right, would be right, as long as such encompassing, all-powerful feeling existed within it.
“Of all the portraits I’ve done with children, this meant the most to me.” Beside her, his gaze on the portrait, Gerrard spoke quietly. “Patience was my surrogate mother for years-for me, painting this was the final step in growing up. As if in recognizing and bringing to the canvas what she feels for her children, the infinite depth that isn’t duplicated in any other relationship, I let her go.” His lips quirked. “And possibly let her let go, too.”
She said nothing, but looked again at the evocative portrait.
He shifted. “I have to admit, in painting that, I learned a great deal about motherhood.”
After a moment, he wound her arm with his; they left the room, and with a good-bye to Bradshaw, quit the house.
They walked briskly back. Gerrard glanced at her as they turned into Brook Street. “I’m going to the studio-I’ll want you to pose this afternoon, and then through the evening. You’ll have to cry off any engagement.” He frowned, looking ahead, not waiting for any agreement. “I’ll need the next two evenings entire from you to complete it as it should be.”
She could hardly argue; she nodded and climbed the front steps beside him. “I’ll tell Millicent.” And then send cards to the ladies whose entertainments they’d agreed to attend.
He paused before the door, met her eyes. All lightness had flown from his. After a moment, he murmured, “It won’t be long now.”
She nodded; Masters opened the door and they went in. The portrait would soon be finished-and then, between them, they’d have to face whatever was destined to be.
He was a font of ambiguous comments, utterances she could interpret in at least two ways, if not three.
That afternoon, Jacqueline posed beside the column in the studio, while Gerrard, with complete and utter absorption, painted her onto his canvas.
He’d let her peek before she’d taken up her position; there wasn’t that much more to do, but these final stages would be crucial to the overall quality and impact of the work.
She’d learned to be silent, to let her mind wander while keeping absolutely still, keeping her hand raised, her head tilted just so. Her expression didn’t matter; her face and features would be the last things he would paint, working from the multitude of sketches he’d already done. So she didn’t have to guard her thoughts. At present, his interest was fixed on her raised hand.
His focus had always intrigued her; it reached deeper, signified far more than mere concentration. Devotion and dedication were the concepts that sprang to mind, along with ruthless, relentless determination. He brought all three to the task, driven, quite clearly compelled.
From the corner of her eye, she glanced at him, briefly let her gaze drink in the sight of him standing poised behind his easel in shirt-sleeves, breeches and boots, wielding his brushes with consummate skill.
In arranging to have him paint her portrait, she hadn’t been searching for a champion, but she’d got one. He’d driven up and claimed the position, just like a knight of old, sworn to defend her honor, her reputation, against the world. That was the commitment he brought to her portrait; she no longer questioned that for him-as with the portrait of Patience and her children-this work meant more. He was painting it for her, in defense of her, yet the doing of it gave something to him, too.
The ability to vanquish those who’d dared threaten her.
Her gaze rested on him; now her eyes had been opened, she could see so much more. A chivalrous protectiveness he might feel for any lady, but the possessiveness that in her case went hand in hand with a protectiveness that was rigid, absolute, and knew no bounds, made it impossible to imagine that, success achieved and her dragons vanquished, he would simply shake her hand and drive away.
She hadn’t looked for marriage, not to him or any other, yet it seemed he was intent on bringing that to her, too.
As her successful champion, he could request a reward. Shifting her gaze, she wondered when he would ask. Of what he would ask, she no longer had any doubt.
How she would answer, she still didn’t know.
It all hinged on whether she loved him.
She felt like a Shakespearean heroine, gazing at the moon, asking: What is love?
Two nights had passed since the morning they’d farewelled Patience, since Gerrard had informed her he would be painting for longer hours. She’d posed through the afternoon and into the late evening of both days. He’d retired with her to the bed in the alcove, but later had returned to his canvas.
This morning, when at dawn he’d walked her back to her room, he’d told her he wouldn’t need her again. He was painting her face, her features; not only didn’t he need her for that, but he’d explained he didn’t want the distraction of setting eyes on her during the process.
She’d borne her banishment with good grace, but she’d grown accustomed to being awake at dawn. To being with him through the dark watches of the night.
Restless, she’d come to her window, to stare at the waning moon and ask the ancient question. Much good had it done her.
The lamps were still burning in the attics; she could see the reflection in the glasshouse panes. He was still working…Lips setting, she straightened. If he was, he needed to rest. He’d been painting almost around the clock for more than two days.
The night was hot and sultry; a thunderstorm grumbled in the distance as she slipped through the shadows of the upper corridor and eased open the door to the hidden stair. The boards didn’t creak as she quietly climbed; at the top, she opened the door to the studio, and peered in.
He wasn’t in front of the canvas. She looked around, then slipped in and closed the door. He wasn’t in the main section-but the portrait was.
It was complete, finished; she didn’t need him to tell her so.
It was remarkable, powerful. It drew her. She stood before it and stared, transfixed. The woman in the painting was her, yet a her with so much on show, so much plainly at stake, emotion welled and blocked her throat.
He hadn’t painted simple innocence, although innocence was plainly there, but the emotions that gave innocence its credibility. Loss, confusion, and a sense of betrayal that had sunk to the soul.
She shivered; despite the heat, she wrapped her arms about her and clutched her wrapper close.
The setting was potent, frightening. Even safe in London in the attics of his house, she could taste the danger, the suffocating tension. Raw menace seeped from the dark leaves of the garden, trying to engulf her and draw her back, into the shadows. The moonlight was faint, a mere suggestion of illumination, not strong enough to light the path ahead.
Darkness predominated, not mere black but a palette of shifting colors, not passive but active evil, alive, still hungry, still wanting her.
The woman in the painting desperately needed someone to reach out and haul her free of the cloying web that miasmalike held her trapped.
The woman in the portrait was her.
She let out a shuddering breath. Drew another in, and looked away, slowly stepped away, out of the portrait’s hold. Beyond evocative, it would free her. Looking around, she searched for its creator.
For her champion who would succeed.
She found him in the alcove, asleep.
Stripped, he’d sprawled facedown across the bed. Standing in the gap between the tapestries, she let her gaze roam, over his muscled shoulders, over the sweep of his back, the indentations below his waist, the swell of his buttocks, the long, muscled lines of his legs.
Moving inside, she let the tapestry close behind her, shutting off the lamplight. Moonlight fell softly, illuminating the scene as she paused by the bed and let her wrapper fall. Raising her hands, she undid the ties of her loose nightgown, and let it slide down to puddle at her feet. Stepping free, she lifted one knee to the bed and crawled
