He was the perfect escort-always there, yet never crowding her. Supporting, guiding, but not directing, he played the perfect foil in helping her project just the right image-the impression, as he’d said, of being herself.
By the time they settled on picnic rugs to sample the delicacies Mrs. Hancock’s cook had prepared, she’d relaxed enough not just to laugh, but to do so spontaneously, without reserve. As Barnaby, the inveterate storyteller, continued his tale, she sipped from the flute of champagne Gerrard had handed her, then glanced at him. He caught her eye, held her gaze for an instant, then raised his flute to hers, clinked, and sipped, too.
Suddenly a touch breathless, giddy as if the champagne had gone to her head, she looked away, at Barnaby, and drew in a tight breath. Her breasts rose above the scooped neckline of her gown; she felt Gerrard’s warm gaze sweep her exposed skin.
Raising her glass again, she sipped, and fought to slow her pulse; she wished she had a fan.
“You’re such an accomplished raconteur.” Opposite Barnaby, Eleanor bestowed on him an openly inviting smile. “Why, your adventures seem almost legendary.”
Beside Jacqueline, Barnaby stiffened. “Oh, no,” he airily replied. “I’ve just seen a thing or two-inevitable in the capital.”
“Ah, yes, the capital.” Eleanor was not the least deterred by the less than encouraging response. “Do you spend most of your time there?”
Barnaby murmured a noncommittal response, immediately capping it with a general question, drawing the others-Clara, Cedric and Hugo and Thomasina Crabbe-into the conversation. On Jacqueline’s other side, Gerrard shifted, then glibly deflected a question from Eleanor designed to once again fix Barnaby’s attention on her.
Despite the undercurrents-primarily Eleanor’s doing-the mood remained light. Eleanor, Jacqueline knew, was merely amusing herself; she wished to see Barnaby wound about her little finger, but then she would discard him. Aside from her mystery lover, gaining power over the males who hove on her horizon was Eleanor’s chief amusement.
Jacqueline had seen that for years, but she hadn’t, until now, thought much of it. Now…she couldn’t help but feel Eleanor’s behavior wasn’t very ladylike, or kind. Luckily, Barnaby, the male currently in Eleanor’s sights, showed no signs of succumbing.
The picnic consumed, the matrons sat back in the shade and chatted. Everyone else elected to go on a ramble through the adjoining woods. They set off in a large, rambunctious group; before long, they’d strung out along the path.
Whether by luck or good management, she and Gerrard brought up the rear. That didn’t please Matthew Brisenden. He was swept ahead with the others yet, whenever the curve of the path allowed, stared back at her strolling on Gerrard’s arm.
Gerrard was aware-more aware than he liked-of Matthew’s dark looks. The boy was ridiculously possessive; Gerrard recognized and labeled his attitude instantly, and was in no way amused by it. He was also screamingly conscious of Jacqueline beside him, strolling along with, it seemed, not a care in the world. He was pleased that she’d relaxed, that she was more and more able to show her true colors to the world, yet…
Step by step, they fell further behind. She seemed absorbed with the flowers and trees, for which he gave thanks; he wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter. Increasingly, he watched her face, felt himself falling ever deeper under her spell.
“Oh!” She stopped, looking ahead.
He followed her gaze; the rest of the party had disappeared out of sight around the next bend.
She glanced at him; a challenging light danced in her eyes. “There’s a shortcut, if you’re willing to risk it.”
He was willing to risk a great deal for a few minutes alone with her. He waved. “Lead on.”
She smiled and turned aside, pushing past a thick bush onto a minor path. “This leads to the stream. The main path crosses it at a wooden bridge further on, then curves back on the other side, but it’s a long way around.”
“So what’s the risk?”
Even as he voiced the question the bushes before them thinned, and he saw the stream gurgling along the middle of a wide bed and spanned by an old fallen tree.
“Behold.” Jacqueline waved at the tree. “The challenge.”
She started down the slight slope. Gerrard followed. The stream had shrunk to within its summer banks, leaving the lush green of its winter flood plain ten yards wide on either side. Yet the stream was still too wide to jump, and too deep to wade through, and the tree trunk wasn’t large.
Jacqueline turned to him. “Are you game?”
He looked down at her. “Do I get a reward if I succeed?”
Jacqueline studied all she could see in his eyes, and wondered why he and only he made her feel like a siren. She let her lashes veil her eyes and looked back at the tree. “Possibly.”
“In that case”-he leaned down so his words wafted past her ear-“after you, my dear.”
To her hyperaware senses, he even sounded like a lion.
She drew breath, took the hand he offered to step up to the narrow bole, paused to catch her balance, then ran lightly across. She’d performed the same feat countless times. Jumping down to solid ground at the other end, she turned-and found Gerrard stepping off the tree immediately behind her.
He caught her; hands locking about her waist, he whirled her, then lowered her until her feet touched earth. For one finite instant, they stared into each other’s eyes, then he drew her-fully-against him. He looked into her eyes, briefly searched, then his gaze lowered to her lips. “Reward time, I believe.”
He swooped, captured her lips with his, and plunged them both into a fiery kiss, one that stirred them both, that sent flames spreading beneath her skin, that left her breasts firm and aching, that spilled heat down her veins to pool low, to pulse with a longing she now understood.
She held tight, fingers clutching his upper arms as their lips and tongues dueled, not for supremacy but for pleasured delight.
The moment spun on, and on.
Eventually, he drew back. They were both breathing too quickly as he looked into her eyes. “Have you made your decision yet?”
Gerrard had told himself he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t ask-but he ached to know.
She tried to frown, couldn’t manage it. “No. I…got the impression I’d be wise to think seriously about…what agreeing would entail.”
Her gaze dropped to his lips. He fought against the urge to kiss her again.
“You should.” He couldn’t keep his voice from deepening. The thought of what would follow her decision-
Footsteps. They both heard the steady crunch of boots heading their way.
Turning to the sound, they stepped apart-just as Eleanor and Matthew Brisenden came into view.
“There you are!” Eleanor looked delighted.
Gerrard could quite happily have consigned her to perdition. Along with her companion, who was looking daggers at him.
“I told Matthew you would have taken the shortcut and be waiting for us here.” Patently pleased with her perspicaciousness, Eleanor swept forward, her gaze locked on Gerrard.
Smoothly, he linked his arm with Jacqueline’s. “Just so-we knew the rest of you wouldn’t be long.”
“The others are up on the main path.” Matthew came up, frowning at Gerrard, openly disapproving. “We should join them.”
Gerrard smiled easily. “Indeed. Do lead the way.”
Matthew blinked, but, with tight lips and a curt nod, had to do so. Gerrard steered Jacqueline in his wake.
To his amazement, Eleanor took his other arm.
He stared at her, but she seemed totally oblivious of her impertinence.
“We’ve been talking about the traditional gathering tomorrow.” Eleanor glanced across him at Jacqueline. “Will you come, do you think?”
Jacqueline met her gaze. “Oh, I think so.”
“Well, regardless, Mr. Debbington, you really should attend. It’s almost as much fun as the ball itself. Indeed”- Eleanor’s eyes gleamed as she looked up at Gerrard-“sometimes more.”
“The tradition,” Jacqueline informed him, “is that all the younger people gather at Trewarren Hall in the morning and decorate the ballroom.”
“And the terrace and gardens,” Eleanor put in.
