he waved her to a seat nearby. “I’m working on background. I have all I need of you for the present-you can rest.”
Jerked from her less-than-heartening reverie, Jacqueline inwardly raised her brows. From his tone, definitely his painter’s voice, it sounded more as if she was in his way. Not that she minded; she’d been standing for most of the day. Crossing to the wrought-iron seat set before a thickly planted border, she sank onto it. Leaning on the arm, she looked at him.
She expected her mind to return to wondering how Millicent was coping in the drawing room, and what the attitude of the visiting ladies was. She was very much afraid she knew; they’d assume she was guilty of Thomas’s murder, too. The idea hurt almost as much as her realization, when she’d emerged from deep mourning, that they thought she’d killed her mother.
Such matters certainly intruded, but with her eyes on Gerrard, they failed to capture her mind. Instead, she thought of him-not just of last night, and the pleasure he’d introduced her to, not just of his clear expectation that she would succumb to feminine fluster over it, and might regret it, not of the fact that she hadn’t, and didn’t, but of him. Just him.
The concentration in his face, in his stance, the sense of immense energy he focused on his work, was enthralling. Watching him wield it for her, in the creation of the portrait that by his own words he saw as freeing her from her strange prison, moved her and held her attention completely.
It was, in a way, like watching her champion battle in the lists for her; like any such lady, she couldn’t look
