The Truth about Love

3

He spent a restless night and was awake and out on his balcony to see the sun rise over the gardens.

And consider Jacqueline Tregonning.

She was so very different from what he’d expected. They were closer in age than he’d anticipated, although in terms of worldly experience, his was far greater. Regardless, there had to be some experience, some incident in her life to account for the steel he sensed in her. It wasn’t simply strength of character, latent and unrecognized, but mature inner strength that had been tried, tested and found true; she possessed the inner fortitude of a survivor.

Which begged the question: What had she survived?

Whatever it was, did it also account for the shadows in her eyes? She might be self-confident and strangely assured, yet she wasn’t lighthearted; she was definitely not carefree, as by rights she ought to be. It wasn’t precisely sorrow he sensed coloring her world, nor yet simple sadness. She wasn’t of a maudlin or morose disposition.

Hurt? Perhaps, but something, certainly, had caused her reserve, her distancing from those about her. It wasn’t her nature but a deliberate choice-that’s why he’d noticed it.

What had happened to her, and when, and why did its effects still linger?

Compton arrived with his washing water; Gerrard quit the balcony to shave and dress. On his way downstairs, he remembered the other nagging question his evening’s interlude with Jacqueline had left circling in his brain.

What had she meant by saying she, and her father, needed the portrait to show what, specifically what, she was?

Inwardly frowning, he walked into the breakfast parlor. Courtesy of his room being all but at the end of the farthest wing, he was the last to arrive. He inclined his head to Lord Tregonning, at the table’s head, nodded to Millicent and Jacqueline, then headed for the sideboard.

Treadle deftly lifted the lids of the chafing dishes. After making his selection, he returned to the table and took the chair next to Barnaby-opposite Jacqueline.

His gaze drifted over her as he sat. She looked…the word he needed was ravishing, no matter he normally recoiled from such flowery language. She was delectable in a gown of ivory muslin sprigged with tiny oak leaves in golds and greens. The scooped neckline again did justice to her charms; the bodice was gathered beneath her lovely breasts with a spring-green ribbon.

Shifting in his chair, he reached for the coffeepot.

Barnaby grinned at him, but said nothing, returning his attention to a plate piled high with ham and kedgeree.

Unlike dinner, breakfast was a relatively mundane affair. Mitchel, seated beside his employer, spoke in an undertone about crops and fields.

Across the table, Millicent caught Gerrard’s eye. “I trust your room was comfortable?”

“Perfectly, thank you.” Gerrard swallowed a sip of coffee. “I was wondering if you and Miss Tregonning had time this morning to show myself and Mr. Adair about the gardens, at least enough for us to get our bearings.”

“Yes, of course.” Millicent glanced at the blue skies beyond the windows. “It’s a perfect day for it.”

A second of silence passed.

Gerrard had learned enough to be careful. “Miss Tregonning?” When she glanced up, plainly at a loss, he politely inquired, “Will you be free?”

She met his eyes, then smiled-another spontaneous expression, this time one of amused appreciation. Gerrard found himself smiling back.

“Yes, of course. The gardens are extensive.” She glanced down at her plate. “It’s easy to get lost.”

Lost in the gardens, or in the web of her distracting personality? Gerrard knew which for him posed the greater danger; he had an excellent sense of direction.

An hour later, after he’d inspected and approved the attic nursery as his studio and explained how he wished things set out, the four of them met on the terrace.

“It’s easiest if we start at a spot that has some meaning.” With her furled parasol, Jacqueline pointed at the ridge to the immediate right of the house. “The Garden of Hercules is the most northerly of the gardens, and is also the way to the stables, a fact most gentlemen can be relied upon to remember.” She turned to them. “Shall we?”

Barnaby flourishingly waved her on. “Lead on, fair damsel-we’ll follow.”

She laughed and set out. Barnaby fell in beside her.

Gerrard accompanied Millicent. He’d asked Barnaby to initially escort Jacqueline, giving him an opportunity to square matters with her aunt. They strolled the length of the terrace; by then Barnaby and Jacqueline were far enough ahead to permit private conversation.

“Thank you for agreeing to this outing,” Gerrard said. “It can’t be all that exciting for you-you must know the gardens like the back of your hand.”

Millicent smiled. “Actually, I don’t. I’m quite glad to have the opportunity to refresh my memory.”

Gerrard blinked. “I thought…that is, I assumed this was your home.”

“It was when I was very young, but our mother vastly preferred life in Bath, and I was the youngest, so I most often went with her. And then Papa died, and she and I stayed in Bath permanently. Over the years, I’ve only visited briefly. Mama became an invalid years ago, and, truth be told, I agreed with her-life at Hellebore Hall is terribly quiet. But then Miribelle, Jacqueline’s mother, died so tragically…My older sisters have families of their own, so of course I came to stay.”

They’d reached the end of the terrace; Gerrard gave Millicent his arm down a short flight of steps to a gravel path that led to the ridge.

Once they were strolling again, he asked, “How long ago did Jacqueline’s mother die?” And how?

“Just fourteen months ago. We’ve only been out of mourning for two months.”

Gerrard fought to hide his astonishment. Tregonning had been after him to paint Jacqueline for more than two months. Because he was paranoid he’d lose her, too, and wanted the portrait done before he did? That seemed…distinctly odd.

Before he could frame a useful question, Millicent spoke again.

“My brother has explained to me, Mr. Debbington, that your work on Jacqueline’s portrait will necessitate your spending considerable time in her company, that you will need to learn about her to lend your work authority. My brother is very keen that the portrait be accurate. I can see that that will inevitably require you to spend time alone with Jacqueline.” Millicent turned a severe, rather dauntingly level gaze on him. “You appear to be an estimable gentleman, sir, and your reputation is spotless. Yes, indeed”-she nodded-“I checked.”

She looked ahead as they continued strolling. “Consequently, as far as your association with Jacqueline goes, I believe I can trust in your honor. If you will give me your word you will preserve the proprieties to the extent no harm will come to Jacqueline’s good name, then I believe that, in these circumstances, I can relax my vigilance regarding the appropriate distance that should be preserved between gentlemen and young ladies such as my niece.”

Gerrard blinked. Direct speaking was clearly a family trait; it was distinctly refreshing. “Thank you, ma’am. I give you my word that no harm will come to your niece’s good name through any action of mine.”

“Very good.” Millicent nodded ahead to where Barnaby was regaling Jacqueline with some story, the two bright heads close. “In that case, I suggest you send Mr. Adair back to me. I would dearly love to hear what that scoundrel Monteith has been up to now. I knew his father, and a bigger blackguard I never did meet.”

Gerrard couldn’t suppress his grin. Bowing, he left Millicent and quickly overtook the pair ahead.

Barnaby was intrigued by Millicent’s request; he happily fell back to walk with her, leaving Jacqueline strolling with Gerrard.

A small forest of tall conifers, all shades of dark green, some carrying their canopies high above long boles, others more like thick bushes, appeared before them. The path wound on between the trees, through the still shade; they followed it, their feet crunching on dry needles.

“The stables lie beyond the ridge.” Jacqueline waved ahead. “This path takes you to them, but we’ll turn off it soon. Each segment of the gardens was designed to represent one of the ancient gods, Roman or Greek, or one of the mythical creatures associated with them.” In the cool beneath the trees, her voice carried easily to Millicent and Barnaby behind them. “This”-she gestured about them-“is the Garden of Hercules, the massively strong trunks representing his fabled strength.

“He was, of course, a demigod, but an obvious one to include.” She smiled briefly at Gerrard. “My ancestors weren’t dogmatic over their choice of subjects, and in that time, there was great interest in the ancient myths.”

Gerrard nodded. They reached the ridge line and paused; ahead lay the usual stable buildings, separated from the gardens by a strip of open field through which the path continued. To the left of the path was a fenced paddock in which horses grazed; to the right, out of the center of a ring of tall corn rose an old, worn but still recognizable statue.

“Pegasus.” Gerrard smiled.

“They had him shipped from somewhere in Greece.” Jacqueline studied the winged horse for a moment. “He’s one of my favorites. To get to the stables, you have to pass beneath his eye.”

She turned left onto a connecting path that led along the ridge a little way before curving back down into the gardens; brows rising, Gerrard followed. Barnaby and Millicent had paused to exchange comments on Pegasus; they eventually followed some yards behind.

“This next garden,” Jacqueline said as the conifers thinned and the path led on into the sunshine, “is the Garden of Demeter. Among other things, she was the goddess of crops and the fruitful earth, so…”

They walked out into a large and varied orchard. Some of the trees still held a few blossoms; the scent of growing fruit was tangy and sharp on the air. Bees lazily buzzed as they strolled down the gravel path, descending deeper into the valley. Jacqueline and Millicent unfurled their parasols; the sun was high enough to flood the valley with warmth and light.

The house now lay to their left, rising above them as they descended into the valley. Directly ahead at the junction of four paths-theirs and three others that spread like an open fan into the gardens before them-stood a small wooden pergola, painted white. Roses rambled over it in lazy profusion, spilling yellow blooms over the roof and down the carved pillars.

Jacqueline pointed left to a long strip of garden that ran from the pergola back to the terrace. “The kitchen gardens, otherwise known as the Garden of Vesta, goddess of the hearth.”

It didn’t look like any kitchen garden Gerrard had ever seen. As if reading his thoughts, Jacqueline said, “What you can see are mostly herbs. There are vegetables planted between, but the rampant growth of the herbs screens them.”

“ ‘Rampant’ being a very apt word,” Barnaby returned. “Everything seems”-he glanced around them-“extraordinarily healthy.”

Pausing under the pergola, Jacqueline nodded. “It’s the situation, the shelter, and the soil.” She waited while they all looked around, then waved to the three paths diverging before them. “This path”-she pointed to the one to the left, angling back to the house-“leads to the Garden of Poseidon.”

“There?” Barnaby blinked. “I thought he would be down by the shore, god of the sea that he is.”

“Ah, but Poseidon was the god of all water-fresh as well as salt-and it was claimed all springs flowed from where his trident struck.” Jacqueline pointed to where, directly ahead, they could see sunlight glinting off the rippling waters of a stream running down the valley. “The stream is fed by a spring that rises in a grotto under the central section of the terrace. Poseidon therefore presides over the point where its waters start to flow freely down the valley, leaving the shoreline to Neptune.”

“Aha! Very neat.” Barnaby squinted down the valley toward the distant cove, but it was too far away, and there were too many intervening trees, shrubs, and rises and dips in the land to get any real view.

Gerrard decided he’d waited long enough; the Garden of Poseidon seemed to lie just below the area of thick, dark vegetation he’d noted the previous evening. “Where’s the famous Garden of Night?”

He was standing beside Jacqueline; she didn’t move, yet he was aware she stiffened. Nothing showed in her face, but it had suddenly become a mask. However, when she spoke, her tone was even, albeit devoid of emotion.

“The Garden of Night is reached through the Garden of Poseidon, or directly from the terrace via the main garden stairs. It abuts the terrace-in fact the grotto where the spring rises is part of the Garden of Night, more properly the Garden of Venus, who aside from being the goddess of love was also the first goddess of gardens, hence her preeminence here.” Looking down, Jacqueline stepped out of the pergola onto the central of the three paths leading on. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the various plants that grow in the Garden of Night. As it’s closest to the house, we’ll leave it for later.”

Gerrard held his peace, following her out into the sunshine; the others strolled after him.

Resetting her parasol, Jacqueline waved up the path to their right; it wended up and then along the steeply sloping north ridge. “That path leads through the Garden of Dionysius-it’s full of grapevines of various sorts. Beyond it, you can see the cypresses of the Garden of Hades, cypresses being the tree of graveyards. That path rejoins this one farther down the valley, at the last viewing stage.”

She gestured about them. “This area, directly below the Garden of Poseidon, is the Garden of Apollo. It’s one of the gardens that uses statuary-he’s the god of music, hence the once-gilded statue of a lyre.”

They came upon the statue, an intricate work in iron, on a pedestal in the center of a small circle of lawn. The path wound its way past. They approached the stream; a small wooden bridge spanned it. “Music,” Jacqueline continued, “is also created by the sound of the stream running over the rocks and the small weirs placed along its course.”

They halted and listened. Watery music did indeed fill the air, tinkling, burbling, almost singing. It was a pleasant, relaxing sound. Gerrard scanned the area; it was rich with lush lawns and burgeoning flower beds.

Jacqueline stepped onto the bridge. “Apollo was also the god of light, and this area of the gardens has light for the longest time each day. The sundial”-she pointed to it, on the lawn just off the path ahead-“marks the point considered the center of the gardens.”

They followed her on. The path steadily descended down a bank of verdant growth. Glancing back, Gerrard noted that while the roofs of the house were still visible high above the head of the valley, areas nearer to hand that they’d already traversed were not. It would indeed be easy to get lost.

“The four viewing stages,” Jacqueline said as they reached the next, a rectangular stone platform with a wooden roof, “are placed at the main junctions of paths and also where a number of gardens meet.”

There were five paths, including the one they’d just arrived on, radiating from the stone platform.

“We’ve just left the Garden of Apollo. That path”-Jacqueline pointed to the next path on the higher side of the platform-“leads back to the house via the Gardens of Poseidon and Venus. The next also leads back to the house, but through the Gardens of Diana, Athena and Artemis-we’ll go back that way later. The next path”-she pointed to one heading up the southern ridge-“initially goes through a portion of the Garden of Mars, but then forks-you can head back to the house via the Garden of Diana, or go farther down the valley through the Gardens of Hermes and Vulcan. Which brings us to the path we’ll take, heading down to the cove.”

She led the way; Gerrard followed, taking her elbow to steady her down the steps. She glanced briefly at him, then looked ahead. “Thank you.”

Once on the path, he released her. They waited until the others joined them, then Jacqueline turned and walked on. “This is the Garden of Mars. Although everyone knows him as the god of war, most gods have multiple, often contradictory faces, so Mars is also the god of fertility and farming, especially of all things that grow in the spring.”

The beds they were passing were full of plants that had flowered and now carried seed pods of every description.

“Your relative, whoever he was, was quite inventive in choosing his gods.” Hands in his pockets as he ambled beside her, Gerrard added the questions of how Jacqueline’s mother had died, and why Jacqueline disliked the Garden of Night, to his growing list.

“My great-great-great-grandfather started it, my great-great-grandfather completed the design, but the planting wasn’t complete until my great-grandfather’s time.”

They walked on, Jacqueline naming the gardens as they went, describing the association of each with the god for whom the area was named. They descended through the Garden of Persephone, goddess of plenty, lying below the dark mass of the Garden of Hades, her husband, lord of the underworld. The path led them to the lowest of the viewing platforms, a wooden one giving an excellent view of the narrow cove filled with rocks on which the waves crashed, then slowly, sussuratingly, receded.

The platform sat squarely at the intersection of four paths. The one leading to the shore wended through a landscape comprised of plants with unusual leaves or strange shapes. “The Garden of Neptune, god of the sea. The plants were chosen because they look like various seaweeds, or suggest another world.”

They all stood at the balustrade, drawn to the view of the sea, gentle today yet the waves still rolled in. Gulls wheeled on the updrafts rising up the cliffs to the right, their screeching a sharp counterpoint to the rumble and whoosh of the waves. To the left, the cove was bound by a rocky outcrop, the extreme seaward section of which consisted of a single, massive boulder.

“Here comes a big wave.” Barnaby pointed.

Gerrard looked; from the corner of his eye he saw Jacqueline glance at him, caught the curving of her lips…now what?

A sudden roaring sound reached them; before they could react, a spout of water exploded upward from the center of the massive rock.

Gerrard stared.

Barnaby grabbed his arm. “Good Lord! It’s a blowhole!”

They both turned to Jacqueline. Smiling, she nodded. “It is indeed a blowhole-known as Cyclops, of course.”

“Of course!” Barnaby’s face was alight.

“What you just witnessed was a mild eruption. Every day as the tide comes in, there’s a time when every fourth wave or so sends up a huge fountain. During king tides, the height and amount of water thrown out is simply amazing.”

“Does the path lead down to it?” Gerrard asked.

“Yes, but it doesn’t go onto Cyclops, the rock, itself-it’s too dangerous. The surface is perennially slippery, and the sea’s quite deep just there. The currents are very strong, and, of course, if anyone ever got sucked into the blowhole, they’d be smashed against the rocks inside.”

He glanced at her. “Can we go closer?”

Her smile deepened. “I was planning to. Beyond Cyclops, the path curves around and heads back to the house.”

Jacqueline started down the steps onto the last path. Gerrard moved to follow her.

“Jacqueline, dear, I’ll wait for you here.”

With Jacqueline, Gerrard turned to look back at Millicent. She smiled gamely at them. “While I’m certain I have enough stamina to return to the house from here, going down that last stretch might just be too much.”

“Oh…all right. We’ll just go down and come back.”

Gerrard glanced at Barnaby, still on the platform beside Millicent.

“Actually,” Barnaby said, “I have a better idea. You said that path curves around-does it meet this one?” He pointed to the path to his left.

Jacqueline frowned lightly. “Yes, they converge in the Garden of Vulcan just below the south ridge. From there, the path leads through the Gardens of Hermes and Diana, to the upper viewing platform, the only one we’ve yet to visit.”

Barnaby turned to Millicent. “Why don’t we head that way, taking in the sights at our leisure, and these two can go down and view Cyclops, then join us at the upper platform?”

“But don’t you wish to view Cyclops from closer range?” Millicent asked.

“I do.” Barnaby smiled, distinctly devil-may-care; he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I would prefer to get closer than Miss Tregonning would probably think wise, and I would be loath to argue with such a charming hostess.” He flashed his irrepressible smile at Jacqueline. “I’ll come back later.”

Jacqueline looked uncertain.

“Go on.” Barnaby waved them on. “I’ll stroll with Miss Tregonning and enjoy the sylvan delights.” So saying, he offered Millicent his arm. Surrendering, she took it and allowed him to lead her up the other path.

Jacqueline stood watching, frowning.

Gerrard waited for a moment, then touched her arm. “Shall we?”

She didn’t jump, but when she turned her head and her eyes met his, they were a fraction wide. “Yes, of course.”

She sounded a touch breathless. Side by side, they walked down the sloping path. His latest questions burned in his brain, but he decided to ask someone else-possibly Millicent-about Jacqueline’s mother rather than put his foot wrong with her. As for her reaction to the Garden of Venus, he wasn’t yet sure what that was, but she’d said they would pass it on their way back-time enough to probe then.

They rounded the last bend in the path; the breeze off the waves hit them, and snatched at her parasol. She quickly furled it; he waited while she secured it, then offered his arm. “It’ll be safer if you hold on to me.”

She drew in a breath, then slid her hand around his elbow, laying her fingers on his sleeve. Sensing her uncertainty, he didn’t draw her close, but now they were in the open, the breeze shrieked about them, plastering her dress to her figure, tugging at her skirts. She really would be safer clinging to him, taking refuge in his windshadow.

He wished she would. Most young ladies would unhesitatingly seize the opportunity; instead, she struggled to walk by his side and keep a decorous distance between them. Despite his unwanted sexual awareness of her, still notably high, her caution rankled.

They reached the line of rocks above the sloping shore. At the southern end of the cove, the massive bulk of Cyclops rose from the waves, its seaward faces cloaked in spume and spray.

Gerrard squinted. “Is that a ledge running around it?”

“Yes.” Jacqueline raised her voice over the crash of the waves. “It’s terribly dangerous, as you can see. At neap tide, you can follow the ledge all the way around and into the blowhole chamber itself, but at most times, the waves are too high, and the footing far too treacherous.”

He stepped off the edge of the path to get a better view. Bracing one booted leg against a large rock, he studied the outcrop, noting the proportions. “I’ll have to come down at sunset. Or sunrise. Or perhaps we’ll have a storm?” He wanted to see more variations of light on Cyclops, and more movement about it, too.

Pushing back from the rock, he straightened and turned.

Only to discover Jacqueline had leaned toward him, fighting to hold back her hair with one hand.

They were suddenly very close, their faces only inches apart. Her eyes widened. Her lips were parted; she’d leaned close to say something.

Their eyes locked. Looking into hers, into the moss-agatey depths, he realized she’d forgotten what she’d been about to say.

Beyond his control, his gaze dropped to her lips. Soft, intensely feminine, shaped for passion, and mere inches away.

As was her body, those delectable breasts and elementally female curves. All he had to do to bring her against him was tip her to him, or take half a step more.

The impulse to do so was nearly overpowering; only the thought that she might panic held him back. Yet the allure of those lips, the desire to taste them, to raise his hands, frame her face and angle it up so his lips could cover hers and he could learn…

His gaze lowered to where the pulse beat wildly at the base of her throat, then lowered further, to her breasts, high, full…frozen. She wasn’t breathing.

Forcing his gaze up, he met her eyes, and read in them how shocked, stunned and uncertain she was-how out of her depth she was.

He couldn’t take advantage of such innocence, such clear and open naïveté. She might be twenty-three, but she had no idea what this was.

She’d clearly had no experience with desire, much less lust.

Taking a firm grip on his own, he grasped her arm, and gently moved her back so he could step up onto the path.

“Ah…” Jacqueline blinked and looked around; she fixed on Cyclops. “I was going to ask…”

She dragged in a huge breath, and grabbed hold of her wayward wits. Keeping her gaze on the huge rock, she battled to steady her giddy head and ignore the man by her side. “I was about to ask about Mr. Adair. He wouldn’t be so reckless as to try to explore Cyclops, would he?”

When her companion didn’t immediately reply, she glanced briefly at him, ready to be mortified if he said anything about that fraught moment an instant ago.

Instead, he was looking, not at her, but at Cyclops. Retaking her arm, he urged her on; hesitantly, trying not to notice the sensations his touch evoked, she fell into step once more beside him.

“Barnaby’s insatiably curious, but not rashly so-not to the point of endangering himself. He might be many things, incorrigible and impossible to restrain at times, but he’s not stupid.”

“I didn’t mean to imply he is,” she hurried to say. “But…well, you know.” She gestured. “Young men and their follies and reckless ways.”

He looked at her then. She met his eyes-and realized they were warm, that his lips had eased, fractionally curving-that he was genuinely amused, not trying to be charming.

His natural smile was more potent than he knew.

“Young men,” he repeated, then quietly said, “Neither Barnaby nor I are that young.”

His eyes held hers for an instant, then his gaze lowered to her lips, then dropped away as he looked ahead.

They walked five paces before she remembered how to breathe.

Foolish, foolish, foolish! She had to overcome this ridiculous sensitivity that he, somehow, triggered. She might have led a quiet country life, but she’d attended country assemblies aplenty and she’d never-not ever-responded to a gentleman-to the man, to his presence-as she did to Gerrard Debbington.

It was nonsense-her reaction made no sense at all.

She had to, was determined to, overcome it, and if she couldn’t do that, then she’d ignore it, certainly hide it so he got no inkling of her witless sensibility.

After that moment on the shore, ignoring all he made her feel seemed eminently wise.

The path led them around the edge of Cyclops, some distance back from the blowhole itself. Gerrard paused at the point where the path rose; looking down on the rock, they could see the hole clearly. A muffled rumbling reached them, then a small spout of water gushed up through the hole.

“The tide’s turning,” she said, and moved on.

He followed, his long fingers still wrapped about her elbow; she didn’t shake free, didn’t want to call attention to her awareness of his touch.

Yet she was aware-to her bones aware-of the latent strength not just in his fingers but in the lean, hard body keeping pace so close beside her.

Once they’d left Cyclops, the delights of the Garden of Vulcan, with its fiery red and orange flowers and bronze foliage, followed in turn by the Gardens of Hermes and Diana, the former dotted with ornamental stone cairns, the latter incorporating a small wood that was home to a herd of deer, gave her fodder enough to distract him. And herself.

By the time they reached the upper viewing stage, a delicate wrought-iron pergola, and rejoined Barnaby and Millicent, she’d managed to press that moment on the shore to the back of her mind.

She indicated the path that left the pergola to wind up the incline of the south ridge. “That leads to the Garden of Atlas, which is a rare example of a rock garden created with nothing but spherical boulders, rocks and stones.”

“Reflecting the globe Atlas shouldered?” Shading his eyes, Barnaby looked up at the ridge.

“Indeed. From the upper end of that garden, steps give access to the south end of the terrace.” Beckoning, she stepped onto the other path leading toward the house. “This will take us into the Garden of Athena. We could go straight through to the terrace-there’s another set of steps-but if we take the fork that goes through the Garden of Artemis, we’ll pass by the Garden of Night, too, before climbing the main terrace stairs.”

“Lead on.” Gerrard smiled easily as he came to pace beside her.

He looked ahead; she grasped the moment to surreptitiously study his profile. He’d asked numerous questions about the gardens as they’d walked. He was a landscape artist; the gardens would be of consuming interest, yet she had a suspicion he’d asked more because she’d expected him to, more to put her at ease, to soothe her leaping nerves…he couldn’t know how he affected her, could he?

Facing forward, she pushed the disturbing notion out of her conscious mind. “The Garden of Athena, goddess of wisdom, is laid out in formal style, using primarily olive trees, sacred to the goddess.” Her knowledge of the gardens was extensive; from childhood, she’d quizzed the gardeners, some of whom were older than her father and remembered the changes the decades had wrought.

They took the fork she indicated and strolled on into the fanciful landscape of the Garden of Artemis, home to a host of topiary animals, lions and tigers among them, the goddess’s especial followers.

The sun shone strongly; the temperature was significantly higher than it had been when they’d set out. She slowed her pace; Millicent had to be tiring. She and her aunt had only recently become close, but she’d quickly grown fond of Millicent.

Ahead, the main steps up to the terrace rose in a curving flight of white marble with the same waist-high balustrade that ran the length of the terrace itself. The path they were following led to the bottom of the steps, then curved away into the Garden of Night.

She’d thought she was up to it, to taking them at least a little way into that most famous area of the gardens, but the closer they got to the heavy, large-leaved, dark green foliage that enclosed it, she felt instinctive resistance rise, until it was choking her.

It was broad daylight, she chided herself, yet her mind instantly conjured how dark, almost subterranean, the garden felt regardless of the hour, with its wide still pool into which the spring all but silently flowed, the closeness of the humidity the spectacularly rampant growth held in, the muted quality of the light, so diffused and broken by the thick canopy that even at noon the garden resembled a cavern, and above all else, the claustrophobic stillness and the heavy, suffocating medley of perfumes.

Dragging in a breath past the vise that, with each step, tightened about her lungs, she halted at the foot of the stairs. “I have several matters I must attend to before luncheon, which will be served shortly, so perhaps, Aunt”-she glanced at Millicent-“we should go inside?”

Approaching on Barnaby’s arm, Millicent nodded. “I think so.” The long walk had clearly wearied her. She furled her parasol. “I must speak with Mrs. Carpenter before luncheon.”

Relieved, Jacqueline turned to Gerrard and Barnaby. “If you wish to go on, that path leads through the Garden of Night, and then into the Garden of Poseidon.” She managed a light smile. “As Papa has doubtless told you, you should feel free to explore the gardens at will.” Glancing at Barnaby, she considered reiterating her warning about venturing onto Cyclops, then remembered Gerrard’s words, and thought better of it.

Barnaby had been peering ahead; he flashed her a grin. Reaching for her hand, he bowed over it. “Thank you for a fascinating tour.” Straightening, he looked at the Garden of Night. “I’m sure we can manage on our own from here.”

She smiled and shifted her gaze to Gerrard, expecting to see a similar eagerness to explore in his face. Instead, he was watching her, studying her.

Her breath caught; her lungs seized.

Millicent, thank heavens, spoke to him, deflecting his attention. By the time his too acute gaze returned to her, she’d recovered and was ready. She inclined her head, her lips lightly curved. “I hope you feel comfortable within the gardens now, sir, enough to go about on your own.”

“Indeed.” His brown eyes held hers. “If you’re sure we can’t tempt you to accompany us, and leave those ‘several matters’ until later?”

Her smile felt tight. “Quite sure. Unfortunately…” She broke off before completing the lie. Millicent moved past her, starting up the steps. She reminded herself she owed him no explanation. Drawing a determined breath, she met his eyes. “I’ll see you at luncheon, sir. Treadle will ring the bell on the terrace, so you’ll be sure to hear it.”

His disturbingly intent gaze lingered on her face, but then he bowed. “Until then, Miss Tregonning.”

Inclining her head, she turned and followed Millicent up the steps. Her senses pricked, nervously flickering. Gaining the terrace, she paused, then looked back.

Gerrard hadn’t moved. He’d remained where she’d left him, watching her…as if he knew how tight her lungs were, how tense her nerves…how her heart was thudding.

His eyes met hers. For an instant, all about them stilled…

She turned and followed Millicent across the terrace and into the house.