The Truth about Love

He was distantly conscious that elements of that fascination were similar to those elicited by ladies who sexually rather than artistically caught his eye, yet given Jacqueline Tregonning was the first lady he’d decided to paint to whom he was not in some way related, he wasn’t sure that wasn’t to be expected. He saw women as they were, as whole, complete, sexual beings; that was one of the reasons behind his portraits’ success.

With Jacqueline Tregonning, he’d struck painter’s gold-a subject who had depth, who had layers of emotions and feelings, cares and concerns, all residing behind a face that in itself was intriguing. Just one glance into her beautiful eyes and he’d known what he was looking at-a subject who embodied the vital thing he needed to create a true work of art. She was an enigma.

She was too young to be as she was. Ladies of her years did not normally possess depths, let alone hidden depths; they hadn’t lived long enough, hadn’t experienced enough of life’s tragedies to have acquired them. Yet Jacqueline Tregonning was the epitome of a person of whom it was said: still waters run deep. She was a still, deep pool, calm and glossy smooth on the surface, but with strong currents, strong emotions, running beneath.

Of what those emotions were, of what had caused not just them but her to be as she was, he had as yet no clue, yet he would need to learn the answer to that and all else about her in order to capture all he could see in her eyes, all he could sense behind her controlled expression.

He remained attuned to her as they spoke with those present; with each one, he instinctively catalogued not so much her outward reactions as what he sensed of her true feelings. Reserve, distance, a keeping apart. Her attitude was so consistent, so striking, the words resonated in his head. It wasn’t shyness; she didn’t seem at all shy. She was comfortable and assured, at ease in her own home with people he gathered she’d known most of her life. But she didn’t trust them.

Not a single one, with the sole exception of her aunt Millicent.

He was assimilating that when he heard a slow step and the soft thump of a cane. He turned, as did the others, as an older gentleman appeared in the doorway. The man located him, studied him, then came forward. Slowly, yet his movements weren’t frail or ponderous so much as measured.

Marcus, Lord Tregonning, was of the old school. Gerrard recognized the signs-the outdated cut of his coat, the knee breeches, the deliberately slow gait, the cane he didn’t need, the apparent invisibility of all others beyond the person in his lordship’s sights.

Himself. He was glad of the discipline Vane and Gabriel Cynster had taught him, the ability to keep his expression impassive, in this case squelching the urge to smile. Neither he nor Barnaby were likely to be affected by the intimidatory style of their grandsires.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Barnaby fighting a grin-an appreciative one, although his lordship was unlikely to see it so. They were, after all, guests in the man’s house, and there they stood, very much like predators, of distinctly different caliber to the other males in the room, bloods in their prime in the old lion’s territory.

Lord Tregonning’s dark gaze held a sharper, even more critical assessment than his daughter’s had. His face was pale, deeply lined, by grief, Gerrard suspected. His hair was still thick and dark, his eyes heavy-lidded and sunk deep; he carried himself erect, spine rigid. The hand wrapped about the head of the cane was aged, the skin mottled, but his grip showed no sign of weakness. The description that sprang to Gerrard’s mind was careworn, yet still as proud as bedamned.

His lordship halted no more than two feet distant. Old eyes, agatey brown, bored into his, then Lord Tregonning nodded. “Gerrard Debbington, I presume?”

Gerrard bowed. His lordship extended his hand; Gerrard shook it, calmly returning the old man’s steady regard.

“I’m delighted you were able to accept my commission, sir.”

Gerrard knew better than to display eagerness over business dealings. “The gardens, as you know, are a draw-the chance to paint them was difficult to pass up.”

Tregonning raised his brows. “And the portrait?”

Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline Tregonning; she’d moved a few paces away to chat with the other young ladies. “As to that, I believe my initial reservations, those I understand Mr. Cunningham conveyed to you, have been laid to rest. I’m quite looking forward to commencing the work.”

It took effort to keep his drawl even, his tone no more than mildly interested; in reality, he would like nothing better than to consign Tregonning and everyone else to some outer planet so he could haul out his sketch pad, sit Jacqueline Tregonning down, and get started.

Forcing his gaze from her, he turned back to his host in time to glimpse relief fleetingly flit across Tregonning’s worn features. “If you’ll permit me to introduce the Honorable Barnaby Adair?”

Tregonning shook hands with Barnaby; Gerrard seized the moment to confirm his impression. Yes, Tregonning had fractionally relaxed; the rigid set of his shoulders had eased, the sense of grim resolution had faded somewhat.

Turning from Barnaby, Tregonning eyed him once more, measuringly yet, Gerrard felt, also with a touch of approval. “Perhaps”-Tregonning flicked a glance at the ladies, both young and not so young attempting to appear not to be listening for all they were worth-“we should repair to my study and discuss your requirements.”

“Indeed.” Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, now moving further down the room. “It would be wise to establish the procedures I’ll follow, and what will be necessary to ensure a portrait of the quality I imagine we both wish to see.”

“Good, good.” Tregonning gestured to the door. “If you’ll come with me…?”

“Marcus? Marcus, do wait!”

With Tregonning, Gerrard turned to see the older lady introduced as Lady Fritham, a close neighbor, beckoning.

Brows rising, Tregonning held his ground. “Yes, Maria?”

“I’m holding a dinner party tomorrow evening, and I wished to invite you and Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair to attend. It’ll be the perfect opportunity for them to meet our local set.” Her improbably blond curls quivering with eagerness, Lady Fritham opened her blue eyes wide and clasped bejeweled hands to her bosom. “Do say you’ll come, gentlemen.”

Gerrard glanced at Tregonning, deferring to his host.

Tregonning met his gaze briefly, then looked again at Lady Fritham. “I’m sure Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair will be delighted to accept, Maria. As for myself, I fear you must excuse me.”

He bowed with austere grace, then turned away.

“I’ll remain here.” Barnaby nodded politely and went to join Millicent Tregonning.

Lord Tregonning made for the doors. Gerrard fell in beside him, wondering whether his lordship would summon his daughter-wondering if he should suggest it. They reached the doorway; Tregonning didn’t glance back. Inwardly shrugging, Gerrard followed him out.

Tregonning asked about London in the terms of one who hadn’t visited in decades; Gerrard replied as they crossed the hall and headed down a long corridor.

In some ways, his host was almost as intriguing as his daughter. There was an aura of weariness about the man; it colored his voice, yet was countered by a strong sense of grim, unquenchable resolve. Tregonning’s wasn’t a face Gerrard could read; the man kept his emotions too locked away, repressed, concealed, and under too tight a rein to be accurately discerned even by an observer as acute as Gerrard knew himself to be.

He thought again of Jacqueline Tregonning. Perhaps the reserve he sensed in her was a familial trait, but in her case, her exterior hadn’t yet ossified. Regardless, that didn’t explain how she, a young lady of…he wasn’t sure of her age…came to have tragic secrets.

He looked about him as they walked. He was accustomed to ducal residences, but this house was enormous and more convoluted in design than was usual. The furnishings were of good but not exceptional quality, tending toward the dark, heavy and ornate, with ornamentation approaching the baroque. The overall effect was Gothic, fanciful, but not overwhelming.

At the end of the corridor, Tregonning preceded him up a flight of stairs. Opening a door off the landing, he led the way into a darkly appointed yet luxurious study.

It was a comfortable room, very male in ambience; sinking into the large leather armchair Tregonning indicated, Gerrard suspected his host spent most of his reclusive days there.

Settling into another armchair, Tregonning gestured. “My house and staff are at your disposal. What do you