That was his plan, and it was set in stone. Immutable, not open to modification.
Thank heavens Timms had, in her inimitable fashion, warned him. If she hadn’t met him in the corridor that evening and twitted him over allowing Jacqueline to remain in ignorance of his intentions, if Timms hadn’t mentioned the conversation she and Minnie had had with Jacqueline, he’d never have guessed what Jacqueline was about, what was behind her seeking to spend time with other men-and his reaction would have been a great deal less controlled.
Given how fraught, how provoked he’d still felt, even guessing her reasons, the gods only knew what horrors Timms and her teasing had averted.
Sitting in the carriage as it rocked along, excruciatingly aware of Jacqueline beside him, warm, feminine, the perfect answer to his every desire, no matter how deep or dark, guilt seeped through him; the blame for her uncertainty over his intentions lay squarely at his door.
He’d shied away from speaking-of his wish to marry her and even more of his
Be that as it may, he still couldn’t speak, not until the portrait was finished, and she-her winning free of the suspicions over her mother’s death-no longer depended on him, on his talents, and his exercising those in her cause. Waiting was still the honorable way forward.
Imagining it-putting his proposal to the test, laying his future at her feet-sent apprehension snaking down his spine. To him his future might be immutable, but it would only be so if she agreed.
He still had no real idea of her feelings, felt no certainty over how she would react. Did she love him? He still didn’t know.
Drawing in a breath, he shifted to glance at her. She’d been staring straight ahead, unusually silent. The flare from a street lamp fleetingly lit her face. Her expression looked…unreadable.
He frowned. “I expect the portrait to take two, possibly three, more days to complete. After that, I suggest we return to Cornwall with all speed. We set the stage before we left-no sense delaying and letting the questions we successfully raised fade from people’s minds.”
Through the gloom, Jacqueline studied his face. “Only three days?” She hadn’t seen the portrait in the last day or so, hadn’t realized he was so close to finishing it.
He nodded, and looked ahead. “I’d appreciate it if you could remain at the house over that time. In case I need to check a line or adjust the shading.”
She felt her expression harden. “And you’ll be able to concentrate better if you know I’m in the house, and not gallivanting about falling prey to gentlemen cads?”
His jaw tightened. A fraught moment passed, then he nodded. “Precisely.”
He glanced, sharply, at her; even through the dimness she felt the lancing quality of his gaze. “Three days, and the portrait will be finished…” His voice faded; he cleared his throat and looked away. “As for what’s between us, we’ll talk of that later.”
She narrowed her eyes, glared through the gloom, but he was looking out of the window.
Just thinking the words left her shaken, as if the earth had tilted beneath her feet. In some ways it had.
Everyone else had seen it; only she hadn’t.
She wasn’t at all sure how she felt about that.
The carriage rocked to a halt in Brook Street. He descended to the pavement and handed her down, then escorted her up the steps and into the front hall.
Masters shut the door behind them. Jacqueline smiled at him. “Aunt Millicent will return later. I doubt she’ll be late.”
“Indeed, miss-she rarely is.” Masters bowed and retreated.
Gerrard took her arm. Grasping her skirts, she climbed the stairs beside him.
In the gallery, she paused. Drawing breath, she faced him. “I’m really not feeling all that well-a bit…unsteady.” True enough; her wits were whirling giddily. “I know you’re in a rush to complete the portrait, but I wonder if you can manage without me for tonight.”
The lamps were turned low, yet even in the weak light, the concern that filled his eyes, his whole face, was visible. His grip on her arm firmed, as if he thought she might faint. “Damn! I knew I was pushing you too hard. You should have said.”
That last was uttered through gritted teeth, but there was enough self-censure in his tone for her to let it pass; he was irate with himself, not her.
“Come-let’s get you to bed.” He glanced at her as he steered her along the corridor. “It isn’t something you ate?”
She shook her head. It was something she’d heard, something she’d realized. “I’m just…overtired.” And she needed time alone to think.
His lips set; he opened her door and guided her in. She’d expected him to ring for her maid and leave her. Instead, he led her to her dressing stool, sat her gently down, and proceeded to pull the pins from her hair.
She stared at him in the mirror. “Ah…my maid can do that. You should go to the studio.”
He shook his head. “I want to see you settled.”
She tried twice more to get him to leave, to no avail. Then, to her even greater astonishment, after tucking her into bed, he hesitated, frowning down at her, then shrugged out of his coat. “I’ll sleep with you for a while. The portrait will go faster if I take a break, and without you…”
The suspicion that he knew she wasn’t truly ill and was calling her bluff, as it were, occurred only to be dismissed; the look on his face was a transparent medley of concern and worry.
Guilt jabbed at her, but she desperately needed time to think. How she was to accomplish that with him lying naked beside her…
He slid under the covers and reached for her. She half expected him to make love to her; instead, he gathered her gently into his arms, settling her against his warmth. He bent his head, searched for her lips, but there was no passion in his kiss, only gentleness.
“Go to sleep.”
With that order, he relaxed beside her, around her, sinking deeper into the soft mattress.
He fell asleep in minutes.
She didn’t.
Listening to his breathing, she turned her mind to all she had to sort through-the observations, the revelations, the inescapable conclusion.
He did, indeed, intend to marry her.
That much was now beyond doubt. Viewing his behavior from that perspective, there was no contradiction, no reason to question the conclusion everyone, it seemed, had reached.
What was in question was how she felt, not just about his wanting to marry her, but about his failure to mention the matter despite having opportunities aplenty.
She felt she should be angry, yet that seemed too simple, too superficial a response. Decisions on marriage were too serious, too important, to be governed by such reactions.
Timms had warned her to think of her answer; that was assuredly sound advice. Yet in evaluating him, and his desire for her, the one uncertainty she even now could not resolve was the element that had, from the first, been a complicating factor between them. Was his interest in her, passionate and intense though it was, primarily a painter’s fascination, something that would dissipate once he’d painted her enough to satisfy his obsession-or was there something deeper, more enduring, behind it?
She couldn’t answer that question, no matter how she examined, analyzed and thought. Unless he told her which alternative was the truth, she wouldn’t see it, not until it was too late. Without him telling her, without him being willing to reveal that much to her, she wouldn’t be able to answer him.
Stalemate. She turned her mind to the other aspect she had to resolve. He hadn’t said anything, had given not the slightest indication he wanted her for his bride, yet it wasn’t hard to see that should she wish to refuse him, her position-thanks to him-was now seriously weak.
She glanced at him, lying slumped beside her, one heavy arm thrown over her waist. He was lying on his stomach, his face by her shoulder…She had to resist a sudden urge to run her fingers through his heavily tousled
