The Truth about Love

Jacqueline nodded.

“So”-Eleanor fixed her gaze on Gerrard’s face-“will you be joining us?”

Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline; he wouldn’t be letting her out of his sight any time soon. Particularly not if Matthew Brisenden would be anywhere near. “I believe I will,” he murmured, addressing Jacqueline. He caught her gaze when she glanced up. “All work and no play will very likely make me a dull painter.”

Her lips quirked; she looked ahead.

“Excellent!” Eleanor said.

That evening, at the dinner table, Lord Tregonning shocked them all. Looking down the table, he asked Millicent, “How did your excursion go today?”

Millicent stared at him, then hurried to answer. “It was an excellent outing, Marcus-quite gratifying.” She rattled off a list of the ladies who’d been present. “While I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’ve convinced anyone of anything, I do think we’ve started hares in a good many minds, and set the stage for pushing matters further.”

Lord Tregonning nodded. “Good, good.” He glanced at Jacqueline, Gerrard, then Barnaby. “So everything’s going as planned?”

“Quite smoothly.” Barnaby reached for his wineglass. “I understand there’s a gathering of the younger folk tomorrow, which will be our last event before the ball.”

“Ah, yes-the decorating party.” Lord Tregonning turned a sympathetic gaze on Jacqueline. “Are you comfortable attending that, my dear?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed, I haven’t encountered as much difficulty as I’d imagined, and”-Jacqueline glanced at Gerrard, then across the table at Barnaby-“with Mr. Debbington’s and Mr. Adair’s support, I doubt I’ll encounter any challenge I can’t meet.”

She toyed with her fork, then went on, “While most are a trifle confused at first, all thus far have seemed… receptive to thinking again. However, I don’t think that would have been so had we not challenged their preconceived notions.”

Lord Tregonning nodded again.

Gerrard noticed the puzzled look on Mitchel Cunningham’s face. He had no notion of what they were discussing; no doubt he’d work it out soon enough. Turning to Jacqueline, Gerrard asked, “What form does the Summer Hunt Ball take?”

“It’s a proper ball with musicians and dancing. As for the rest…” Briefly she described the usual other attractions-a card room, and a salon for conversation. “The terrace and garden walks are lit for the night, too.”

From there, with Barnaby’s help, Gerrard steered the first conversation they’d had over the dinner table at Hellebore Hall into a more general discussion of the amenities of the area.

Later that night, Jacqueline stood at the balcony window of her bedroom, and wondered if Gerrard was painting. Her windows overlooked the orchards of the Garden of Demeter; she couldn’t tell if light was spilling from the windows of the old nursery, yet she felt sure he’d be there, standing before his easel creating the setting in which her innocence would shine.

Even last night, as she’d left the studio she’d glanced back and seen him returning to the easel, to the canvas on it, as if drawn to it.

His devotion to the portrait, to rescuing her, touched her. Buoyed her.

She recalled, very well, all that had passed between them the night before. That he wanted her she didn’t doubt, and she wanted him. Her reasons for grasping the opportunity to learn what that mutual wanting truly meant remained valid, yet his insistence she decide, that she make what would amount to a declaration of unrestricted acceptance…He was right; about that she needed to think.

He’d said he wanted everything, all she was, to possess her utterly; that was a very wide claim-she wasn’t sure she understood the implications.

To agree to that…to do so, she would need to trust him, to trust that, to whatever extent his “everything” stretched, he wouldn’t hurt or harm her. Not in her wildest imaginings did she think he would, yet in trusting him that much, in specifically and openly acknowledging such trust, as he was demanding, it would help to know why- why had he asked that of her.

Why was he, as he demonstrably was, so deeply interested in her?

The obvious, transparently real answer was that he was fascinated with her as a subject, yet was that the whole answer? Reviewing his absorption with painting her, contrasting that with the intensity he focused on her when he held her in his arms, whether the force that drove him was one and the same she couldn’t tell, and could see no ready way of discerning.

Did she truly care whether his interest in her was driven solely by an artist’s fascination?

The question slid into her mind, and revolved there-yet another question with no easy answer.

Minutes ticked by as she mentally circled. What did she want of this, of him, of what had flared between them?

That she knew-she wanted experience. Of the physical, the sensual, all the aspects of a woman’s life of which, due to the events of recent years, she remained ignorant. At its simplest, she wanted to know. Now he’d arrived and unexpectedly offered her the chance to learn, was she going to take it?

All her instincts sang “yes!” yet she clung to caution and the sensible approach. Was there any reason she shouldn’t accept his terms?

Mentally, she looked ahead, thinking of how a liaison with him as he’d described it would affect her life…and discovered a void.

Her future.

Frowning, she tried to bring her expectations into focus, but the emptiness in her mind remained; she had no vision of her future at all.

Staring unseeing at the night, she felt oddly hollow as realization solidified. The killer had stolen her expectations; her future was a blank canvas, and she had no idea of the picture she wished to see upon it.

It was a shock to discover such complete and utter nothingness where surely something should have been.

She was twenty-three, well dowered and attractive enough, yet she’d been frozen-was still frozen-on the threshold of her life. What dreams she’d nurtured when Thomas had lived had vanished with him; not even a ghostly vestige remained. Presumably once she was free of the nightmare of her mother’s and Thomas’s deaths, her mind would turn from its fixation on the past and present and attend to the future, and sketch in some details. Until then…she had no expectations of her future to guide her.

But Gerrard and his offer were there, before her now; how should she respond?

By agreeing. He’d made it plain he wasn’t asking for her future, but her present; he’d talked in terms of a physical liaison, with no defined strings attached.

If she’d been younger, or felt more a part of the usual round of social life, she might have felt shocked, might have felt she was risking something, might have hesitated. But now?

Given all fate had denied her, given what might yet be denied her forever more, the compulsion to accept his terms burgeoned and grew.

“I want to live.” The whisper fell from her lips, a potent exhortation. A direction. If she waited…until when? Once she was an old maid, would such a chance come again?

Conviction welled. Instinct, yes, but that was all she had to guide her. Yet in this arena, she had so little previous knowledge, so little practice in listening to her heart…

Arms folded, lips set, she tapped one slippered toe. She felt a strong urge to have done with thinking, to open her door, slip through the quiet corridors and return to his lair and his arms. She’d never been an impulsive person, yet in this, with him, instinct was urging her on.

Innate caution held her back.

Turning from the window, she paced into the room and stopped, her gaze fixed on the corridor door. For long minutes, she debated: to yield and accept now, or wait for some further sign?

Or, perhaps, ask more questions?

It took effort to turn aside, but she did. Shedding her robe, she climbed into bed, slid under the covers, tugged