The Truth about Love

Releasing Eleanor, Jacqueline drew a deep breath. Gerrard glanced at her, concerned, and saw her walls come down, saw her deliberately lower them, leaving her emotions exposed, letting what she felt-all she felt-show.

“I will walk there again-someday. But in case you’ve forgotten, my mother didn’t go- someone flung her to her death, into the Garden of Night. And that someone wasn’t me. Mama died down there, alone. I won’t walk there again until we learn who her killer was, until he’s been exposed, and has paid for what he did. Then, yes, I’ll walk again in the Garden of Night, and perhaps show Mr. Debbington its treasures. Until then…I fear you’ll have to excuse me.”

Her voice had gained strength with every word. Her last sentence was a regal declaration. With a cold nod to Eleanor, Jacqueline turned away. He turned, too, retaking her hand and placing it on his sleeve.

She glanced up at him, determination and resolution clear in her face. “I believe we’ve strolled long enough out here.”

“Indeed.” He glanced over the heads, into the drawing room. “Tea has been served. We should go in.”

She nodded. Head high, she didn’t look back as he steered her over the threshold. About to follow, he glanced back, noting the barely suppressed surprise-and the welling approval-in the eyes of the ladies who’d overheard the exchange. Noted, too, the stunned, utterly dumbfounded look on Eleanor Fritham’s face.

He guided Jacqueline to a quiet spot a little way from the central chaise. Leaving her for a moment, he fetched her a cup of tea. Handing it to her, he smiled-not his charming smile but a private, totally sincere expression. “Bravo!” He kept his voice low as he turned to stand beside her, facing the room. “That was very well done.”

She sipped, then set her cup on the saucer. “Do you think so?”

She didn’t look up, but glanced at the guests-at the ripple of conversation that was spreading from the French doors through the room.

“I would describe it as a command performance, except it wasn’t a performance. You spoke the truth, from the heart-everyone who heard realized how hard that was to do.”

He looked down, caught her gaze as she glanced up. “No matter how annoying Eleanor might be, in this case, she set the stage for you perfectly-and you had the courage to seize the moment and play the most difficult role.”

Jacqueline studied his eyes, drank in the undisguised, patently sincere admiration she read in them. Felt her heart lift. “I thought you said it wasn’t a performance?”

“It wasn’t.” His eyes remained steady on hers. “The role you had to play was you.”

He understood her so well. Far better than any other ever had. Jacqueline had no idea what she’d done to deserve such a boon from fate, but she wasn’t about to refuse it.

Wasn’t about to waste one precious minute she might spend in his arms.

That night, she waited until Holly left her room, counted to twenty, then rose from her dressing stool, tightened her robe’s sash, and all but flew from the room.

To his. To him.

To the pleasure she knew she would find there, and to learn more, to delve deeper into the mysterious realm that had opened between them.

Of that, she wanted to know a great deal more.

On swift, slippered feet, she sped through the gallery. Remembering the fraught scene of the afternoon-the scene she’d not simply suffered through, as until now had been her habit, but had grasped and turned to her advantage, all because Gerrard had shown her the need to be herself, and had convinced her she had the strength to do it, to play that most difficult of roles-she glanced out of the windows, down at the terrace, at the glimmer of marble that was the steps leading down, at the dark conglomeration of canopies that marked the Garden of Night, rustling in the breeze.

Frowning, she slowed, then stopped and stepped to the window. She looked to left and right, confirming that there was no breeze. Not even the tips of the tall, feathery herbs in the Garden of Vesta were stirring.

She looked again at the bushes surrounding the upper entrance to the Garden of Night. They’d definitely moved, but now were as still as the rest of the gardens. She pulled a face. “One of the kitchen cats-must be.”

Turning, she continued along the gallery, her attention reverting to her goal.

See? I told you! She’s off to his room-the trollop.”

“Keep your voice down.”

A long moment passed. Cloaked in the heavy shadows of the entrance to the Garden of Night, the first speaker stirred, and glanced, sharply, at the other. “Did you know he’s started her portrait?”

The other shrugged and made no reply.

“I tell you, it’s serious! You should hear what the old biddies are saying-how if the portrait shows her as innocent, they’ll have to think again. They’re starting to expect to have to think again.”

“Are they?” The words were softly uttered. A moment passed. “Now, that won’t do.”

“Precisely! So what are we going to do to stop it?”

Another long silence ensued. Eventually, the other spoke, voice flat, even, cold. “Don’t worry-I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”

“You’ll see. Come on.” The larger figure turned into the enshrouding darkness of Venus’s garden. “Let’s go in.”

Jacqueline reached Gerrard’s room and whisked through the door. Shutting it, she looked across the room, and saw him standing by the windows.

He’d been looking out, but had turned. No lamps were lit; cloaked in shadow, he watched as she crossed the room to him.

As she neared, she looked into his face. The planes were hard-edged, angular and unreadable. Impassive and implacable. Boldly, she walked to him. Walked into his embrace as he reached for her; his hands slid around her waist, fingers flexing, grasping, drawing her to him and holding her.

He studied her. After a moment he said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

She arched a brow. “Did you think I’d be satisfied with one night?”

His shoulders lifted slightly, but she saw the ends of his lips curve as he bent his head. “It’s an unwise man who claims to read a female mind.”

His lips brushed, then covered hers, and she decided his caution was just as well-her mind held precious few thoughts, and even those were spinning away. She sighed into the kiss, then went to sink against him, but he held her back, keeping a space of inches between them.

She didn’t know why, but followed his lead as he deepened the kiss, parted her lips and claimed her mouth- intently, completely. No quarter, but also no hurry. He took everything he could from the kiss, and left her gasping.

Reeling.

“I think,” he murmured, his eyes dark beneath the screen of his lashes, “that before we go any further we should agree on some rules.”

She blinked. “Rules?”

“Hmm. Such as…you remember I warned you that if you came to me I would expect to possess you-all of you- utterly?”

She was hardly likely to forget. “Yes.”

He drank her answer from her lips in a long, lingering sip.

“There’s a corollary to that rule.” He drew back enough to catch her eyes again. Slowly let his hands slide up until they cupped her breasts. His fingers found the tight peaks and played-delicately, too knowingly.

She could barely breathe. “What?”

“Having agreed to be mine utterly, you can’t rescind that state-you can’t not be mine until I release you, until I let you go.”