The Truth about Love

17

Later that night, Jacqueline stood in Gerrard’s studio, and watched him sketch her into the portrait. Everyone else had retired to their beds.

In the front hall when they’d returned from dinner, he’d explained the routine he intended to follow, working through the nights as the scene was set in moonlight, then sleeping through the morning before rising to reassess and prepare through the afternoon, so that at night he could paint again. His clear aim was to complete the portrait as soon as possible.

Everyone understood why that was desirable. On the journey to town, they’d discussed and agreed that while there was no need to bruit the purpose behind the portrait to society at large, it was necessary that Gerrard’s family understood both the urgency and importance behind the work. As he’d explained, their discretion could be relied on, and their knowing would ensure that no vestige of scandal attached to her because of her attendance in his studio, whatever the hours, regardless of the privacy.

Having met his family, she now fully understood. It was comforting knowing they were so supportive, indeed, so interested and determined that all would go well for Gerrard and their endeavor, and her, too.

He’d posed her beside a plaster column, her right hand raised, palm placed lightly to the column’s surface; in the portrait, the column would be the side of the archway that was the lower entrance to the Garden of Night. Her hand would be holding aside a piece of creeper.

He’d shown her what he’d done so far; she could see the effect he was aiming for. It would be powerful, evocative. Convincing.

All she needed the portrait to be.

She stood unmoving, her gaze fixed as he’d instructed, to the left of where he worked behind his easel; her mind roamed, to all else she’d seen and learned that day.

The visit to Helen Purfett’s salon had been interesting; they would return tomorrow afternoon, and the three afternoons after that, for fittings, but it would be just the two of them. Millicent, Minnie, Timms and Patience had lost interest in the process, although they were still exceedingly keen to see her in the finished product.

She hesitated, then remembered Gerrard was not yet sketching any details, just the lines of her body, her limbs. He’d promised tonight would be a short session, a training for the hours that would come; for now she could let her expression relax-let her lips curve as she recalled the rest of her day.

During their journey, she’d wondered whether she would find his relatives, especially the ladies, intimidating; they were, after all, members of the haut ton, and had been all their lives. Admittedly, she wasn’t all that easily intimidated, yet the transparently warm welcome they’d accorded her, and the ease with which she’d found herself relaxing into, as it were, the bosom of his family, had not just surprised her, but left her feeling amazingly buoyed.

Not just reassured, but more-as if she was one of them, accepted and embraced.

Millicent, too, seemed happy and gratified. Her aunt had already formed a bond with Minnie and Timms; they were much of a kind, absorbed with observing the lives of those around them.

By the time she’d gone up to dress for dinner, she’d lost every last trepidatious reservation. She’d looked forward to the prospect of his family dinner with genuine anticipation.

To her surprise, he’d arrived at the house while she was dressing. He’d paced in the drawing room, then whisked her into his carriage the instant she was ready, leaving Millicent to follow later with Minnie and Timms. They’d driven to Patience’s house in Curzon Street-and gone straight to the nursery.

Her smile deepened. She hadn’t until then thought of Gerrard with children, but the trio who’d yelled and come pelting toward him had been totally sure of their reception. With, it had proved, complete justification. He’d devoted half an hour to them. After quelling their rowdy greetings, he’d introduced her; the children had smiled and accepted her in the same, trusting manner their parents had-as if, because she was with Gerrard, she was beyond question a rightful member of their circle.

He’d filled their ears with tales of the gardens of Hellebore Hall. She’d sat quietly and listened; the little girl, Therese, had climbed onto her lap with sublime confidence that she would be welcome. She’d smiled and settled the warm bundle of soft limbs and body, then rested her cheek on the child’s head and listened to Gerrard paint her home as she’d never seen it.

Yet she recognized it. That was his talent, to see and be able to convey the magic in landscapes, in the combined creations of nature and man.

When they heard the gong summoning them downstairs, she’d been as reluctant to leave as the children had been to let them go. To her surprise, Therese had kissed her cheek and solemnly informed her she had to come with Gerrard when next he visited.

Touched, she’d smiled. Leaning down, she’d brushed a kiss to Therese’s forehead, then lightly ruffled her golden curls. A strange feeling, warm and appealing, had bloomed inside her-even now, reliving it, she wasn’t sure what it had meant.

They’d gone down to dinner. It should have been an ordeal, a test she’d had to face. Instead, it had been a relaxed and entertaining affair with much laughter, conversation unlimited, and goodwill on all sides.

She hadn’t expected the men to be so charming. No one had had to tell her that they wielded considerable power, not just in society but in wider spheres. Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, was the head of the family, a mantle he’d been born to and carried with flair. He was impressive, yet he’d smiled and teased her; his duchess, Honoria, had dismissed her powerful husband with a haughty wave and welcomed her warmly.

Yet despite their outward ease, in the drawing room after dinner she’d noticed the men-Devil, Vane and Horatia’s husband, George-gathering around Gerrard with their port glasses in hand. The subject of the discussion had been serious; she was certain she knew what it had been.

Unconditional, instinctive support-that’s what had been behind that purposeful discussion. From the corner of her eye, she focused on Gerrard, still wielding his pencil, absorbed; she wondered if he knew how lucky he was to have a family like that. Not just behind him but all around him.

Always there to lend a hand.

He looked up, caught her eye, then he looked back at his work; a moment later, he stepped back. Head tilted, he glanced from it to her and back again, then he sighed, waved her to him, and turned aside to lay down his pencil.

She lowered her hand, worked her arm back and forth as she walked to him.

He met her before she rounded the easel, caught her waist and steered her back from the canvas. “There’s not enough there to make sense of yet.”

From a distance of inches, she met his eyes, searched them. “I can pose for longer-I’m not that tired.”

He shook his head. His gaze dropped to her lips. “I don’t want to overtax you.”

He bent his head and his lips found hers; as he whirled her senses into the flames, she wondered if her potential tiredness had prompted him to call a halt, or whether the strength of his desire-which apparently had escalated over five nights of abstinence-wasn’t instead the principal force driving him.

Regardless, he wanted her-here, now, as desperately as, within mere seconds, she wanted him. Their desire was mutual, wonderfully so, freeing them both from any hesitation. She offered her mouth, willingly offered her body; she was his to possess.

Gerrard knew it; her eager surrender was pure joy, the vital element that again and again reassured him, that soothed his primitively possessive soul-that side of his nature only she connected with. Only with her had he experienced it; only with her could he explore it and, it seemed, be whole, complete in a way he never had been before.

Between them, passion rose, heated and demanding. Without breaking the kiss, he stooped and swung her up into his arms. Her hands clutching his shoulders, urgently gripping, he carried her down the long narrow room. Ducking a shoulder between the tapestry hangings screening the room’s end, he walked through-to the wide boxed bed set under a pair of dormer windows on the western end of the house. If he’d been painting all night and couldn’t face the short walk home, this was where he collapsed.

Compton had made up the bed; with clean sheets, white pillows and a green satin comforter, it sat waiting.

Lifting his head, he waited for Jacqueline’s eyes to open, held her gaze for an instant, then smiled, wickedly, and tossed her on the bed.

She half swallowed a shriek, then laughed as, in a froth of skirts, she sank into the soft mattress; he’d had her pose in the gown she’d worn to dinner. Eagerly she looked to right and left, noting the sparse furniture in the alcove. He shrugged out of his shirt, then bent and eased off his boots, watching her all the while.

By the time her gaze returned to him, he was unbuttoning his trousers. She watched, her gaze steady, direct, then she lifted her eyes to his, and raised her hands to the buttons of her bodice.

Undid them, not shyly but with the sultry deliberation of a siren.

His lips curved, not in a smile but in blatant expectation. He stripped off his trousers. Naked, he stood at the end of the bed and flipped her skirts up to her hips. Reaching out, he let his fingertips glide down the fascinating curves of her legs, tracing, then he caught one garter and rolled it down, removing it, her stocking and slipper in one smooth caress. He repeated the action on her other leg, paused for a moment to admire the result, then joined her on the mattress. Pushing her skirts to her waist, he straddled her thighs, and reached for the gown’s shoulders as, on her elbows, she struggled to slide her arms free. Between them, they managed it; he drew the gown off over her head and tossed it aside.

Before he could, she tugged the drawstring of her chemise loose, and drew the fine garment up and off.

He had no idea where it landed, had no eyes for anything except her. Here, naked in his bed beneath him. He leaned forward, covered her lips and kissed her with all the passion in his soul, then he closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her.

Sitting back, he set her down straddling his thighs; he didn’t need to urge but simply guide her as she shifted forward, over his erection, then sank down and took him deep.

Into the heavenly heat of her body. Their eyes locked, held, and he felt as if she drew him into her soul.

He thrust in, deeper, nudging her womb. Her sheath was a velvet clamp, tight yet giving, slick and scorching as it contracted about his rigid length.

She spread her knees wider, pressed lower, then, satisfied she’d taken him all, she leaned forward; hands splaying, needy and greedy across his chest, she licked one nipple.

He caught his breath, then bent his head and nudged hers up. Their lips met, and the intimate fusion they both craved began.

Without reservation. Without restriction.

Hotter, harder, more intense, ultimately more primal, more primitive and powerful. It was as if with every day that passed they grew closer, learned more of the other, appreciated and thus knew there was yet more they could ask, more they could give. More they could give that the other would want. Would value.

In the last gasping moments when from under heavy lids, their gazes met and desperately clung, that last was beyond obvious. This was special, to them both unique. With no other could they give this much; no other could touch and take, no other would so wantonly seize.

No other could desire to this reckless extent.

They crested the peak in a tumultuous rush; blinded by glory, together they fell, swirling and sinking through their fragmented senses into the void of earthly bliss. Together, still, wrapped in each other’s arms they lay as the waves of satiation lapped about them.

The truth had never been so starkly clear.

For each of them, there was no other.

He left her slumped, exhausted in the bed, and returned to the portrait. Jacqueline had no idea where he got the strength, yet, as she reviewed recent events, she could possibly understand his inspiration.

Staring up at the segment of sky visible through the dormer windows, she tried to think, convinced she should, about their liaison-about how it had evolved, its all-consuming fire-but sleep wouldn’t be denied, and she succumbed.

He stirred her awake when the sky was still dark, when stars still sparkled, diamonds scattered by a god’s hand. He was a dark god, a shadow blocking out the stars as he rose above her, a night god claiming her, swift, certain, and sure, devastating and divine. In the dark of the night, he demanded and drove her; she sobbed, surrendered, and gave all he asked. Everything he desired. All she wanted.

Pleasure thrummed, hot and sweet through her veins, down her nerves, then completion took her and she shattered.

Later, when dawn was coloring the sky, he led her down to her room. He kissed her, then turned and went back up the hidden stairs. A silly smile on her lips, she watched until he disappeared, then waltzed across the room, and fell into bed.

As she’d arranged, no maid came to wake her until she rang. She slept until midday, then, thoroughly refreshed, rose and prepared for her day.

While Gerrard reviewed his work and planned what he would paint that night, she had a luncheon to attend, then he and she would visit Helen Purfett, after which she, Millicent, Minnie and Timms had been invited to a select afternoon tea at the Marchioness of Huntly’s London home.

That day proved a pattern card for those that followed. Other than for the fittings at Helen Purfett’s salon, she didn’t see Gerrard until he joined them for dinner. After that, he accompanied them to whatever evening engagement they’d accepted, but at ten o’clock, when the summer twilight had faded from the sky, he and she returned to Brook Street and his studio.

Her sessions posing beside the column grew steadily longer.

Their bouts of lovemaking grew progressively more intense.

More intensely intimate.

The brassy bronze gown was completed; clad in it, she stood beside the column. Courtesy of what he’d already painted, she could readily imagine she stood poised on the threshold of the Garden of Night.

About to step free of its cloying embrace.

When she needed a rest, he had her sit on a stool, her face at the same angle as when she was posed, and talk to him of the past-of her mother and Thomas, all she’d felt about their deaths and the hurt of the whisper campaign against her.

It no longer bothered her to speak of it, yet when she did, she could feel the old emotions rising through her-knew that was why he needed her to talk of it, so he could capture those feelings, all that showed in her face, for his canvas.

Increasingly, far more than she’d expected, the portrait became a shared enterprise; she hadn’t imagined that painter and subject could work together in such a way, yet with him and her, between them, they did.

She grew steadily more familiar with his work, more critically appreciative of his genius. For genius it was; the figure that took shape on the canvas was so vibrantly alive, every time she looked at it, it was a shock to realize it was her.

Since the day they’d arrived in London, she hadn’t seen Barnaby, but one evening at the end of the first week, he sought her and Gerrard out as they were strolling between the guests at Lady Chartwell’s soirée.

“There you are!” Joining them, Barnaby looked around the room. “You know, town’s not so bad in summer after all-despite the heat, it’s a dashed sight more comfortable than any damned house party.”

“And whose house party have you been attending?” Jacqueline asked.

Barnaby grimaced. “M’sister’s.” He met Gerrard’s eyes. “And she had, indeed, invited the dreadful Melissa.”

Gerrard grinned. “How did you escape?”

“Silently, in the dead of night.”

Jacqueline laughed.

Barnaby placed a hand over his heart. “Word of honor.”

“But why did you go?” she asked.

“I was chasing m’father. Ran him to earth there, and dashed if he didn’t join me in my clandestine bolt to the capital. He’s holed up in Bedford Square, swearing not to venture forth other than on official business. Useful, as it happened-I had plenty of time to bend his ear while on the way to town.”

“What did you learn?” Gerrard asked. Barnaby’s father, the Earl of Sanford, was one of the committee of peers overseeing the newly established metropolitan police force.

Barnaby glanced around, confirming that no one else stood near enough to overhear. “The pater thinks as we do-he’s rather impressed by your talents, incidentally.” Barnaby grinned briefly, then sobered. “But more to the point, he agreed I should talk to Stokes.”

“Who’s Stokes?” Jacqueline asked.

“An investigator-I understand his title will now be inspector-with Bow Street. He’s more or less a gentleman, but rather more importantly, he’s made a name for himself solving convoluted crimes of the sort we’re dealing with.” Barnaby met Jacqueline’s eyes. “I can vouch for his discretion, but given we can’t, at this stage, lay any formal complaint, all I’m hoping to get from him is some indication as to which direction his experience suggests we look in for our murderer.”

Barnaby fell silent, his gaze on Jacqueline. Understanding what Barnaby wanted-why he’d sought them out-Gerrard asked, “Are you comfortable with Barnaby discussing all we know and believe with Stokes?”

She refocused on Barnaby. “Yes. If he can help, or suggest who might be behind the murders, then of course, do speak with him.”

“Just let us know what he says,” Gerrard added.

Barnaby grinned. “Righto. I don’t plan on going back to the Hall until you’re ready with the portrait. I’ll be skulking around the traps. Send for me if you need me.”

With a snappy salute, he left them. Within minutes he was making his excuses to a disappointed Lady Chartwell.

Ten minutes later, her ladyship’s clocks struck the hour-ten o’clock. Gerrard steered Jacqueline to her ladyship’s side, and with his customary charm, excused them without, in fact, giving any real excuse. Lady Chartwell smiled, patted Jacqueline’s hand, and let them go. His town carriage was waiting; in minutes, they were on their way back to his studio.

Days passed. Jacqueline posed, Gerrard painted, and the portrait came to life.

It increasingly absorbed him, all but obsessed him. The only distraction capable of disrupting its hold was its subject, Jacqueline herself.

She commanded his attention on a level that effortlessly overrode all else, even his need to paint. How it had happened he didn’t know, but she, her nearness, knowing she was his, had become vital, the linchpin of his existence, the very essence of his future. Even while he threw his energies into her portrait, that vulnerability nagged. He hadn’t yet secured her-hadn’t yet offered for her hand and been accepted.

Time and again, he thought of mentioning it, doing the deed so it was over and done. Accomplished.

Time and again, he remembered she was, in a fashion, in his debt in terms of the portrait-she needed him and his talents to win free, to win back her life. The idea she might feel obliged to accept his offer because of that filled him with creeping horror.

If he asked her now, before the portrait was completed, how would he know, or ever be sure of, her reasons for accepting him?

Which left him facing the single, central source of his uncertainty-he still couldn’t guess what she thought. What she truly felt for him, how she saw him. For a man who’d imagined he’d understood women well, it was a humbling situation.

My dear, I’m so glad Gerrard has chosen you.”

Jacqueline blinked. She stared at the extremely old, distinctly vague but sweet old lady she’d only met five minutes before.

Aunt Clara reached out, and with her ancient claw lightly patted Jacqueline’s hand. “It’s always such a relief when our young men make sensible decisions-they’re all such good boys, but they do sometimes seem to drag their heels…”

It was the middle of their third week in London; Jacqueline and Millicent had found their social feet. This afternoon they were attending a tea party at St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square.

In introducing Jacqueline to Aunt Clara, who was very, very old, a Cynster by birth, Honoria had whispered that the old lady’s mind, while lucid enough, did occasionally wander. So Jacqueline smiled and, leaning closer, whispered, “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood. Gerrard and I aren’t betrothed.”

Swallowing a sip of tea, Aunt Clara nodded. “No, no-of course not. Quite right.” She set her cup on its saucer, then serenely continued, “Not that we have many betrothals in this family-quite rare, in fact. While they do drag their heels, once they make up their minds, they tend to want everything settled yesterday-and their chosen wife warming their bed, you see.”

An indulgent smile curved the old lady’s lips. Fascinated, Jacqueline studied it.

“Quite besotted, they become. And in this case, of course, what with this dreadful business hanging over your head, and dear Gerrard working day and night on the painting, all to free you, I daresay the notion of a betrothal just now isn’t his primary concern. Indeed”-Aunt Clara leaned closer and lowered her voice to a quavery whisper-“all things considered, I very much doubt a betrothal of any length will find much favor with him at all.”

Jacqueline realized she’d failed to make her point. “Actually-”

“I heard Patience say just yesterday that she wouldn’t be surprised if, after you and Gerrard leave to take the painting down to Cornwall to put all right down there, the next time she saw you, you’d be married.”

Patience said? Jacqueline stared. Her mind froze, then abruptly raced, in no specific direction. After a moment, she drew in a deep breath, focused again on Aunt Clara’s lined face, and carefully asked, “What do the others think?”

Clara made a noise that was half laugh, half snort. “My dear, if we weren’t ladies, there’d be wagers exchanged. Nothing so delights us as a new marriage in the family. Why”-she waved one crabbed hand to indicate the entire room-“everyone has their own view of the when, and of course we all hope there’ll be a wedding to attend, but even if not, and it’s done by special license-and I have to say that’s very common in this clan-then you may rest assured we’ll still have a celebration.”

Clara met Jacqueline’s eyes and smiled, sweetly charming. “I’m so glad, dear, that you’ll be joining us.”

Jacqueline smiled weakly, and held her tongue.

She should have been paying more attention from the first. Later that day, as afternoon edged into evening, Jacqueline paced in her room, agitated yet determined to set things right.

Aunt Clara’s comments had opened her eyes. Mentally revisiting all her interactions with Gerrard’s family, especially the female members, reinterpreting what had transpired in light of Clara’s words had made it perfectly clear Clara’s assumptions were shared by many, if not all.

If she’d paid more attention, if she hadn’t been so thrilled by their ready acceptance of her, if she’d had more experience of large families, especially tonnish families…but she hadn’t. She now faced a serious misinterpretation, on a major scale, one honesty let alone honor demanded she correct.

But how to do that?

She racked her brain, yet there seemed only one way forward.

Halting her pacing, she consulted the clock. It wasn’t yet time to dress for dinner. Millicent was taking a nap. Minnie and Timms hadn’t accompanied them today, but had remained at home; they would have napped earlier. At this hour, they were usually to be found in the back parlor.

They were there, Timms tatting as always, Minnie sitting in a chair in the waning sunshine. They looked up as she entered, smiling in greeting.

Halting before them, she pressed her hands tightly together and drew in a deep breath. “I wonder if I might speak with you both for a moment.”

They exchanged a quick glance, then Minnie beamed. “Of course, dear. Sit beside Timms there-we’re all ears.”

“You have our undivided attention,” Timms confirmed, although her fingers never slackened.

Jacqueline sank onto the chaise. Minnie’s faded eyes fixed on her; anticipation lit her face. Now she was here…“I’m really not sure where to begin.”

“Try the beginning,” Timms advised. “That usually works best.”

“Yes, well…you’ve all been so kind, to both myself and Millicent, so welcoming. I’m so grateful-you’ve made coming up to town so much easier for us both.”

“But of course, dear.” Minnie’s eyes twinkled.

“Yes, well, you see…” Jacqueline drew in another breath and plunged on. “I’ve just realized that there seems to be some confusion over the…ah, connection between myself and Gerrard.” She looked from Timms to Minnie; no comprehension yet showed in their eyes. “Gerrard is helping me break free of my problems at home, helping to rescue me if you will, but his reasons for doing so-for painting my portrait-are, well, professional, and of course he’s motivated to assist a lady as a true gentleman should. That’s all that connects us, yet I fear an…an expectation has arisen that’s based on the notion that there’s some link of a more personal nature between him and me.”

Both Minnie and Timms were frowning, but lightly, as if her pronouncement merely puzzled them. “Do you mean,” Timms asked, “that you aren’t thinking of marrying him?”

Jacqueline stared at her; she couldn’t think of any way to answer but equally bluntly. “No. That is,” she quickly amended, “it’s not a question of my wanting to marry him so much as there’s never been any suggestion of marriage between us. We’ve never discussed it.”

“Ah.” Timms turned to exchange a look denoting some deep understanding with Minnie.

Minnie’s smile returned, brighter than ever. “I wouldn’t let that worry you, dear. They-our men-are chronically backward in coming forward, at least when it comes to discussing matrimony.” Her gaze grew considering. “Indeed, I can’t, off the top of my head, remember one who ever has…”

After a moment, Minnie returned her gaze to Jacqueline’s face, her expression unquenchably cheery. “But don’t let it trouble you, dear. We’ve known Gerrard from the cradle, and he definitely intends to marry you.”

She managed not to show any sign of exasperation-or of the strange panic slowly brewing inside. She kept her gaze fixed on Minnie’s twinkling eyes. “Indeed, ma’am, I do assure you there’s nothing like that between us. Gerrard is merely interested in me in terms of the portrait.”

“Pfft!” Timms caught her eye. “Nonsense.” Her sharp eyes studied Jacqueline’s face, then she gruffly continued, “However, I can see that you believe it, which perhaps isn’t surprising, stubborn nodcock that Gerrard can be-supercilious and arrogant, too, although I suspect he’ll have hidden that side of himself, at least from you. Humph!” She paused to tug a piece of yarn free. “Regardless, I’d strongly advise you to start thinking of how you’ll answer when he asks whether you want a big wedding, or if you’d rather be married by special license. Incidentally”-Timms caught Jacqueline’s eye-“we’ll all be most disappointed if you opt for the special license.”

She couldn’t simply smile weakly and retreat, and leave things as they were. Jacqueline opened her lips-

“Indeed, dear.” Minnie leaned forward and patted her hand. “I do understand that perhaps, from your point of view, we’ve jumped the gun a trifle, and I can quite see that coming from the country, you wouldn’t have immediately realized, and it’s very sweet of you to think to explain now, but I do assure you that in reading Gerrard’s intentions toward you we haven’t made any mistake.”

Jacqueline stared into Minnie’s steady blue eyes. “He isn’t thinking of marrying me.”

“Oh, yes he is,” Timms averred. “I’ve known him since he was a squalling infant, and he’s definitely set his sights on you.” She met Jacqueline’s eyes, and grinned. “Mind you, given he’s done such an excellent job of hiding his intentions from you, I wouldn’t want to be in his boots when he finally asks for your hand.”

Minnie chuckled. “Indeed, not.”

Jacqueline looked from one to the other; both were clearly enjoying imagining Gerrard’s difficulties when he proposed. But he wasn’t going to…

It was hopeless. She sighed and sat back, then rose and excused herself. They let her go with fond smiles, and reassurances that all would be well-she would see.

She returned to her room; she spent the hour before dinner bathing-and thinking.

It was impossible not to wonder, just for a moment, if they could be right and she wrong. Minnie, Timms and Patience-and the rest of them-indisputably knew Gerrard, knew gentlemen of his ilk, much better than she; they all had much more experience in correctly interpreting male behavior.

That was all very well, yet in this case…

Head back on the edge of the tub, steam wreathing about her face, she closed her eyes and thought back to all she and he had ever said on the subject. She couldn’t be sure she recalled his words verbatim, but he’d insisted he could make no promises. She’d accepted his attentions on that basis; he’d said nothing since to suggest he’d changed his mind.

Yet Minnie, Timms and Patience were convinced…and they didn’t even know of the interludes in the alcove off Gerrard’s studio.

Didn’t know of all that had grown between them.

Cocooned in the warm water, veiled by the steam, detached from the world, she looked inward. And asked herself, in light of all that had evolved between them over the past weeks, what she wished now. She thought, considered, weighed as well as she could the connection, the link, the indescribable communion that between them transformed the physical act into an emotional, almost spiritual experience. A transcendent moment of glory, for which she now yearned.

She’d wanted to know, to learn, and he’d shown her, taught her, and more. He’d given her all that; she was more grateful than she could say. Simply thinking of the feelings that welled and spilled through her when they joined was wonderful. Joyous.

He’d shown her that-all a woman could be.

She was grateful, happy, and would gladly sup further at his table. For herself, yes, she would accept any extension of their time together, and take full pleasure in all they could share, but would she go so far as marriage?

To that, no ready answer sprang to mind. She hadn’t considered the concept, not for years; she was no longer sure how she felt in that regard.

Yet with regard to him, how he felt, she knew he’d accepted the commission to paint her because of the professional challenge, and he’d stuck with it because of a chivalrous determination to see her free. He hadn’t seduced her-she’d insisted on it. As her portraitist, he’d wanted to learn more of her, all he could of her; that their interaction had subsequently evolved to its present extent wasn’t something she could, or wished to, lay at his door.

It had simply happened. It simply was.

She couldn’t hold him responsible. To her mind, there was no justification to even mention the subject of marriage, let alone expect him to be thinking of it. Even if, on reflection, she decided marriage to him might suit her, it wouldn’t, to her mind, be honorable to even raise the matter, much less expect him to agree.

The water had grown cold. Rising, she stepped onto the rug spread before the hearth, and reached for the towel the maid had left ready. Drying herself, she followed her thoughts. Between them, all seemed clear and straightforward. However…

She couldn’t leave the ladies who’d been so kind to her, who’d so openly taken her to their hearts, believing there was a wedding in the wind. That would be deceitful, and she’d never been that-Eleanor’s province, not hers.

Yes, she’d tried to correct their mistake, and yes, they’d routed her comprehensively, but that didn’t absolve her from doing all she could to convince them that she wasn’t, as they clearly supposed, Gerrard’s intended, his fiancée in all but name.

So how was she to convince them they were wrong?

Proof. She needed some words, action or evidence that clearly indicated he wasn’t thinking of marrying her. Something actual, factual…

She brightened; crossing to the bellpull, she rang for the maid. After dinner, they were to attend a party, with dancing, at Lady Sommerville’s. Collecting suitable, citable evidence in such a venue shouldn’t be too hard.