The Truth about Love

She started walking; he fell in beside her, not at all sure mingling with his strutting peers was a wise idea. But she was on his arm; he could steer her clear of any-

Halting, she half turned and smiled, inviting the attention of a couple nearby. “Good evening.”

Gerrard looked, and inwardly groaned.

Two unquestionably eager steps brought Perry Somerset, Lord Castleton, to Jacqueline’s side. Beside Perry, rather more reluctantly, came Mrs. Lucy Atwell, Perry’s current paramour.

Tall and stylishly handsome, Perry reached for Jacqueline’s hand, and threw Gerrard a glance. “Do introduce us, old chap.”

Inwardly gritting his teeth, he did; Perry bowed elegantly.

Lucy and Jacqueline exchanged polite nods.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Tregonning.” Lucy’s fine eyes roved Jacqueline’s gown. “I must compliment you on your attire-Cerise?”

“No, Celeste.”

“Ah.” Lucy flashed him a measuring look. “I’ve heard Mr. Debbington has been burning the midnight oil- literally-in painting a fabulous portrait of you. Do you find his demands difficult to meet?”

“Not at all.” Jacqueline’s smile was transparently assured. “I quite enjoy it.”

“Indeed?” Lucy’s brows arched; the look she threw him was arch, too. She knew that prior to Jacqueline, he’d only painted people he was close to; she was searching for some reason-the most obvious reason-as to why he was painting Jacqueline, but had refused to paint her, stunning though she was.

Before he could steer the conversation into safer, less ambiguous waters, Perry asked if they’d visited Kew Gardens.

That was such a strange question to hear coming from Perry, a rakehell who rarely saw the sun, both Gerrard and Lucy stared at him.

“No,” Jacqueline brightly replied. “But I’ve heard they’re impressive.”

“I’ve heard the same about the gardens at your home,” Perry said. “Perhaps you’d like to view Kew one afternoon, to compare?”

“No.” Gerrard laid his hand over Jacqueline’s on his sleeve. “I’m afraid we don’t have time-the sittings are quite arduous.”

Jacqueline looked at him. “But I don’t sit in the afternoons.”

He met her eyes. “You will be, starting tomorrow.”

“But-”

“And the very last thing we need is more freckles.”

She stared at him; she didn’t possess a single freckle, not anywhere, and he knew it.

The squeak of violins cut through the room.

“Perhaps some other time,” Perry said cheerily. “Meanwhile, if you would grant me the honor-”

“I’m afraid I’m before you, old boy.” Gerrard clamped his fingers about Jacqueline’s hand; catching her eye, he raised her fingers to his lips. “My dance, I believe?”

She thought-actively thought-about refusing him. He saw it in her eyes. What she saw in his-the emotion that flared in response-apparently convinced her to acquiesce with good grace.

He returned his gaze to Lucy and Perry. “If you’ll excuse us?”

“Of course.” Lucy was looking daggers at Perry, who hadn’t yet noticed.

Gerrard led Jacqueline to the dance floor, then swung her into his arms and stepped into the swirling throng. If he was wise, he wouldn’t make any comment. After all, what could he say?

“Why this sudden urge to consort with strangers?” Even to his ears, the question sounded ludicrous; worse, his tone registered as aggrieved.

He wasn’t surprised when she looked at him, her eyes wide. “What on earth do you mean? They’re other guests. I thought we should be sociable.”

Why? He bit his tongue and looked over her head, steering her into a turn. The soft shush of her skirts against his trousers, the feel of her supple body, pliant under his hand at her back, soothed his unexpected irritation. What was he so agitated over? A few words?

Or because she’d sought Perry’s attention?

He didn’t like the answer. Drawing her fractionally closer, he immersed himself in the dance, gave himself up to the predictable pleasure of waltzing her around the room. The whirling left them cocooned in time and space, alone in the middle of a crowd.

Alone with her-that was how he preferred to be. Until now he’d thought himself a social animal, at least when he wasn’t painting, but with her, when it came to her, he was discovering new aspects of himself every day.

Jacqueline remained silent, content to whirl safe in his arms while she thought through what had just occurred. Eventually, she looked up at Gerrard. “Is there an understanding between Lord Castleton and Mrs. Atwell?”

His lips thinned. “Yes.”

“Ah. I see.” She looked away. In stopping Castleton from claiming her hand, Gerrard had been steering her clear of stepping on Mrs. Atwell’s toes. Very properly. He hadn’t been acting possessively but protectively; it was sometimes difficult to tell.

She revisited her plan; it still seemed viable, but she clearly needed to make a few adjustments. Next time, she would have to find someone to entertain Gerrard, someone he was willing to be entertained by.

At the end of the dance, by mutual accord they resumed their stroll.

Finding someone she could be certain Gerrard would be willing to be entertained by wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped, but by dint of steady application, she finally set eyes on the perfect group.

“Mrs. Wainwright, what a pleasure to see you.” She smiled at the stylish matron and bobbed a curtsy, then exchanged greetings with the lady’s two unmarried daughters, Chloe and Claire. Jacqueline had met the trio at a number of afternoon engagements, and at a musicale.

The family knew Patience and Gerrard well; their home lay near Gerrard’s estate in Derbyshire. Gerrard shook hands and bowed. Chloe and Claire’s eyes lit; they responded warmly, and asked after his horses.

Delighted to have found such young ladies, of suitable age and perfectly sensible, to keep Gerrard company, Jacqueline turned her smile on the last member of the group-a handsome, well-dressed gentleman whose features declared him to be Chloe and Claire’s older brother, Rupert. Jacqueline recalled some mention of him.

“Hello!” Smiling, she gave him her hand. “You must be Rupert.”

“I confess I am.” With a delighted smile, Rupert bowed, all long-limbed grace. His eyes twinkled as he straightened. “Whatever tales they’ve told of me are probably true.”

She laughed.

“I heard you’re in town sitting for Gerrard-that’s quite a coup. Have you had time to see much of London?”

“A little-not perhaps as much as I’d have liked, but…”

Gerrard chatted with the Wainwright girls, simultaneously monitoring Jacqueline’s exchange with Rupert. He knew Rupert, knew his propensities, but Rupert was behaving himself-as usual when under his mother’s eagle eye.

Confirming that Mrs. Wainwright did indeed have her eye on Rupert, Gerrard relaxed, and gave his attention to Chole and Claire; he’d known them all their lives.

He didn’t see the danger, until it was too late.

“There’s the musicians again.” Rupert swept Jacqueline a bow. “Can I tempt you onto the floor, Miss Tregonning?”

Gerrard whipped around-but he’d danced the last dance with Jacqueline.

“Thank you.” Jacqueline smiled gloriously and gave Rupert her hand. “That would be delightful.”

No, it wouldn’t be. Gerrard inwardly swore; Mrs. Wainwright tensed, and shifted nervously. In something close to mounting panic, he watched Jacqueline, oblivious, smile and chat to Rupert as he led her to the floor…

Turning to Chloe, he reached for her hand. “If you would grant me the honor of this dance, Miss Wainwright?” He barely waited for her agreement before leading her in her brother’s wake.

The music swelled as they reached the floor; he swung Chloe into his arms, his gaze fixed on Jacqueline. They started revolving; he steered them as close to Jacqueline and Rupert as he could.

Chloe sighed. “Nothing will happen until the end of the dance.”