The Truth about Love

15

Gerrard awoke, then mentally cursed, lifted his head and squinted across the room. The clock stated it was nearly six o’clock. Too late to…

Swallowing a resigned sigh, he raised a hand to Jacqueline’s shoulder and gently shook. “Wake up, sweetheart. You have to get back to your room before the maids are about.”

She roused slowly, dreamily, then opened her eyes and blinked up at him. Then she smiled, a cat drunk on cream; before he could restrain her, she stretched against him, angling up to press her lips to his.

With predictable results.

He inwardly groaned, but couldn’t resist the sweetness, the simple unalloyed delight. But when she drew back on a happy sigh, he gritted his teeth and set her from him. “We have to get you back. Now.”

She grumbled, but he held firm; bundling her from the bed, he scrambled into his clothes, then went to lace her gown.

Still floating on the aftermath of pleasure, Jacqueline leaned back against him, thrilled to be able to so brazenly claim the hardness of his body, and its heat. Tilting her head back, she caught his eyes, lifted her lips.

He hesitated, but then obliged…she inwardly exulted; he couldn’t resist, it seemed.

Just as well; after all she’d experienced last night, she feared she was addicted-it would be comforting if he was, too.

The kiss ended and he lifted his head, but only partially. His lips brushed her temple; she sighed and looked forward, relaxed and nearly boneless against him.

“What was your ‘thank you’ for?” His words, soft and deep, floated past her ear. “Just so I know.”

Her smile grew, softened. “For so unstintingly and devotedly showing me so much that I’d wanted to know.”

He straightened, steadying her on her feet; she felt him tightening her laces. “Are you grateful enough to bestow a reward?”

He liked claiming rewards, but…“Assuredly your efforts deserve one, but…” He finished tying her laces. His hands fell away and she turned to face him. “What more could I possibly give that you would want?”

Her gaze reached his face. To her surprise, his expression was unreadable; there was no teasing glint in his eyes.

He held her gaze for a moment, then murmured, “I’ll think of something. But now”-taking her arm, he turned her to the door-“let’s get you safely to your room.”

Gerrard escorted her all the way. They could hear the distant sounds of the household stirring belowstairs, but no staff had yet ventured to the upper floors. At her door, they parted with one last, passionate kiss, then he swiftly retraced his route through the still quiet corridors.

As he’d suspected, she wasn’t thinking of marriage. Regardless, she was going to have to start, and soon. He might not have any experience in influencing females in such a direction, yet how hard could it be to turn an unmarried twenty-three-year-old, gently reared lady’s mind to matrimony?

In her room, Jacqueline stripped off her gown-again-then slumped into bed, and instantly fell asleep.

She woke late. As she hurried through her morning ablutions, it wasn’t the events of the night that claimed her mind, but rather their consequences.

Given the intimacies they’d shared, how should she behave toward Gerrard? Prior to him, she’d done nothing more than kiss a man. Now…

She had no idea; regardless, five minutes later, in a gown of sprig muslin becomingly flounced, she glided into the breakfast parlor.

Seated at his usual place at the table, Gerrard looked up and met her eyes. His expression remained mild, yet his eyes held memories that sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine.

He inclined his head. “Good morning.”

Surreptitiously, she cleared her throat. “Good morning.”

Dragging her eyes from him, she nodded to Barnaby, who returned her greeting with a guileless smile. After helping herself to sustenance, she returned to the table and sat. Millicent poured tea for her; Mitchel passed the cup. Jacqueline took it, sipped, and gathered her wits. So far, so good.

Millicent launched into a review of their various successes at the ball. “I’m still not sure Godfrey has correctly grasped the wider implications.” She, Gerrard and Barnaby filled the minutes trading observations.

“I warn you,” Millicent said, setting down her napkin, “we’ll have a small army of callers this afternoon. They’ll all want to learn more-it would be helpful if you gentlemen could be present to assist.”

“Yes, of course,” Barnaby said.

Gerrard’s agreement came more slowly. With a glance at Jacqueline, he pushed back his chair. “If I’m to spend the afternoon in the drawing room, I must get some painting done. If you’ll excuse me?”

Millicent waved a gracious dismissal. Stifling a twinge of regret, Jacqueline smiled and let him go.

If he was going to spend the morning painting…She turned to Millicent. “I need to check through the linen closets. If you have no special need of me, I’ll do that this morning.”

Millicent agreed. Her aunt engaged Barnaby in a discussion of mutual acquaintances in Bath.

Mitchel Cunningham rose as she did, and accompanied her to the door. “I gather,” he said, “that last night was enjoyable?”

Mitchel occasionally attended such events, but not always; he hadn’t attended last night. She smiled. “It was, more so than I’d expected.”

He hesitated, then asked, “The Entwhistles were there?”

“Yes.” She met his eyes. “It was a relief to be able to speak with them. They’re as determined as we are to find poor Thomas’s killer.”

Mitchel studied her; he appeared perplexed. “I see.”

A frown in his eyes, he bowed and they parted.

Wondering-for quite the first time-how Mitchel viewed her, Jacqueline headed for Mrs. Carpenter’s room.

After conferring with the housekeeper, she summoned the appropriate maids and went to attend to the mundane chore of assessing the sheets and towels. That done, she extended her purview to include all the napery.

She was running her eye over a linen tablecloth when the clocks struck twelve, and she realized with some surprise that Eleanor hadn’t turned up for one of their customary walks in the gardens. She couldn’t recall the last local ball she’d attended after which Eleanor hadn’t appeared the following morning to review, often in salacious vein, the highlights of the previous night.

Uttering a mental thank-you to fate, Jacqueline owned to significant relief. She had no wish to listen to a diatribe against Gerrard for refusing Eleanor’s advances. And while she might privately preen at having captured his attentions herself, she saw no reason to let Eleanor know she had succeeded where Eleanor had failed.

That would not be nice. It also struck her as potentially unwise. Eleanor could be vindictive when thwarted. Although she’d never been the target of Eleanor’s ire, she was relieved not to have their long friendship put to that particular test.

Lunch came, and went, with no sign of Gerrard.

As Millicent had predicted, when the clocks struck three, the callers descended. A veritable horde, they filled the drawing room and overflowed onto the terrace.

Barnaby had joined them just before the rush to glibly lend his aid. Scanning the heads, he paused beside Jacqueline. “I’ll go and fetch Gerrard. I think he’s actually painting, which means he’ll have no notion of the time.”

After last night, she was much more confident of playing her part in their plan; she hesitated, conscious of a wish to have Gerrard by her side, yet also reluctant to interfere with his crucial work on her portrait. “If he’s absorbed”-she looked up at Barnaby-“perhaps we should leave him to paint in peace. I’m sure I’ll be able to manage-and you’ll be here, too.”

Barnaby met her eyes, then smiled. “I doubt Gerrard would agree. With a choice between being by your side in such a situation, and painting your portrait undisturbed in the attic, I suspect he’ll toss his brushes aside without a thought.” His smile deepened. “I’ll slip up and remind him-aside from all else, he’ll have my head if I don’t.”

Jacqueline watched him ease his way through the crowd. Eyes narrowing, she wondered how much he’d guessed.

Wondered if his words were true. He knew Gerrard rather well, after all.

“Where’s Mr. Adair off to?”

Jacqueline swung to face Eleanor. She’d arrived with her mother, sullen and sulking, presumably over Gerrard, who, of course, wasn’t present to squirm over her mope. “He’ll return in a moment-he’s gone to fetch Mr. Debbington from the nursery.”

Eyes on the doorway through which Barnaby had gone, Eleanor tilted her head. “Is he painting, then? Mr. Debbington?”

“Yes. He’s commenced the portrait.”

“Have you seen it?” Eleanor turned to study her face.

“No-he doesn’t show his work until it’s completed, even to the subject.”

“How…arrogant.” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed; she glanced again at the doorway. “He refused point-blank to dally with me in the gardens last night-he was quite curt about it, too. Indeed, I’m starting to wonder about Mr. Debbington-about whether he’s a trifle queer.”

“Oh?” Jacqueline heard the defensive note in her voice; she fought to convert it to simple curiosity. “Queer in what way?”

“Well, you know what they say about artists.” Eleanor lowered her voice. “Perhaps he’s one of those who prefer boys rather than women.”

Jacqueline was thankful Eleanor was still looking at the doorway, and so missed her slack jaw. Words of denial leapt to her tongue; she swallowed them just in time. “Ah…surely not.”

How could she defend Gerrard over such a charge-how could she explain how she knew?

Another thought struck. Was this how rumors, damaging whispers without any foundation, started? Just a spiteful, speculative comment, and…

She glanced around, confirming no one else stood close enough to have heard.

Lady Tannahay caught her eye and beckoned.

“Come.” Jacqueline wound her arm in Eleanor’s, determined to distract her from her latest tack. “Lady Tannahay wishes to speak with us.”

Ruthlessly, she drew Eleanor with her, away from other, less well informed minds.

Through the open nursery window, Gerrard had heard the chatter of many voices drifting up from the terrace. He’d glanced at the small clock Compton had placed on the scarred mantelpiece, sighed and set aside his brushes, then headed downstairs to change his shirt.

He was striding down the corridor to the gallery when Barnaby appeared, heading his way. “How is it?” he asked.

“Interesting.” Halting, Barnaby waited until he joined him. “They’re all eager to hear more. From the prevailing attitude, I’d say we’re well on the way to ensuring no one suspects Jacqueline of any involvement in Thomas’s murder.”

Turning to walk beside him, Barnaby went on, “As for her mother’s death, some of the ladies are indeed wondering whether that, too, is a conclusion that needs revisiting.”

Gerrard glanced at him. “Have any of them broached the subject?”

“No. It’s more a case of them suddenly being struck by the possibility, but as yet no one is game to openly question the accepted truth.”

Gerrard looked ahead. “So we still need the portrait.”

“Indubitably. The portrait will give them precisely the right opportunity to voice their wonderings aloud.” Reaching the stairs, they went quickly down. “And that,” Barnaby declared, “is the opening we need.”

They stepped off the stairs, both concealing their resolution behind the affable masks they used to charm. With assured ease, they strolled into the drawing room; exchanging a glance, they parted.

Gerrard saw Jacqueline speaking with Lady Tannahay, Eleanor beside her. Both were facing away; neither had seen him. Deeming Jacqueline for the moment safe, he paused to chat to the numerous other ladies keen to pass the time-to politely inquire about his family, his stay in the area, but most importantly to learn all he knew of Thomas Entwhistle’s death.

Barnaby was similarly engaged on the opposite side of the room. Seated on the central chaise, Millicent held court. The entire gathering, including those who’d stepped out onto the terrace to admire the view-and stare at the cypresses in the Garden of Hades-exuded a significantly different tone to that which had held sway when they’d first set foot in Lady Trewarren’s ballroom. Eyes had been opened, perceptions turned around. Barnaby was right; over the matter of Thomas’s death, they’d succeeded in lifting suspicion from Jacqueline.

Buoyed, Gerrard smiled; reassured, increasingly relaxed, he circled the room to join Jacqueline.

She looked up when he halted beside her, and smiled. Warmth leapt to her eyes and set them glowing; her lips softened. “Hello.”

He met her eyes, inclined his head.

A heartbeat passed, then she blinked, recollected herself and faced forward. “Lady Tannahay has been asking after you-after the portrait.”

“Indeed.” Her lips curving, her eyes twinkling, Lady Tannahay extended her hand.

Gerrard took it and bowed. He answered her ladyship’s queries readily, and was rewarded with her suggestion that he take the two young ladies for a stroll on the terrace. They parted from her ladyship with a bow and curtsies. Gerrard drew Jacqueline closer, his hand at the back of her waist as he turned her toward the French doors.

She looked up at him, that same open, transparently trusting expression softening her countenance; he felt as if he was literally basking in the glow, then he looked past her, to Eleanor Fritham.

Eleanor’s expression had blanked; she looked from him to Jacqueline, then, eyes narrowing, glanced once more at him before turning her attention, now acute and frankly chilly, to Jacqueline. “I thought-”

“Ladies.” He spoke over Eleanor, drowning her words, deflecting their edge. Smiling charmingly, he took Jacqueline’s arm. “Shall we stroll?”

Smiling in return, Jacqueline nodded, then looked at Eleanor.

Over Jacqueline’s head, he met Eleanor’s eyes.

She’d heard the warning in his tone, read the same message in his eyes. She hesitated, then nodded, thin-lipped. “By all means-let’s walk on the terrace.”

He didn’t like her tone, and even less the impression that she was planning to pay him back for his rejection of her-and his preference for Jacqueline.

But by the time they’d gained the terrace, Eleanor had reverted to her customary friendliness, at least toward Jacqueline. Toward him, she remained watchful and sharp-eyed. Like a stalking cat.

Jacqueline was lighthearted, relaxed, her gaze warming whenever it rested on him. He was certain she wasn’t aware of it, or of how easily Eleanor at least was reading her reaction and, he would swear, interpreting it correctly. Jacqueline’s innate openness left her blind to Eleanor’s two faces.

He was alert, on guard, but they moved through the ladies gathered on the terrace, chatting here and there, and nothing happened. He’d started to relax again when abuptly Eleanor halted and, smiling, turned to Jacqueline.

“Let’s go down and stroll through the Garden of Night.” They were standing before the main garden stairs. Eleanor spread her arms, attracting the attention of other ladies nearby. “It’s a lovely afternoon, and I’m sure Mr. Debbington would like to view the garden with a guide who knows it well.” She focused on Jacqueline. “You haven’t taken him through it, have you?”

He glanced at Jacqueline; her expression had grown stony, rigid-distant. Her inner shields had sprung up.

“No.” The word was flat, expressionless.

Her fingers had tightened on his arm.

Eleanor shook her head, smiling in fond exasperation. “I don’t know why you won’t walk there anymore-your mama’s been gone for over a year. You’ll have to venture in there again sometime.”

With a bold, brazen smile, Eleanor reached to take his arm.

Jacqueline caught her wrist.

Eleanor jerked, taken aback. Her eyes widened.

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.”

He never would. Gerrard waited, watched her fight to hold on to sufficient wit to consider his decree…Releasing her breasts, he loosened her sash, parted her robe and slid his hands beneath. Around, past her waist to slide down, over her hips to possessively caress the lush curves of her bottom.

Her gaze grew more distant, her senses following his wandering hands.

“Do you agree?” he prompted.

She refocused on his face, studied his eyes. “Do I have any choice?”

He eased her closer, moving deliberately into her. “No.”

Hands rising to his shoulders, she tipped back her head to keep her eyes on his. “Then why ask?”

“Because I wanted you to know the answer. To understand how things are…will be.”

“I see.” Jacqueline held his gaze as he drew her against him, quelled a reactive shiver at the strength in his hands, wondered what it was she saw burning behind the rich brown of his eyes. “And now I know…what next?”

“Now you know…” He bent his head. “We go on.”

On. That was precisely where she wanted to go; Jacqueline returned his kiss with fervor, eager to learn what path he’d chosen, what sensual avenue he’d set his mind upon.

He shifted, angling his head; the kiss turned heated, demanding. His arms closed around her, locking her to him, then his hands spread, molding her to him, leaving her in no doubt whatever of his rapacious need.

To her surprise, he drew back from the kiss, unhurriedly, as if he knew she was his and intended taking all the time he wished to savor her. Eventually he raised his head; she lifted her lids and looked up at him. He studied her face, searching, she didn’t know for what.

His hand tightened about her bottom, lifting her to him, blatantly shifting her hips against the ridge of his erection.

“The lamps-do you mind if I light them?”

His tone and the predatory look in his eyes suggested the question had sprung from ingrained manners; it was no true request.

“If you wish” was on the tip of her tongue; she caught it back, asked instead, “Why?”

His roving gaze returned to her eyes. “Because I want to see you.” Smoothly, gracefully, he released her, and clasped her hand. “To view you as I make love to you.”

Her senses leapt; she felt giddy. The heat in his eyes beckoned, caressed-promised all manner of illicit delights.

Eyes locked on hers, he raised her hand, brushed his lips across her fingers, then unfurled them and pressed a burningly hot kiss to her palm.

She swallowed, nodded. “Very well.”

Her voice wasn’t entirely steady. He turned her; she dragged in a breath as he led her across the room to where a pair of bronze lamps stood on either end of a narrow side table. On the wall behind the table hung a rectangular mirror, wide and high within an ornate gilt frame.

He halted before the table. Releasing her, he lit one lamp; she tracked him in the mirror as he crossed behind her to light the other. The flames flared, then steadied; he glanced at her, clearly gauging the golden light bathing her. To her surprise, he turned the lamp lower, checking the level of light, then crossed to adjust the other.

When he turned, she swung to face him. He took her hand; she expected him to lead her to the bed-instead, he moved her back, turning her, positioning her before the center of the table, facing the mirror midway between the lamps. He moved to stand behind her; over her head, he looked into the mirror-at her, her body-then lifted his gaze to her eyes. And smiled.

Not his charming social smile but that slight curving of the corners of his lips that was far more sincere-and infinitely more predatory.

“Perfect.” Reaching for her shoulders, he drew her robe down and away. He tossed it aside, over an armchair, but his eyes never left her; as he stepped closer, his gaze lowered from her face. In the mirror she followed his gaze, and saw what he did, the tight peaks of her full breasts standing proud through the fine lawn of her nightgown.

The gown was virginal white, thin and soft, now gilded by the warm glow from the lamps. She’d fastened the long placket to just above her breasts. His gaze drifted lower, over the indentation of her waist and the flare of her hips, and lower, over her stomach to the faint shadow that was the curls at the apex of her thighs. His gaze lingered, then swept slowly on and down, then unhurriedly returned to her face.

The lengthy perusal had heated her; as he studied her eyes she wondered if it showed. She was tensing to turn and face him when he shifted, and lifted her hair. She’d brushed it out; a thick rippling river, she’d left it running down her back. He speared his fingers through it, then raised his hands and lifted the spread veil forward, over her shoulders.

His face a mask, hard, unreadable, he laid the long tresses down. Shaking his fingers free, he studied the result, then artfully shifted this strand, then that, until he was satisfied.

Until her bright brown hair lay partially over her breasts, an inadequate but distracting screen, burnished by the lamplight.

Before she could comment, he reached for her; sliding his hands about her waist, he closed the last inches between them. She felt his hard warmth at her back and relaxed, but his hold on her waist prevented her from sinking back against him.

Holding her before him, he bent his head; through the strands of her hair, with his lips he found and traced her lobe, then dipped to press a long kiss to the sensitive spot behind her jaw.

“Unbutton your nightgown.”

The words whispered past her ear, distilled seduction. She inwardly smiled; catching his eye as he glanced up, into the mirror, she willingly raised her fingers to the highest button, and slid it free.

His hands rode at her waist, hot and strong, fingers tensing as her hands descended. He watched, unblinking, as she slipped each button free.

“Open it. Wide.”

Gravelly, forceful, the quiet words sent a shiver spiraling down her spine. Her gaze locked on the vision in the mirror, she grasped the sides of the nightgown and slowly lifted them apart, drew them aside, revealing her breasts, full, firm, already tight.

The lamplight flowed over her, highlighting planes and curves, casting others in shadow. His gaze didn’t race, but perused her bared flesh in an intense yet leisurely appraisal; under that blatantly assessing, flagrantly male gaze, her nipples furled into painfully tight buds.

He straightened, lifting his head. Still close behind her, he raised his hands-caught her gaze as he closed the fingers of each about the rucked shoulders of her nightgown, and eased it off, and down.

Glancing down, he ran his hands down her arms, freeing them from the gown’s sleeves. “Put your hands on the edge of the table.”

He looked up, met her eyes as, wondering, she slowly obeyed, leaning forward to place her hands on the wooden tabletop, lightly gripping the edge.

“Don’t shift your hands until I give you leave.”

Give her leave…She was suddenly very certain he was choosing his words deliberately; he was uttering them evenly, as orders, not mere directions. Instructions he expected her to obey…as if she were…his utterly.

His to do with as he pleased.

A shudder racked her, yet she felt no trepidation, not the lightest lick of fear. What she felt was excitement, the dark thrill of wanton desire.

And he was feeding that, scripting the moment-as he wished, perhaps, but why did he wish it? She glanced at his face, the planes austere in the lamplight, his expression stark, not so much impassive as set.

His gaze had left her face to wander down over her breasts, then lower. Her nightgown had gathered in loose folds about her hips. His hands returned, palms sliding bare across her naked skin, warm yet hard, long-fingered, strong as they lightly gripped her waist, then swept, slowly, down.

Over her hips, taking her nightgown with them until it slipped over her thighs and slid to the floor, a soft puddle at her feet.

Leaving her naked, bathed in lamplight.

Her breath caught, her lungs seized. Her nerves coiled tight, every thought, all reaction, frozen as she drank in the sight. Of herself, a golden nymph poised in the lamplight, a faerie being trapped in this world-unreal, ephemeral. Magical.

She recognized her face, her hair, her form. This was her, yet not; what was reflected in the mirror was a truth she’d never seen, a woman she’d never before known.

A siren unveiled.

She felt his gaze, hot as a flame, rove her skin, following her own as, stunned, she examined. Then he looked at her face, studied it; she realized and raised her gaze, met his dark eyes.

He raised his hands, again spanned her waist, then slowly slid them up, palms to her heating skin. Spreading his fingers over her midriff, he gripped and eased her back against him; bending his head, he set his lips to the tip of her shoulder, then traced lightly inward, nudging her head aside so he could lave the pulse thundering at the base of her throat. “Don’t speak, or move. Just look. Watch. And feel.”

She had no choice; fascination held her spellbound, trapped in the fantasy he’d created. A fantasy in which every inhibition had flown, and there was just her, him, and need.

His need to possess her utterly, hers to fulfill that need.

Desire.

It welled as his hands rose beneath the curtain of her hair and closed about her breasts. Her head fell back against his shoulder as his fingers flexed, kneaded; her breath shivered, then suspended on a gasp as he found her nipples, and squeezed. Played.

He knew how to make her frantic, how to call to her desire and send it rushing through her, sweeping all reservations away. It thrummed through her veins, heated her skin until her body glowed with its flame.

From beneath lids suddenly heavy, through the tracery of her lashes she watched as he aroused her, then, as if satisfied with some private assessment, he brushed aside the screening veil of her hair to fully expose her breasts, filling his hands.

Possessed. His to savor as he pleased.

He lifted his head, joined her in her rapt contemplation. His hands moved, pandering to her senses, to his desire. The lamplight touched his face, hard and unyielding; it washed over the flushed curves of her body, painting them soft, giving-vulnerable in their nakedness.

One tanned hand left her breast, splayed across her midriff, then moved down, stroking heavily as if savoring the texture of her skin, then angling over her taut stomach and tensing, pressing in.

Pressing her hips, her bottom, against his hard thighs, tilting them so his rigid erection rode against her, an insistent pressure in the small of her back.

Her senses swelled, her breaths were short, shallow; her head was whirling. The promise of pleasure was so potent she could taste it. Briefly she studied his face, wondered again why he wanted her like this. She could sense the control he was exerting, the grim determination that held him back from simply having her, that allowed him to take her along this road, into an illicit paradise.

It was a type of bondage, one with no physical chains, yet the chains were there-Gerrard knew it. He sensed her gaze on his face, sensed the question forming in her mind. He lowered his gaze, lowered his hand, felt her attention shift, leaving his face to lock on his questing fingers.

He speared them through the tawny curls, caught a few between his fingertips and rubbed, as if gauging their texture. Then he fluffed the curls, and noted she’d stopped breathing. He paused, fingertips poised over the shadowed hollow at the apex of her thighs, to knead her breast, to again squeeze her nipple, tight, then tighter, until her concentration fractured. Until she gasped. Writhed.

All but begged. Her hips angled forward, lifted, her curls brushing his fingers in open entreaty.

He accepted the invitation. Slid two fingers into the heated hollow, stroked, found the sensitive pearl throbbing beneath its hood and swirled, then pressed deeper and probed.

She started to shift, to part her thighs to give him better access.

“No. Don’t move. Remain exactly as you are.”

Panting lightly, eyes wide, pupils distended, she obeyed. With her thighs together, he couldn’t penetrate more than an inch past the slick, swollen lips of her sheath.

Far enough for his purpose, far enough to reduce her to desperation. Ruthlessly he wound her tight, gave her just so much and no more…

Abruptly, she dragged in a breath and caught his eyes. “What do you want from me?”

“More.”

“More how?”

Suddenly, he knew. It was as if her question had opened a door in his mind; he’d intended to show her her own sensual nature-it seemed that in doing so, she would teach him of his own. The vision that formed in his mind stole his breath; her lips were parted, her skin already flushed, yet she waited…for his answer.

To learn what he truly wished of her.

“I want to watch you reach ecstasy. Here, with the lamplight pouring over you. I want you to let me view you as I push you over the peak.”

Three heartbeats passed; her eyes locked on his, she knew exactly what he asked. Even, perhaps, why he asked.

She nodded. “All right.”

Again she shifted to part her thighs.

“No. Not like that.”

She looked up at him, her question in her eyes.

He released her breast, spread that hand over her stomach and drew her hips back; still gripping the table’s edge, she had to lean further forward. Releasing her, he gripped her hip, anchoring her before him, then withdrew his fingers from the hot haven beneath her curls, shifted back, reached beneath the sweet swell of her bottom, into the dark hollow between the backs of her thighs, and slid his fingers deep into her sheath.

She gasped, spine tensing, head arching back; his hand clamped about her hip, he held her in place as he worked his fingers deep. Her slickness scorched; the musky scent of her rose to tease him.

He ignored it. Gave all his attention to pleasuring her, to watching her while he did. He found the right rhythm, the perfect angle, the correct length of penetration; stroking in and back, blatantly intent, he set about driving her on.

She responded, skin suffused, muscles fluidly shifting as she rode his fingers. She’d understood what he desired, and was unstinting in yielding all he’d wished for, bringing his wild, illicit vision to life.

He couldn’t tear his gaze from her, had to fight to dissociate his mind from the firm and giving softness of her body, from the hot slickness of her sheath, from the scent of passion that wreathed about them and tried to draw him in. He found desire fracturing as like a man parched he drank in the beauty of her shifting form, of the naked desire she so freely let show.

Despite giving herself up so completely to passion, despite the physical absorption, she still watched him; he caught the glint of her bright eyes under her lowered lids, and realized she wasn’t the only one exposed.

She seemed steady on her feet. He released her hip, then stepped back and to the side-so she lost any contact with him beyond his hand buried between her thighs, so he could with greater detachment better view her body as she responded.

Without reserve.

She raised her head and shook back her hair. Her eyes met his, her breasts thrust forward, nipples proudly erect. With his free hand he reached out, slid his fingers around one pert peak, and played.

Pushed her further.

For long moments he pandered to her need, and watched her scale the peak. Her eyes closed, her knuckles tightened on the table; inexorably he drove her on.

Until she was almost there. She gasped, opened eyes dark and wild and found his. “Come with me. Now.”

An unbelievably evocative plea-half sob, half command. He hadn’t intended it, yet the lure of the visual, of all she’d allowed him to see, the allure of her body, so female and flushed with desire, the evocative lines and even more evocative scent of passion, coalesced like a net and dragged him in. Detachment was beyond him.

His fingers were flicking open the buttons at his waist as he moved to stand directly behind her. Awareness of all he’d blocked out rushed back. He was rigid, aching; it was an inexpressible relief to withdraw his fingers from her body, and replace them with that part of his anatomy he’d been ignoring for the last hour.

Untold relief to sink his throbbing staff into the heated heaven between her thighs.

He groaned, the sound revealing more than he’d expected. He cracked open lids that had fallen closed, and in the mirror found her eyes. Still watching him.

A small, slight smile curved her lips.

He tightened his hands about her hips, lifted her up, onto her toes, drew back, and plunged in.

She asked for no quarter, neither with words, sobs or moans; if anything, she pressed back against him, meeting his thrusts and urging him on.

He rode her deep, hard, unrestrained, freed from the shackles of the conventional-by her. By her willingness to give him all he wished, by her openness, her unlimited honesty in this, in the enjoyment she took, the pleasure she found, in engaging in sex with him, in taking him into her body, and lavishing pleasure on him.

Her face showed it all, eyes now closed, a witchy little smile curving her parted lips, a small, luscious indent between her brows as she concentrated, her senses wholly focused on where they joined.

On the hot pleasure of his filling her.

The peak beckoned, loomed ever nearer, then she was there. He thrust harder, deeper, prolonging the moment, with her through every panting gasp-then the rippling contractions of her surrender caught him; she tightened about him, and took him with her.

Over the edge and into sheer delight.

He had no idea how he managed to keep them upright, but eventually he withdrew from her, swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He went back to douse the lamps, then stripped and joined her beneath the covers.

She murmured, a soft, sleepy declaration of contentment; lips still curved, she settled in his arms.

He lay back, listening to the heavy beat of his heart as it slowed from the thundering cadence of a sexual adventure that had extended far beyond his expectations. He’d set the stage, his aim crystal clear; she’d accepted his challenge, yielded all he’d asked, but then something else had overtaken them.

It wasn’t the first time that had occurred. With no other woman had he found himself, not out of control yet under the direction, or so it seemed, of some power greater than himself.

Not that he was complaining.

Closing his eyes, he sank into the mattress, felt deep and complete satiation claim him, and let his own lips curve. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do-to create sexual, sensual chains between them, and bind her to him. The concept was primitive, frankly possessive, but that suited his mood. Even more importantly, with her and him, the chains were real; they would work. Because she was so freely ardent, so open and honest in her passions, he could bind her through her senses’ delight. Through pleasure.

Through the very act of possession-hers…and, it occurred to him, his. The realization drifted across his mind as sleep slipped in and drew him down.