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p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[ Stephanie Laurens An e-book excerpt from [p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[ The Truth About Love [p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p[p To Merilyn Bourke, longtime friend, fellow author and romance critic extraordinaire with thanks and much love SL CONTENTS 1. Mr. Cunningham, as I ve already made clear, I have no interest 1 2. With a lady approaching from either side, Cunningham dithered 21 3. He spent a restless night and was awake and out on his balcony to 42 4. After luncheon, another quiet meal, Gerrard retreated to his studio 58 5. The dinner party drew to a close; along with Millicent, Barnaby and 74 6. I hope you won t read too much into Matthew s behavior. 94 7. Late that night with the moon riding the sky, Gerrard stood in the 109 8. She came to her senses, how much later she didn t know. She was 124 9. He only needed to see her, to speak with her. To reassure himself 138 10. Barnaby was right. If they allowed the discovery of Thomas s body 158 11. They returned to Hellebore Hall thoroughly satisfied with their 175 12. The following morning, with Gerrard in attendance, Millicent 189 13. It s one thing to have won over those who know me well, 210 14. Once back in the ballroom, Barnaby drifted off, intent on pursuing 227 15. Gerrard awoke, then mentally cursed, lifted his head and squinted 245 16. If she was bound to him, then, ipso facto, he was equally bound to 266 17. Later that night, Jacqueline stood in Gerrard s studio, and watched 282 18. One of the great attractions of a trip to London was the chance of 298 19. Jacqueline walked into the breakfast parlor the next morning and 316 20. We were thinking of a ball, Millicent said. She drew a deep breath, 336 21. They gathered about the breakfast table late the next morning. 352 22. The last section of the path leading to the cove descended sharply 366 Epilogue Summer waned, the year turned, and spring came again. Gerrard sat 381 Announcement of the Bastion Club #4 385 About the Author Also by Stephanie Laurens Credits Cover Copyright About the Publisher 1 London, Early June 1831 M r. Cunningham, as I ve already made clear, I have no interest whatever in painting a portrait of Lord Tregonning s daughter. Gerrard Reginald Debbington lounged elegantly in an armchair in the smoking room of his select gentleman s club. Concealing his mounting frustration, he held Lord Tregonning s agent s gaze. I agreed to this meeting in the hope that Lord Tregonning, having been informed of my refusal of the commission to paint the portrait, had agreed to allow me access to the Hellebore Hall gardens. He was, after all, the ton s foremost landscape painter; Lord Tregonning s famous gardens were long overdue a visit from such as he. Cunningham blanched. Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the papers spread on the small table between them. Around them, a discreet hum held sway; Gerrard was peripherally aware of occasional glances thrown their way. Other members saw him, but on noticing Cunningham, they checked; recognizing that business was being conducted, they refrained from intruding. Cunningham was in his mid-twenties, some years younger than Gerrard s twenty-nine. Attired in sober, rusty black over serviceable linen and a biscuit-colored waistcoat, his round face, faint frown, and the intent attention he gave to his papers marked him clearly as someone s business agent. 2 S tephanie Laurens By the time Cunningham deigned to speak, Gerrard had a sketch assembled in his head, titled Business Agent at Work. Lord Tregonning has instructed me to convey that while he appreciates your reservations over committing to a portrait of a subject you haven t yet seen, such reservations only strengthen his conviction that you are indeed the painter he needs for this work. His lordship fully comprehends that you will paint his daughter as you see her, without any obfuscation. That is precisely what he wishes he wants the portrait to be a faithful rendition, to accurately portray Miss Tregonning as she truly is. Gerrard s lips thinned; this was going nowhere. Without looking up, Cunningham went on, In addition to the fee offered, you may take as many months short of a year as you deem necessary to complete the portrait, and over that time you will have unfettered access and unrestricted permission to sketch and paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall. Should you wish, you may bring a friend or companion; you would both be accommodated at Hellebore Hall for the duration of your stay. Gerrard sti ed his exasperation. He hadn t needed to hear that offer again, no matter how sweetly laced; he d turned it down two weeks ago, when Cunningham had rst sought him out. Stirring, he caught Cunningham s eye. Your employer misunderstands I do not, indeed, have never painted on commission. Painting is an abiding interest, one I m wealthy enough to indulge. Painting portraits, however, is no more than an incidental pastime, successful perhaps, but not in the main of serious attraction to me, to my painterly soul if you will. Not strictly true, but in the present circumstance, apt enough. While I would be delighted to have the opportunity to paint the Hellebore Hall gardens, not even that is sufficient incentive to tempt me to agree to a portrait I have no inclination, or need, to paint. Cunningham held his gaze. He drew in a tight breath, glanced brie y down, then looked up again, his gaze xing over Gerrard s left shoulder. His lordship instructed me to inform you that this will be his nal offer . . . and that should you refuse it, he will be forced to nd some other painter to undertake the portrait, and that other painter will be accorded the same license in respect of the gardens as was offered to you. Subsequently, Lord Tregonning will ensure that The Truth About Love 3 during his lifetime and that of his immediate heirs, no other artist will be allowed access to the gardens of Hellebore Hall. Suppressing his reaction, remaining seated, took all Gerrard s considerable willpower. What the devil was Tregonning about, resorting to what amounted to extortion . . . ? He looked away, unseeing. One thing was clear. Lord Tregonning was bound and determined to have him paint his daughter. Leaning his elbow on the chair arm, his clenched jaw on his st, xing his gaze across the room, he searched for some acceptable way out of the well-baited trap. None immediately leapt to mind; his violent antipathy to allowing some portrait panderer to be the only artist to gain access to the fabulous landscapes said to surround Hellebore Hall was clouding his perception. He looked at Cunningham. I need to consider his lordship s proposal more carefully. Given the clipped accents that had infected his speech, he wasn t surprised that Cunningham kept his expression carefully neutral. The agent nodded once. Yes, of course. How long . . . ? Twenty-four hours. If he let such a subject torture him for any longer, unresolved, he d go insane. He rose and extended his hand. You re at the Cumberland, I believe? Hurriedly gathering his papers, Cunningham stood and grasped his hand. Yes. Ah . . . I ll wait to hear from you. Gerrard nodded curtly. He remained by the chair until Cunningham had left, then stirred and followed him out. He walked the parks of the capital St. James, Green Park, then into Hyde Park. A poor choice; his boots had barely touched the lawn when he was hailed by Lady Swaledale, eager to introduce him to her daughter and her niece. A bevy of matrons with bright-eyed damsels in tow leaned from their carriages, hoping to catch his attention; others hovered, parading along the grassed verge. Spotting his aunt Minnie, Lady Bellamy, in her carriage drawn up by the side of the Avenue, he excused himself to a particularly clinging fond mama on the grounds of paying his respects. The instant he reached the carriage, he grasped Minnie s hand and with an extravagant gesture, kissed it. I m throwing myself on your mercy save me, he implored. 4 S tephanie Laurens Minnie chortled. She patted his hand and leaned down to offer her lined cheek, which he dutifully bussed. If you d just make your choice, dear, they d go off and hunt someone else. Not, of course, that we want you to rush your choice. Timms, Minnie s companion, leaned forward to give Gerrard her hand. But while you remain unattached, you must expect to be pursued. Gerrard assumed an expression of mock-dismay. Et tu, Timms? Timms snorted. She d grown more gaunt with the years, but there was nothing wrong with her mind. Or with Minnie s; she regarded him shrewdly, if affectionately. Endowed as you are with an excellent estate, and the business interests the Cynsters have sponsored you into, let alone being my principal heir, there s no getting away from it, m boy if you d been as ugly as sin you might have given them pause, but as you are, celebrated gentleman painter that you ve become, you re in a fair way to being a matchmaking mama s fondest dream. Gerrard looked his disgust. I m not at all sure marriage, at least in the near future, is in my best interests. That was his current stance, although not one he d to date shared with anyone else. Oh? Minnie opened her eyes wide. Serious for a moment, she searched his face, then her soft smile returned. I wouldn t worry your head with such considerations, dear. She patted his hand. When the right lady appears, it ll all be very plain. Timms nodded sagely. Indeed. No sense imagining it ll be up to you to decide. Far from reassuring him, their words elicited a twinge of alarm. He hid it behind a smile. Sighting a group of friends, he seized the opportunity to retreat; farewelling Minnie and Timms, he strolled across the lawn. The four gentlemen hailed him. All were known to him; all, like him, were of marriageable age and condition. They were standing a little apart, surveying the eld. The Curtiss chit s quite fetching, ain t she? Philip Montgomery raised his glass the better to observe the beauty parading with her two sisters. If you can stand the giggling, Elmore Standish replied. For my money, the Etherington girl s more the ticket. The Truth About Love 5 Gerrard half listened to their commentary; he was one of them in the social sense, yet his unconventional hobby set him apart. It had opened his eyes to a truth his peers had yet to see. He exchanged a few comments, wryly cynical, then walked on, into the relative safety of Kensington Gardens. At that hour, the gravel walks were busy with nannies and nursemaids watching over their charges as they romped on the lawns. Few gentlemen strolled there; ladies of the ton rarely ventured that way. He d intended refocusing on Lord Tregonning s outrageous proposition; instead, the gay shrieks of the youngsters distracted him, sending his mind down a quite different track. Family. Children. The next generation. A wife. A successful marriage. All were elements he assumed one day he d have; they still spoke to something in him, still meant something to him. They were things he still desired. Yet ironically, while his painting, especially his portraits, had elevated him to a position where he could have his pick of the unattached ladies, the very talent that enabled him to create such striking art had opened his eyes, and left him wary. Of taking a wife. Of marriage. Most especially of love. It wasn t a matter he was comfortable discussing; even thinking of love made him uneasy, as if doing so was somehow tempting fate. Yet what he d seen and grappled with while painting his sister Patience and her husband, Vane Cynster, and later the other couples who d sat for him, what he d reacted to and striven to portray on canvas was so inherently powerful he d have had to be blind not to comprehend the ability of that power to impact on his life. To affect him, to distract him. Perhaps to sap the creative energy he needed to give his works life. If he surrendered to it. If he ever fell in love, would he still be able to paint? Would falling in love, marrying for love, as his sister and so many others in his wider family had, be a wellspring of joy, or a creative disaster? When painting, he poured all he was into the act, all his energies, all his passions; if he succumbed to love, would it drain him and impair his ability to paint? Was there even a connection was the passion that red love the same as that which red his creative talent, or were the two totally separate? 6 S tephanie Laurens He d thought long and hard, but had found little comfort. Painting was an intrinsic part of him; every instinct he possessed violently recoiled from any act that might reduce his ability to paint. So he d recoiled from marriage. Stepped back. Regardless of Timms s view, he d made the decision that for him, at least for the next several years, love was an emotion he d do well to avoid; marriage, therefore, did not presently feature on his horizon. That decision ought to have settled his mind. Instead, he remained restless, dissatis ed. Not yet at peace with his direction. Regardless, he couldn t see any other sensible course. Refocusing, he discovered he d stopped; he stood staring at a group of children playing about the pond. His ngers itched, a familiar symptom of the craving for a pencil and sketch pad. He remained for several minutes, letting the vignettes of children at play sink into his visual memory, then moved on. This time, he succeeded in turning his mind to Lord Tregonning s offer. To considering its pros and cons. Desires, instincts, and the consequent impulses left him twisting in the wind, swinging rst this way, then that. Returning to the bridge over the Serpentine, he halted and took stock. In three hours he d accomplished precisely nothing, beyond con rming how accurately Tregonning had read him. He couldn t discuss such a proposal with any fellow artist; his nonartist friends wouldn t comprehend how tempted yet torn he felt. He needed to talk to someone who understood. It was nearly ve o clock when he climbed the steps of Vane and Patience Cynster s house in Curzon Street. Patience was his older sister. His parents had died when he was young; Patience had been his surrogate parent for years. When she d married Vane, Gerrard had found himself welcomed into the Cynster fold, treated as one of the family, as Vane s prot g . In becoming the man he now was, the in uence of the Cynsters had been critical, a fact for which he was deeply grateful. His father, Reggie, had been no satisfactory model; to the Cynsters, Gerrard owed not just his nancial success, but also his elegance, his unshakable con dence, and that touch of hard-edged arrogance that among tonnish gentlemen set them, and him, apart. In reply to his knock, Bradshaw, Vane s butler, opened the door; The Truth About Love 7 beaming, he assured him that Vane and Patience were indeed in and presently to be found in the back parlor. Gerrard knew what that meant. Handing over his cane, he smiled and waved Bradshaw back. I ll announce myself. Indeed, sir. Fighting a grin, Bradshaw bowed. Gerrard heard the shrieks before he opened the parlor door. The instant he did, silence fell. Three heads jerked up, pinning him with accusatory stares then his nephews and niece realized who d dared to interrupt their playtime. They came to life like demons. Uttering ear-splitting cries of Uncle Gerrard! they hurled themselves at him. Laughing, he caught the eldest, Christopher, and dangled him upside down. Christopher shrieked with joy; laughing, Gregory jumped up and down, peering into his brother s upturned face. Therese joined in. After shaking Christopher thoroughly, Gerrard set him down and, growling like an ogre, spread his arms and swept the younger two up. Juggling them, he walked to the chaise facing the replace. From the armchair angled before the hearth, with her youngest son, Martin, bobbing on her knees, Patience smiled indulgently up at him. His broad shoulders propped against the side of Patience s chair, Vane grinned; he d been wrestling with the three older children when Gerrard had walked in. What brings you our way? Surely not the chance to have your hair pulled by our resident monsters. Disengaging Gregory s and Therese s death grips on his previously neat locks, Gerrard eetingly returned the grin. Oh, I don t know. Setting the pair on the chaise, he dropped down to sit between them. He looked from one to the other. There s a certain something about them, don t you think? The children crowed, and seized the opening to bombard him with tales of their recent exploits. He listened, as always drawn in by their innocent, untarnished view of mundane events. Eventually, they tired. The boys slumped on either side of him; Therese yawned, slipped from the chaise and crawled into her father s lap. Vane dropped a kiss on her soft curls and settled her, then looked at Gerrard. So what is it? There s obviously something. Leaning back, Gerrard told them of Lord Tregonning s offer. So you see, I m trapped. I absolutely de nitely don t want to do 8 S tephanie Laurens the portrait. His daughter will doubtless prove to be a typical, spoilt featherbrain, worse, one who s used to ruling as queen in her rustic territory. There ll be nothing there for me to paint beyond vacuous self-interest. She might not be that bad, Patience said. There s every likelihood she ll be even worse. He sighed deeply. I rue the day I allowed those portraits of the twins to be shown. From his earliest years, he d been a landscape artist. He still was it was his rst and deepest calling but ten years ago, purely out of curiosity, he d tried his hand at painting portraits of couples. Vane and Patience had been the rst he d asked to sit for him; that painting hung above the drawing room replace in their house in Kent, safely private. He d subsequently painted other couples, all family or connections, but the resulting paintings had always graced private rooms. Yet his hankering for challenge had lured him on; after painting portraits of each couple, he d decided to paint matching portraits of the Cynster twins, Amanda, now Countess of Dexter, and Amelia, Viscountess Calverton, each holding their rstborn sons. The portraits were intended to be hung in their country homes, but those of the ton who saw the portraits while they d still been in London had set up such a clamor the custodians of the Royal Academy had begged, literally begged him to allow the works to be shown in the annual portrait exhibition. The attention had been sweet; he d allowed himself to be persuaded. And had lived to regret it. Vane regarded him with amused affection. So hard to be such a success. Gerrard snorted. I should appoint you my agent and let you deal with the horde of matrons, each of them ineradicably convinced that their daughter is the perfect subject for my next great portrait. Patience jigged Martin on her knee. It is just one portrait. Gerrard shook his head. That s not how it works. It s one of those great risks choosing a subject. At present, my reputation is solid and intact. One truly ghastly portrait could incalculably damage it. Regardless, I refuse to pander to the expectations of my subjects, or their parents. I paint what I see, which means Lord Tregonning and his darling daughter are very likely to be disappointed. The children were growing restless. Patience rose as their nurse The Truth About Love 9 looked in; she beckoned to the matronly woman and glanced at the children. It s time for your tea. Bread pudding tonight, don t forget. Gerrard hid a wry smile as the allure of bread pudding trumped the attraction of remaining with him. Both boys slid to the ground, reciting polite farewells. Therese, helped up out of her father s lap, blew him a kiss, then ran to beat her brothers out of the door. Patience handed the baby over, then shut the door on her departing brood and returned to her chair. So why are you so agonized? Simply decline his lordship s invitation. That s just it. Gerrard raked his ngers through his hair. If I decline, I not only lose all chance of painting the famous Garden of Night myself, but ensure that the only painter who ll get the chance in the next fty years will be some portrait dabbler who probably won t even recognize what he s looking at. Which will be what? Vane rose, stretched, then moved to another chair. What is it about these gardens that makes them so special? The gardens of Hellebore Hall in Cornwall were originally designed in 1710. Gerrard had searched out the details after Cunningham had rst called on him. The area s unique a narrow protected valley angled southwest that captures the weather in such a way that the most fantastic plants and trees that grow nowhere else in England thrive there. The house is situated at the head of the valley which runs all the way to the sea. The proposed designs were seen by many, and generated much excitement at the time. Subsequently, the gardens were created over some thirty-odd years, but the family turned reclusive. Very few people have seen the gardens complete. He glanced at Patience. The few who did were enraptured. Landscape artists have been itching to paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall for decades. None have succeeded in gaining permission. His lips quirked. He glanced at Vane. The valley and its gardens lie within a large private estate, and the cove is rocky and dangerous, so slipping in and sketching on the sly has never been a viable option. So every landscape painter in England And the Continent and even the Americas. S tephanie Laurens 10 would jump at the opportunity to paint these gardens. Vane cocked his head. Are you sure you want to pass up the chance? Gerrard let out an explosive breath. No. That s my problem. Especially given the Garden of Night. Which is? Patience asked. The gardens comprise multiple areas, each named for an ancient god or mythical being. There s a Garden of Hercules, which stands along one ridge and has lots of big, tall trees, and a Garden of Artemis, with topiary animals, and so on. One of the areas is the Garden of Venus. It contains a large number of aphrodisiacs and heavily perfumed species, many of which are night-blooming, and incorporates a grotto and a pool fed by the stream that runs through the valley. It s located at the valley s head, just below the house. Due to some quirk of nature, that particular area grew rampant. One lucky soul who saw it only a decade or so after planting described it as a gothic heaven a dark landscape to eclipse all others. It became known as the Garden of Night. He paused, then added, In landscape artist s terms, painting the Garden of Night is akin to attaining the Holy Grail. It s there, but has for generations remained out of reach. Vane grimaced. Difficult choice. Gerrard nodded. Very much a damned if I do, and damned if I don t decision. Patience looked from one to the other. Actually, the decision s quite simple. She caught Gerrard s eye. All you have to decide is whether you re willing to risk that your talent is up to the task of painting a reasonable portrait of this young lady, against the certainty of being able to paint your Holy Grail. She tilted her head. Put it another way how much do you want to paint the Garden of Night? Enough to challenge yourself to creating a decent portrait of one young lady? Gerrard met her gray eyes, held her direct gaze. After a moment, he glanced at Vane. Sisters. Vane laughed. E ven after Patience s succinct reduction of the decision facing him, he might have refused, if it hadn t been for the dream. He spent The Truth About Love 11 the evening with Patience and Vane, idly chatting about other things; when he parted from Patience in the hall, she kissed his cheek and whispered, You know what you want to do, so do it. Take the risk. He d smiled, patted her shoulder, then ambled home, wondering, examining the possibilities, but increasingly along the lines of how he might pull off a portrait of a vain ibbertigibbet without being overtly insulting. Reaching his rooms in Duke Street, he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. Compton, his gentleman s gentleman, came hurrying up to divest him of his coat and bear it away to be brushed and accorded all proper respect. Gerrard grinned, undressed and fell into bed. And dreamed of the Garden of Night. He d never seen it, yet it appeared so vivid, so enticing, so mesmerizingly dark. So full of that dramatic energy that as a painter he was most attuned to. There was danger and excitement, a hint of menace, and something even more profound, more elementally sinister lurking in its shadows. It called to him. Whispered seductively. He woke in the morning with the summons still fresh in his mind. He didn t believe in portents. Rising, donning a velvet robe over trousers and shirt, he went downstairs. Making major decisions on an empty stomach was never wise. He d barely made a start on ham and eggs when a rat-a-tat-tat knock fell on the front door. Recognizing the signal, he reached for the coffeepot and lled his cup before the Honorable Barnaby Adair could drain the pot dry. The parlor door ew open. My heavens! Barnaby, a tall, elegant, golden-haired gure sporting a dramatically hunted look, swept in. May the saints preserve me from all doting mamas! His gaze fell on the coffeepot. Any left? Smiling, Gerrard waved at both pot and platters as Compton hurried in with an additional place setting. Help yourself. Thank you you re a savior. Barnaby sank into the chair beside Gerrard. Gerrard eyed him with affectionate amusement. And good morning to you. What s put you out? Did Lady Harrington s ball prove too exercising? 12 S tephanie Laurens Not Harrington. Barnaby closed his eyes, savoring the coffee. She s a decent enough sort. Opening his eyes, he considered the platters. It was Lady Oglethorpe and her daughter Melissa. Ah! Gerrard recalled the connection. The old friend of your dear mama s who was hoping you d oblige and escort her darling about town? The same. Barnaby took a bite of toast. You remember the story of the ugly duckling? Well, Melissa is that in reverse. Gerrard laughed. Barnaby and he were much of an age, of similar temperament and background, had similar likes and dislikes, and both favored an eccentric pastime. He couldn t remember how they d rst come to knock around town together, but over the last ve years, they d seen each other through various adventures, growing ever more comfortable in each other s company, and now unhesitatingly called on the other for any and all support. Nothing for it, Barnaby declared. I shall have to ee the capital. Gerrard grinned. It can t be that bad. Yes it can. I tell you, Lady Oglethorpe isn t looking to me just for escort duties. She has a gleam in her eye I mistrust, and if that wasn t bad enough, the dreadful Melissa clasped her hands to her bosom not a bad bosom, but the rest is hopeless and fervently stated that yours truly was her ideal, and that no gentleman in the ton could hold a candle to my magni cence. Barnaby grimaced horrendously. Coming it a great deal too strong, as the pater would say made me feel quite ill. And it s June don t they know the hunting season s over? Gerrard regarded his friend thoughtfully. Barnaby was the third son of an earl, and had inherited a substantial estate from a maternal aunt; like Gerrard, he was a prime target for matrons with daughters to establish. While Gerrard could and did use his painting as an excuse to avoid the worst of the invitations, Barnaby s hobby of studying crime was a far less acceptable diversion. I suppose, Barnaby mused, I could go to m sister s, but I m no longer sure she s not dangerous, too. His eyes narrowed. If she invited the Oglethorpes to visit over summer . . . He shuddered. Gerrard leaned back and reached for his coffee cup. If you re set The Truth About Love 13 on escaping the dreadful Melissa, you could come with me to Cornwall. Cornwall? Barnaby blinked his blue eyes wide. What s in Cornwall? Gerrard told him. Barnaby perked up. Mind you, Gerrard warned, there ll be at least one unmarried young lady present, and where there s one There s usually a pack. Barnaby nodded. Nevertheless, I ve handled all comers to now it s just Melissa, her mother, and the family connection that have so demoralized me. Said demoralization had clearly been transient; Barnaby fell to demolishing the last sausage, then he looked at Gerrard. So, when do we leave? Gerrard met his eyes. Patience had been right, not that he d ever tell her. I ll write to Tregonning s agent today. I ll need to get in extra supplies, and make sure all else is in order here . . . shall we say the end of next week? Excellent! Barnaby raised his cup in a toast, drained it, then reached for the coffeepot. I m sure I can lie low until then. T welve days later, Gerrard tooled his curricle between a pair of worn stone gateposts bearing plaques proclaiming them the entrance to Hellebore Hall. It s certainly a long way from London. Relaxed on the seat beside him, Barnaby looked around, curious and mildly intrigued. They d set out from the capital four mornings before, and spelled Gerrard s matched grays over the distance, stopping at inns that caught their fancy each lunchtime and each evening. The driveway, a continuation of the lane they d taken off the road to St. Just and St. Mawes, was lined with old, large-boled, thickly canopied trees. The elds on either side were screened by dense hedgerows. A sense of being enclosed in a living corridor, a shifting collage of browns and greens, was pervasive. Between the tops of the hedges and the overhanging branches, they caught tantalizing glimpses of the sea, sparkling silver under a cerulean sky. Ahead and to 14 S tephanie Laurens the right, the strip of sea was bounded by distant headlands, a medley of olive, purple and smoky gray in the early afternoon light. Gerrard squinted against the glare. By my reckoning, that stretch of water must be Carrick Roads. Falmouth ought to lie directly ahead. Barnaby looked. It s too far to make out the town, but there are certainly plenty of sails out there. The land dipped; the lane followed, curving slowly south and west. They lost sight of Carrick Roads as the spur leading to St. Mawes intervened on their right, then the tree sentinels that had lined the lane abruptly ended. The curricle rattled on, into the sunshine. They both caught their breath. Before them lay one of the irregular inlets where an ancient valley had been drowned by the sea. To their right lay the St. Mawes arm of the Roseland peninsula, solid protection from any cold north wind; to their left, the rougher heathland of the southern arm rose, cutting off any buffets from the south. The horses trotted on and the view shifted, a new vista opening as they descended yet further. The lane led them down through sloping elds, then steeply pitched and gabled roofs appeared ahead, between them and the bluegreen waters of the inlet. Swinging in a wide, descending arc, the lane went past the house that majestically rose into view, then curved back to end in a wide sweep of gravel before the front door. Rounding the nal curve, Gerrard slowed his horses; neither he nor Barnaby uttered a word as they descended the last stretch. The house was . . . eccentric, fabulous wonderful. There were turrets too numerous to count, multiple balconies laced with wrought iron, oddshaped buttresses aplenty, windows of all descriptions, and segments of rooms forming fanciful angles in the gray stone walls. You didn t say anything about the house, Barnaby said as the horses neared the forecourt and they were forced to stop staring. I didn t know about the house, Gerrard replied. I d only heard about the gardens. Arms of those gardens, the famous gardens of Hellebore Hall, reached out of the valley above which the house sat and embraced the fantastical creation, but the major part of the gardens lay hidden behind. Poised sentrylike at the upper end of the valley that ran down to the inlet s rocky shore, the house blocked all view of the valley itself and the gardens it contained. The Truth About Love 15 Gerrard let out the breath he hadn t been aware he d been holding. No wonder no one ever succeeded in slipping in to paint undetected. Barnaby shot him an amused look, straightening as Gerrard tightened the reins, and they entered the shaded forecourt of Hellebore Hall. S eated in the drawing room of Hellebore Hall, Jacqueline Tregonning caught the sound she d been waiting for the clop of hooves, the soft scrunch of gravel under a carriage s wheels. None of the others scattered about the large room heard; they were too busy speculating on aspects of the nature of the visitors who d just arrived. Jacqueline preferred not to speculate, not when she could view with her own eyes, and make up her own mind. Smoothly, quietly, she rose from the armchair beside the chaise on which sat her closest friend, Eleanor Fritham, and Eleanor s mother, Lady Fritham of neighboring Tresdale Manor. Both were engaged in a spirited discussion with Mrs. Elcott, the vicar s wife, over the descriptions of the two gentlemen shortly expected that Mrs. Elcott s and Lady Fritham s correspondents in the capital had provided. Bound to be arrogant, the pair of them, my cousin said. Mrs. Elcott grimaced disparagingly. I daresay they ll think themselves a cut above us. I don t see why they should, Eleanor returned. Lady Humphries wrote that while both were from excellent families, very much the haut ton, they were perfectly personable and amenable to being entertained. Eleanor appealed to her mother. Why would they turn their noses up at us? Aside from all else, we re all the society there is around here they ll lead very quiet lives if they cut us. True, Lady Fritham agreed. But if they re half as well bred as her ladyship makes out, they won t be high in the instep. Mark my words Lady Fritham nodded portentously, setting her multiple chins and the ribbons in her cap bobbing the mark of a true gentleman shows in the ease with which he comports himself in any company. Unobtrusively slipping away, gliding silently up the long room to the window that gave the best view of the front portico, Jacqueline 16 S tephanie Laurens cynically noted the others present; aside from her father s sister, Millicent, who after her mother s death had come to live with them, none had any real reason to be there. Not unless one deemed rampant curiosity sufficient reason. Jordan Fritham, Eleanor s brother, stood chatting with Mrs. Myles and her daughters, Clara and Rosa, both as yet unwed. Millicent stood with them, Mitchel Cunningham by her side. The group was engrossed in discussing portraiture, and the singular success of Mitchel and her father in persuading society s foremost artistic lion to grace Hellebore Hall and favor her with his talents. Calmly, Jacqueline approached the window. Regardless of her father s, Mitchel s, or the artistic lion s belief, she would be the one bestowing the favor. She hadn t yet decided whether she would sit for him, and wouldn t, not until she d evaluated the man, his talents, and, most importantly, his integrity. She knew why her father had been so insistent this man, and only he, could paint the portrait her father required. Millicent had been nothing short of brilliant in planting the right seeds in her father s mind, and nurturing them to fruition. As the one most intimately involved on all counts, Jacqueline was aware that the man himself would be pivotal; without him, his talents, and his vaunted integrity regarding his work, their plans would come to naught. And there was no other way to turn. Halting two paces from the window, she looked out at the occupants of the curricle that had just rocked to a stop before the portico; in the circumstances she felt no compunction in spying on Gerrard Debbington. First, she had to identify which of the two men he was. The one who wasn t driving? That tawny-haired gentleman stepped lithely down, then paused to throw a laughing comment to the other man, who remained on the box seat, the reins held loosely in his long ngered hands. The grays between the curricle s shafts were prime horse esh, and had been well spelled; Jacqueline registered that in the briefest of glances. The man holding the reins was dark-haired, with strong, chiseled features; the tawny-haired one was prettier, the darker the more handsome. In the second it took her to blink, she realized how odd it was for The Truth About Love 17 her to notice; male beauty rarely impinged on her mind. Then she looked again at the pair in the forecourt, and inwardly admitted that their physical attributes were hard to ignore. The man on the box seat moved; a groom appeared and he descended from the carriage, handing over the reins. And she had her answer; he was the painter. He was Gerrard Debbington. A dozen little things con rmed it, from the strength apparent in those very long ngers as he surrendered the ribbons, to the austere perfection of his clothes, and the reined intensity that hung about him, every bit as real as his fashionable coat. That intensity came as a shock. She d steeled herself to deal with some fashionable fribble or vain popinjay, but this man was something quite different. She watched as he answered his friend with a quiet word; the line of his thin lips didn t so much curve as ease the veriest hint of a smile. Controlled power, intensity harnessed, ruthless determination those were the impressions that sprang to her mind as he turned. And looked straight at her. Her breath caught, suspended, but she didn t move; she was standing too far from the pane for him to see her. Then she heard skirts rustling, footsteps pattering at the far end of the room; glancing sideways, she saw Eleanor, both Myles girls, and their mothers crowding around the far window that was angled to the forecourt. Jordan peered over their heads. Unlike her, they d crowded close to the glass. Looking back at Gerrard Debbington, she saw him studying them, and inwardly smiled. If he sensed someone watching him, he d think it was them. Gerrard regarded the cluster of faces blatantly staring from the wide windows facing the forecourt. Raising a supercilious brow, he turned away; avoiding the gaze of the single woman standing back from the window closest to the portico, he looked at Barnaby. It seems we re expected. Barnaby could see the goggling crowd, too, but the angle of the nearer window hid the lone woman from him. He gestured to the door. Shall we make our entrance? 18 S tephanie Laurens Gerrard nodded. Ring the bell. Strolling to an iron handle dangling by the door, Barnaby gave it a tug. Turning his head, Gerrard looked once more at the woman. Her stillness con rmed she thought he couldn t see her. Light spilled into the room from windows behind her, diagonally across from where she stood; courtesy of that she was, indeed, primarily a silhouette, barely illuminated. She was intelligent enough, then, to have realized that. But she d forgotten, or hadn t known of, the effect of painted woodwork. Gerrard would take an oath the frame surrounding the window was at least eight inches wide, and painted white. It threw back enough light, diffused and soft, true, but light nevertheless, to let him see her face. Just her face. He d already glimpsed three youthful female faces, every bit as uninspiring as he d expected, in the other group. Doubtless his subject was one of them; God knew how he d manage. This lady, however . . . he could paint her. He knew it in an instant; just a glance, that s all it took. Even though her features weren t that clear to him, there was a quality one of stillness, of depth, of a complexity behind the pale oval of her face that commanded his attention. Just like his dream of the Garden of Night, the sight of her face reached for him, touched him, called to the artist that was his soul. The front door opened and he turned away. Outwardly set himself to the task of greeting and being greeted. Cunningham was there, doing the honors; Gerrard shook his hand, his expression mild, his mind elsewhere. A governess, or a companion. She was in the drawing room, the doors of which he could now see, so unless she beat a very rapid retreat, he would meet her. Then he d have to nd some way of ensuring she was included along with the gardens in the other subjects he was permitted to paint. This is Treadle. Cunningham introduced the butler, who bowed. And Mrs. Carpenter, our housekeeper. A stern-faced, competent-looking woman bobbed a curtsy. Anything you need, sirs, please ask. Mrs. Carpenter straightened. The Truth About Love 19 I ve not yet assigned rooms, not being sure of your requirements. Perhaps, once you ve looked around and decided which rooms would best suit, you could let Treadle and me know, and we ll have everything arranged in a blink. Gerrard smiled. Thank you. We will. The charm behind his smile worked its usual magic; Mrs. Carpenter s face eased, and Treadle unbent a fraction. This is Mr. Adair. Gerrard introduced Barnaby, who with his usual air of genial bonhomie nodded to the two servants and Cunningham. Gerrard looked at Cunningham. Who seemed suddenly on edge. Ah . . . if you ll come this way, I ll introduce you to the ladies, and inform Lord Tregonning that you re here. Gerrard let his smile grow a fraction more intent. Thank you. Cunningham turned and preceded them to the double doors leading into what Gerrard had surmised must be the drawing room. He was right. They stepped into a room long enough to boast three separate areas for comfortable conversation. At one end, no longer by the window but gathered about the chairs angled before a large replace, was the group of ladies and the young man who d peered out at them, and one other, middle-aged lady he hadn t previously seen. Directly ahead, on the chaise that faced the doors, were two matrons, one of whom was eyeing Barnaby and him with incipient disapproval. Although he didn t glance her way, Gerrard was instantly aware of the single lady, standing alone and regarding them levelly from the other end of the room. Suppressing his impatience, he halted beside Cunningham, who d paused a yard over the threshold. Barnaby halted just behind his shoulder. Gerrard looked at the bevy of young misses, waiting to see which one came forward which of the three he was going to hate to have to paint. To his surprise, they all hung back. The middle-aged lady, a welcoming expression on her face, started toward them. As did the lone lady on his left. The middle-aged lady was too old; she couldn t be his subject. 20 S tephanie Laurens The younger lady drew nearer; he could no longer resist, but looked directly at her. And saw her, her face, for the rst time in good light. He met her eyes, and realized his error. Not a governess. Not a companion. The lady his ngers were already itching to paint was Lord Tregonning s daughter. 2 W ith a lady approaching from either side, Cunningham dithered over whom to introduce rst. The decision was taken out of his hands by the middle-aged lady, who swept up with a smile. I m Millicent Tregonning, Lord Tregonning s sister. She held out her hand. Allow me to welcome you to Hellebore Hall. Brown haired, well dressed, but severe both in style and expression, Millicent Tregonning was saved from appearing overly hard by the softness of her hazel eyes. Clasping her hand, Gerrard bowed. Thank you. He introduced Barnaby; stepping aside so his friend could greet the elder Miss Tregonning brought him closer to the younger lady Lord Tregonning s daughter, his subject, she who would be one focus of his artistic attention for the next several months. She d halted beside her aunt; of average height, clad in a gown of apple-green muslin enticingly displaying generous breasts, and hinting at a slender waist, nicely curved hips, and legs perfectly gauged to satisfy his critical eye, she calmly waited while Barnaby exchanged greetings. Momentarily free, Gerrard studied her. Turning her head, unruffled, she met his gaze. Her eyes, a medley of gold, amber and green, were large, well spaced under delicately arched brown brows. Her hair was glossy teak with lighter shades streaked through it, neatly con ned in a topknot with just a few ten- 22 S tephanie Laurens drils irting about her ears. The pale oval of her face was bisected by a straight nose; her complexion was awless, ivory tinged with a healthy glow, while her lips had been drawn with a subtle hand, full feminine curves yet exquisitely mobile elementally expressive. He already knew where to look for hints of her real thoughts, her real feelings. At present, her eyes were calm pools of quiet con dence; she was observing, assessing, totally contained. Totally unperturbed and unthreatened. Despite his presence, and Barnaby s for that matter, he could detect not the slightest hint of feminine uster. She wasn t seeing them as gentlemen as men but as something else. The truth came to him as her gaze de ected to her aunt. She was viewing him solely as a painter. And this is my niece, my brother s daughter, Miss Jacqueline Tregonning. Jacqueline turned to Gerrard Debbington. Smiling, she held out her hand. Mr. Debbington. I hope your journey down was pleasant it s such a long way. He again met her gaze, then took her hand, the long ngers she d remarked earlier closing, not too tightly yet rm and sure, about her slender bones. He bowed gracefully, his eyes never leaving hers. Miss Tregonning. I m grateful your father sought me out. The journey was indeed long, yet, had I not made it, I would certainly have lived to regret it. She barely registered his words. The tone of his voice, low, masculine, slid over her like a caress; the strength in his ngers, a sense of male power, spread over her skin and set her nerves ickering. His gaze held hers, intent with an interest she couldn t name. Her ngers quivered in his shocked, she stilled them. His face, lightly tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones, the angular planes aristocratically austere, remained impassive, his expression politely detached it was that intentness in his eyes, glowing brown, rich and alive as they held hers, that shook her. That forced her to look again, and truly see. She d dubbed him society s lion and he was unquestionably that, yet his polished elegance wasn t a guise adopted for the world but a re ection of himself; it exuded from him, a tangible shield. His lightly The Truth About Love 23 waving hair, a darker brown than her own, was fashionably cut, framing his wide forehead and deep-set eyes; his brows were dark, well arched, his lashes long and thick. He was tall, almost a head taller than she, broad of shoulder and long of limb; although he was lean rather than heavy, his graceful movements screamed of muscled strength camou aged by stylish manners. That sense of innate strength was echoed in his face, in the hard lines of brow, nose and chin. No fop, no self-absorbed popinjay. A lion, albeit a subtle one in thinking him that she d been right. He was dangerous, more dangerous than she d imagined any man might be. Just by holding her hand, meeting her eyes and uttering a few words what the devil had he said? he d made her lungs seize. The realization rattled her; determinedly, she drew breath and politely inclined her head. Indeed. She hoped the old standby tted; it usually did, regardless of what the preceding comment had been. He smiled brie y, tantalizingly a genuine smile of such rampant charm she was distracted all over again. With an effort, she turned to his friend; Gerrard Debbington relinquished her hand, which aided considerably in her battle to focus her wits. The tawny-haired god smiled at her. Barnaby Adair, Miss Tregonning. I m delighted to make your acquaintance. She managed a smile and gave him her hand and waited. Yet while Adair appeared cut from the same cloth as Gerrard Debbington, the clasp of his ngers had no discernible secondary effects; his eyes a merry blue were simply a pair of laughing eyes, and his voice held no power to make her forget his very words. Relieved, she welcomed him, then stood back as Mitchel and Millicent made to usher the two gentlemen to the chaise, there to continue the introductions. Mitchel, Millicent and Adair started off. Gerrard Debbington hesitated; she sensed him looking down at her. She looked up and met his eyes. With the lightest of gestures, the faintest lift of his brows, he indicated he expected her to accompany them. Acquiescing she wasn t entirely sure why, but quibbling was clearly ineligible she stepped out in her aunt s wake. He prowled by her side. By the simple expedient of not moving until she did, Gerrard kept 24 S tephanie Laurens Jacqueline Tregonning beside him throughout the introductions. He had no interest whatever in those he met, yet he was adept at the social niceties; part of his mind dealt with them, responding appropriately, placing names with faces, noting the connections. None of those with whom he spoke would have guessed his entire attention was riveted on the woman by his side. He could barely believe his luck. Far from being a hated and deeply detested chore, painting Lord Tregonning s daughter was going to be . . . precisely the sort of challenge he relished. She d captured every last shred of his awareness; there was so much about her to learn. Put simply, she fascinated him. He was distantly conscious that elements of that fascination were similar to those elicited by ladies who sexually rather than artistically caught his eye, yet given Jacqueline Tregonning was the rst lady he d decided to paint to whom he was not in some way related, he wasn t sure that wasn t to be expected. He saw women as they were, as whole, complete, sexual beings; that was one of the reasons behind his portraits success. With Jacqueline Tregonning, he d struck painter s gold a subject who had depth, who had layers of emotions and feelings, cares and concerns, all residing behind a face that in itself was intriguing. Just one glance into her beautiful eyes and he d known what he was looking at a subject who embodied the vital thing he needed to create a true work of art. She was an enigma. She was too young to be as she was. Ladies of her years did not normally possess depths, let alone hidden depths; they hadn t lived long enough, hadn t experienced enough of life s tragedies to have acquired them. Yet Jacqueline Tregonning was the epitome of a person of whom it was said: still waters run deep. She was a still, deep pool, calm and glossy smooth on the surface, but with strong currents, strong emotions, running beneath. Of what those emotions were, of what had caused not just them but her to be as she was, he had as yet no clue, yet he would need to learn the answer to that and all else about her in order to capture all he could see in her eyes, all he could sense behind her controlled expression. He remained attuned to her as they spoke with those present; with each one, he instinctively catalogued not so much her outward The Truth About Love 25 reactions as what he sensed of her true feelings. Reserve, distance, a keeping apart. Her attitude was so consistent, so striking, the words resonated in his head. It wasn t shyness; she didn t seem at all shy. She was comfortable and assured, at ease in her own home with people he gathered she d known most of her life. But she didn t trust them. Not a single one, with the sole exception of her aunt Millicent. He was assimilating that when he heard a slow step and the soft thump of a cane. He turned, as did the others, as an older gentleman appeared in the doorway. The man located him, studied him, then came forward. Slowly, yet his movements weren t frail or ponderous so much as measured. Marcus, Lord Tregonning, was of the old school. Gerrard recognized the signs the outdated cut of his coat, the knee breeches, the deliberately slow gait, the cane he didn t need, the apparent invisibility of all others beyond the person in his lordship s sights. Himself. He was glad of the discipline Vane and Gabriel Cynster had taught him, the ability to keep his expression impassive, in this case squelching the urge to smile. Neither he nor Barnaby were likely to be affected by the intimidatory style of their grandsires. From the corner of his eye, he could see Barnaby ghting a grin an appreciative one, although his lordship was unlikely to see it so. They were, after all, guests in the man s house, and there they stood, very much like predators, of distinctly different caliber to the other males in the room, bloods in their prime in the old lion s territory. Lord Tregonning s dark gaze held a sharper, even more critical assessment than his daughter s had. His face was pale, deeply lined, by grief, Gerrard suspected. His hair was still thick and dark, his eyes heavy-lidded and sunk deep; he carried himself erect, spine rigid. The hand wrapped about the head of the cane was aged, the skin mottled, but his grip showed no sign of weakness. The description that sprang to Gerrard s mind was careworn, yet still as proud as bedamned. His lordship halted no more than two feet distant. Old eyes, agatey brown, bored into his, then Lord Tregonning nodded. Gerrard Debbington, I presume? Gerrard bowed. His lordship extended his hand; Gerrard shook it, calmly returning the old man s steady regard. I m delighted you were able to accept my commission, sir. Gerrard knew better than to display eagerness over business deal- 26 S tephanie Laurens ings. The gardens, as you know, are a draw the chance to paint them was difficult to pass up. Tregonning raised his brows. And the portrait? Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline Tregonning; she d moved a few paces away to chat with the other young ladies. As to that, I believe my initial reservations, those I understand Mr. Cunningham conveyed to you, have been laid to rest. I m quite looking forward to commencing the work. It took effort to keep his drawl even, his tone no more than mildly interested; in reality, he would like nothing better than to consign Tregonning and everyone else to some outer planet so he could haul out his sketch pad, sit Jacqueline Tregonning down, and get started. Forcing his gaze from her, he turned back to his host in time to glimpse relief eetingly it across Tregonning s worn features. If you ll permit me to introduce the Honorable Barnaby Adair? Tregonning shook hands with Barnaby; Gerrard seized the moment to con rm his impression. Yes, Tregonning had fractionally relaxed; the rigid set of his shoulders had eased, the sense of grim resolution had faded somewhat. Turning from Barnaby, Tregonning eyed him once more, measuringly yet, Gerrard felt, also with a touch of approval. Perhaps Tregonning icked a glance at the ladies, both young and not so young attempting to appear not to be listening for all they were worth we should repair to my study and discuss your requirements. Indeed. Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, now moving further down the room. It would be wise to establish the procedures I ll follow, and what will be necessary to ensure a portrait of the quality I imagine we both wish to see. Good, good. Tregonning gestured to the door. If you ll come with me . . . ? Marcus? Marcus, do wait! With Tregonning, Gerrard turned to see the older lady introduced as Lady Fritham, a close neighbor, beckoning. Brows rising, Tregonning held his ground. Yes, Maria? I m holding a dinner party tomorrow evening, and I wished to invite you and Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair to attend. It ll be the perfect opportunity for them to meet our local set. Her improbably The Truth About Love 27 blond curls quivering with eagerness, Lady Fritham opened her blue eyes wide and clasped bejeweled hands to her bosom. Do say you ll come, gentlemen. Gerrard glanced at Tregonning, deferring to his host. Tregonning met his gaze brie y, then looked again at Lady Fritham. I m sure Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair will be delighted to accept, Maria. As for myself, I fear you must excuse me. He bowed with austere grace, then turned away. I ll remain here. Barnaby nodded politely and went to join Millicent Tregonning. Lord Tregonning made for the doors. Gerrard fell in beside him, wondering whether his lordship would summon his daughter wondering if he should suggest it. They reached the doorway; Tregonning didn t glance back. Inwardly shrugging, Gerrard followed him out. Tregonning asked about London in the terms of one who hadn t visited in decades; Gerrard replied as they crossed the hall and headed down a long corridor. In some ways, his host was almost as intriguing as his daughter. There was an aura of weariness about the man; it colored his voice, yet was countered by a strong sense of grim, unquenchable resolve. Tregonning s wasn t a face Gerrard could read; the man kept his emotions too locked away, repressed, concealed, and under too tight a rein to be accurately discerned even by an observer as acute as Gerrard knew himself to be. He thought again of Jacqueline Tregonning. Perhaps the reserve he sensed in her was a familial trait, but in her case, her exterior hadn t yet ossi ed. Regardless, that didn t explain how she, a young lady of . . . he wasn t sure of her age . . . came to have tragic secrets. He looked about him as they walked. He was accustomed to ducal residences, but this house was enormous and more convoluted in design than was usual. The furnishings were of good but not exceptional quality, tending toward the dark, heavy and ornate, with ornamentation approaching the baroque. The overall effect was Gothic, fanciful, but not overwhelming. At the end of the corridor, Tregonning preceded him up a ight of stairs. Opening a door off the landing, he led the way into a darkly appointed yet luxurious study. It was a comfortable room, very male in ambience; sinking into 28 S tephanie Laurens the large leather armchair Tregonning indicated, Gerrard suspected his host spent most of his reclusive days there. Settling into another armchair, Tregonning gestured. My house and staff are at your disposal. What do you need? Gerrard told him. The studio must have excellent light old nurseries are often suitable. Tregonning nodded. We have a large nursery no longer in use. I ll give orders for it to be cleared and made ready. It has very large windows. Excellent. I ll inspect it to con rm it will suit. It would be helpful if my room, and that of my man, Compton, could be located nearby. Tregonning waved. I m sure the inestimable Mrs. Carpenter will be able to arrange matters as you wish. Gerrard detailed his other requirements a long table, a double lock on the door, and other sundry items. Tregonning accepted all without quibble, naming those of his staff who would handle each point. I ve brought all else I need with me Compton should be arriving shortly with the luggage. While I will at some point have to return to the capital to replenish my supplies, exactly when is impossible to guess. Tregonning nodded. Do you have any idea how long the portrait will take? At this stage, I can t say. My previous portraits were executed over a period of months; the longest took eight months. However, in those cases, the subjects were well-known to me. In your daughter s case, I ll need to spend some time simply observing her before I attempt even preliminary sketches. Apropos of that, one matter we should discuss is sittings, and what that term encompasses. For a portrait of the nature you wish, I ll need, at least initially, to have rst call on your daughter s time. I ll need to observe her in different situations and settings about this house, her home. It s essential I have some understanding of her character and personality before I set pencil to paper. He added, purely as a matter of form, I assume she understands this and is willing to commit the time necessary for a successful portrait. Tregonning blinked. It was the rst time Gerrard had seen The Truth About Love 29 him anything less than absolutely, unquestioningly con dent of all around him. Jacqueline Tregonning s assessing look ashed into his mind; a sinking feeling assailed him. Had she agreed to let him paint her? Tregonning frowned. She indicated she was willing to sit for a portrait, but I didn t then know what you ve just explained. She may well not appreciate the necessity . . . He stirred, lips rming. I ll speak with her. No. With due respect, it might be better if I did. I could then answer any questions she may have, which will ensure there are no subsequent misunderstandings. Gerrard held Tregonning s gaze. The demands on her time will actually decrease once we commence formal sittings. Tregonning s face cleared; nodding, he relaxed in his chair. That might be best. She did say she was agreeable, and I m sure she won t refuse, but it would be wise for her to know what you need of her. Gerrard quietly exhaled. He had much greater con dence in his powers of persuasion than he had in Tregonning s. The man seemed distant from everything, and that might well include his daughter; while he hadn t yet gained even an inkling of Jacqueline s attitude to her father, he didn t want to risk any adverse reaction from her. He was even more determined than Tregonning that his portrait of Jacqueline Tregonning would go ahead, and under the most favorable circumstances. So he d talk to the lady himself, and ensure he got an agreement he could fall back on if she later turned difficult. Reviewing all they d covered, he continued, As I don t normally accept commissions, I think it wise to be plain about what I ll eventually deliver. The commission is for a nal, framed, full-length portrait in oils of your daughter unless there s some major catastrophe that prevents its execution, that s what I ll deliver to you within the next year. I, however, will retain all sketches and preliminary works. In addition, I never permit any early viewing of my work the rst you ll see of it will be the completed work I present to you. Should you not wish to accept it, I will keep the portrait and no commission will apply. Tregonning was nodding. That s entirely acceptable. He caught Gerrard s eye. You re also keen to paint the gardens. Gerrard blinked. Indeed. He glanced at the window; the fabu- 30 S tephanie Laurens lous gardens that had for decades obsessed him and his peers lay displayed before him. Whatever sketches and paintings of the gardens I complete will be mine to keep. Should I ever offer any for sale, you will, of course, be given rst refusal. Tregonning humphed. I suppose, he said, levering himself up from the depths of the armchair, that you ll want to start exploring the gardens straightaway. His gaze still locked on the vista beyond the window, Gerrard rose, too, then turned to meet Tregonning s old eyes. Actually, no. I don t anticipate exploring the gardens, artistically speaking, other than as a backdrop for your daughter, until I ve got the portrait under way. Tregonning was surprised but pleased, indeed, grati ed. Accompanying him back to the drawing room, Gerrard was aware of the irony. He d come here to paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall, yet despite his obsession with them, ever since he d laid eyes on Jacqueline Tregonning, he d been consumed by thoughts of painting her. Against her allure, not even the Garden of Night could compete. T hey returned to the front hall. Lord Tregonning saw him to the drawing room door, but stopped short of entering. I ll instruct Treadle and Mrs. Carpenter as to your needs no doubt they ll consult with you. Thank you. With a nod, Tregonning turned away. Gerrard watched him walk back in the direction from which they d come. Feminine chatter spilled out of the drawing room. Clearly his lordship intended to seek refuge in his study, leaving him and Barnaby to the tender mercies of Lady Fritham, Mrs. Myles and the censorious Mrs. Elcott. Accepting the inevitable, he turned and strolled back into the fray. Tea had been served in his absence; Millicent Tregonning smiled and poured him a cup. Accepting it, he chatted to her and Mrs. Myles, seated beside her, regarding his rst impressions of the area. Mrs. Myles was instantly recognizable as a mother with daughters to establish; her bright eyes and gushing comments explained why Barnaby was on the other side of the room. The Truth About Love 31 Returning his empty cup, Gerrard excused himself and followed. Of course, neither he nor Barnaby could truly escape. They would remain the cynosure of local attention until the novelty of their presence faded. Avoiding the chaise on which Lady Fritham sat absorbed in spirited argument with the severe Mrs. Elcott clad in gray twill that matched her gray hair, the vicar s wife behaved as if holding herself ready to be scandalized at any moment he walked down the room to where the younger crew was holding court, Barnaby unsurprisingly center stage. The Misses Myles saw him approaching, and quickly shifted to create a space between them. He smiled his practiced smile, and with an easy nod strolled around the group to Jacqueline Tregonning s side. Although following Barnaby s tale, she sensed him draw near. She glanced eetingly up at him, then moved aside to allow him to stand beside her. Detecting exasperation in her brief glance, Gerrard wondered . . . then realized she couldn t study him while he was standing next to her. His lips eased, curved. Across the circle, the Misses Myles s eyes brightened. Without appearing to notice, Gerrard gave his attention to Barnaby. The last thing he wished was to raise any hopes in the Misses Myles s young breasts. The thought had him glancing discreetly down, to his left, to where Jacqueline s breasts rose above the scooped neckline of her gown. Her skin was awless, creamy white; his ngertips tingled he would wager that skin was rose-petal soft. Although of perfectly acceptable style for a young lady some years beyond her rst season, Jacqueline s endowments lled out the gown in a manner guaranteed to draw gentlemen s eyes. Retrieving his gaze, Gerrard glanced around the circle; other than Barnaby, who he was aware had noticed, the other two gentlemen seemed oblivious of Jacqueline s charms. Contempt for the familiar, or . . . ? In between attending Barnaby s story, Mitchel Cunningham ignored the Myles sisters and shot brief, very brief, glances at Eleanor Fritham, Lady Fritham s daughter. Eleanor was indeed a beauty, a touch older than Jacqueline and in very different style. She was taller, reed slender, with alabaster skin and long, pale fair hair. Her eyes were 32 S tephanie Laurens cerulean blue, her lashes and brows brown. She was using them shamelessly on Barnaby, her attention slavishly xed on him. Much good would it do her. She might be a beauty, yet Gerrard instinctively knew she was unlikely to be of serious interest to either him or Barnaby. Noting another of Cunningham s swift glances, Gerrard made a mental note to mention the association to Barnaby, purely in pursuit of a peaceful existence, something Barnaby appreciated as much as he. The brevity of Cunningham s glances was almost certainly attributable to the other gentleman in the group, Eleanor s older brother, Jordan Fritham. A brown-haired, precociously superior gentleman in his mid-twenties, he stood between his sister and the Myles girls. Taking in Jordan s stance, Gerrard smothered a grin. The sketch that sprang to life in his mind was titled: Cock of the Local Walk Greatly Displeased by the Appearance of Interlopers on His Patch. Barnaby and he were the interlopers, yet as far as Gerrard could tell, it wasn t his attention to Jacqueline but Eleanor s to Barnaby that was ruffling Jordan s feathers. He strove to hide his reaction, but there was a hard glint in his eyes, a twist to his thin lips that screamed his irritation. So when Monteith came thundering up in his curricle thinking he d won Barnaby struck a dramatic pose there was George Bragg, leaning on his whip, waiting to greet him! The Myles sisters gasped; Eleanor Fritham s eyes glowed with laughter. With an engaging grin, Barnaby concluded his tale of the latest curricle-racing scandal. Monteith was furious, of course, but there was nothing he could do but put a good face on it and stump up the blunt. Oh, that must have hurt. Eleanor lightly clapped her hands. Oh, it did, Barnaby assured her. Monteith took off for his Highland eyrie and hasn t been sighted since. Gerrard knew the story; he d been there. Jordan Fritham made some slighting comment about London horse esh. Gerrard didn t catch Barnaby s reply; Jacqueline had turned to him, considering him. He looked down and met her frankly measuring gaze. Are you inclined to such pastimes, Mr. Debbington? She d forgotten he was a man again. He smiled, deliberately charming, and watched her blink. No, he murmured. I have better things more rewarding things to do with my time. The Truth About Love 33 For an instant, she held his gaze, then the bustling rustle of skirts gave her an excuse to glance away. And breathe in. Deeply. He was acutely aware to his ngertips aware of the rise and fall of her breasts. The interruption was Lady Fritham, come to summon Eleanor and Jordan away. Mrs. Myles somewhat reluctantly followed, gathering her daughters, and the party broke up. Millicent, Mitchel and Jacqueline went to see the visitors to their carriages. Following some paces behind, Gerrard and Barnaby halted in the front hall. An unthreatening bunch, don t you think? Barnaby said. I ve been focusing on Jacqueline Tregonning. I noticed. Barnaby s eyes danced. Artist smitten by subject not an entirely original plot. Not smitten, you idiot, just absorbed. There s a great deal more to her than meets the eye. You ll get no argument from me on the latter. As for the former Barnaby shot him a sidelong glance he chose to ignore we ll see. Mrs. Carpenter entered the hall. She came forward. Mr. Debbington, Mr. Adair, we have your rooms ready. If you ll come with me, we can make sure they suit. Gerrard smiled. I m sure they will. With a last glance for Jacqueline, standing, waving, on the front porch, he turned and with Barnaby followed Mrs. Carpenter upstairs. She and her staff had been as efficient as Lord Tregonning had intimated; the room to which she led Gerrard was just along the rst oor corridor from the stairs that led up to the old nursery. Treadle s had the footmen up there moving the heavy pieces. I ll have the maids go up rst thing tomorrow, sir. Perhaps if you ll look in after breakfast and let us know how you d like things set up? My thanks, Mrs. Carpenter, and to Treadle, too. I ll consult with you after breakfast. Mrs. Carpenter bobbed a curtsy and left. Gerrard turned and surveyed the room. It was large, with a sitting area before a wide replace and a huge tester bed set on a dais at the opposite end. A door to one side of the replace led to a dressing room from which Compton had looked out, nodded on seeing him, then retreated to nish unpacking his things. 34 S tephanie Laurens They d left Barnaby in a similar room, in the same wing but closer to the main stairs. Gerrard ambled to the open dressing room door and looked in. Everything to our liking? Indeed, sir. Compton had been with him for eight years; a veteran of the Peninsula campaigns, he was now approaching middle age. A very well-run enterprise, and a pleasant household with it. Compton shot Gerrard a sidelong glance. Belowstairs, at least. As to abovestairs, Gerrard said, answering the unvoiced question, all seems comfortable enough, but we re still at rst glance. Where does Cunningham t in, do you know? Eats with the family, he does. After a moment, Compton asked, Want me to ask about? Not about him, but report anything you hear about the younger Miss Tregonning I need to get to know her better, and quickly. Will do. Now, will the brown Bath super ne do for tonight, or do you want to go with the black? Gerrard considered. The black. Leaving Compton to g out his evening clothes, he turned back into the bedroom and headed for the glass-paned doors that opened onto the balcony. The private semicircular balcony ran half the length of the room. Because of the odd shape of the house and the angle of the room next door, no other room was visible, and vice versa; both balcony and room were essentially private, and offered a unique and stunning view over the gardens. Gerrard stepped out, entranced. Even through the lengthening shadows of approaching dusk, the gardens were magical fantastical shapes rose out of the twilight, a plethora of fairy-tale landscapes scattered across and down the valley, each opening out from the last, then merging into the next. On the horizon, the sea shimmered gold in the last light of the dying sun, then melted through shades of gilt and silver laid over blue to become the iridescent surf breaking on the rocks clogging the inlet s narrow beach. He let his gaze slowly travel nearer, noting how the gardens became progressively more structured the closer they got to the house. In the ring of areas adjoining the house, he glimpsed a garden of round boulders on one ridge, a formal Italianate garden nearer at hand, statuary in another section and a towering pinetum on the other ridge. The Truth About Love 35 He could hear the tinkling music of water running over rock. Looking down toward the sound, he saw a terrace below the balcony. The terrace skirted the house on the valley side, giving views and also access to the gardens; he could just make out steps leading down in several places. Toward the middle of the house, a denser, darker patch of thick vegetation ran right up to the terrace, perhaps even extending beneath it. That, Gerrard guessed, on a mild surge of satisfaction, had to be the famous Garden of Night. Tomorrow, he d explore. He tried to focus on the prospect, only to nd his mind drifting, insistently, back to Jacqueline Tregonning. How was he going to gain her trust, gain her con dence enough to learn all he wanted to know? Considering the best way to approach a young lady he now knew wasn t as conventional as he d blithely assumed, he wandered back into the room, absentmindedly shutting the door on the darkening gardens. D inner was a curious experience. The food was excellent, the conversation beyond subdued. The hour passed in oddly peaceful quiet, with long stretches of silence, yet strangely without any sense of repression. They spoke as necessary, but there was no compulsion to ll the gaps. Gerrard was fascinated. Both he and Barnaby had been watchful, quick to match their hosts behavior. Both found the family intriguing, Barnaby because, as a student of crime, he found the vagaries of human nature absorbing, while for Gerrard, Jacqueline s interaction with her family would inevitably form the cornerstone of his mental picture of her, the basis of the understanding he ultimately brought to her portrait. Regardless of the relative silence, the established procedures were followed; when the covers were drawn, the ladies rose and left the gentlemen to pass the port. Mitchel asked Barnaby about the curricleracing scandal. Lord Tregonning grasped the moment to inquire whether the room he d been given met with Gerrard s approval. On being assured it did, his lordship nodded and lapsed once more into comfortable silence. 36 S tephanie Laurens Gerrard sat back, comfortable, too, and considered his best way forward with Jacqueline. At the end of a restful twenty minutes, they all rose and quit the dining room. Lord Tregonning left them in the hall, heading for his study. Together with Mitchel and Barnaby, Gerrard strolled back to the drawing room. They crossed the threshold to the gentle strains of a sonata. Gerrard looked at the pianoforte set in one corner, but it was Millicent at the keys. Jacqueline was seated at one end of the central chaise, a lamp on the table beside her, the soft light sheening on her tumbling curls as, head bent, she plied her needle over a piece of embroidery. He headed her way, eager to learn of her interests, her pastimes of her. She looked up, smiled politely, then made to gather up the embroidery; a basket sat by her feet. No I d like to look. He smiled when, surprised, she blinked up at him. He summoned his charm. If I may? She stared at him for a moment, then made a small gesture. If you wish. Her tone stated she didn t understand why he would. Sitting beside her, he cast an inevitably critical eye over the ne linen she spread on her lap so he could see. His gaze raced over it, then slowed. It was his turn to blink. He leaned closer, looked harder. He d expected the usual embroidery ladies wasted their time with, some conventional scene done in conventional style. That wasn t what she was creating. And creating it was. His painter s eyes drank in the lines, the balance of shapes and colors, the use of varying textures to give the illusion of depth. This isn t from a pattern. No question. After a moment, she said, I make it up as I do it. I have a picture in my head. He was barely conscious of nodding; he hadn t expected her to have any artistic streak, but this . . . He pointed to a patch above the center. You ll need a visually strong element there it s the focal point. The look she cast him was faintly irritated. I know. She gathered the linen, tucking the strands of silk she was working with into the folds. There s a sundial there. He could see it; that would work. He glanced at her as she bent to tuck the embroidery into the basket. Do you paint or draw? The Truth About Love 37 She hesitated, then answered, I draw a little, but mostly in preparation. She looked back, met his eyes. I do watercolors. Not perhaps the easiest of confessions to make to the country s foremost landscape artist; his landscapes were watercolors. You must show me your works sometime. Her eyes, currently more green than gold, snapped. I don t think that ll be necessary. I mean it. His tone, clipped and de nite, faintly impatient, emphasized that fact. I want to will need to see them. She held his gaze, faintly puzzled; beyond that, he couldn t read her thoughts. Then she said, Speaking of painting, are the amenities provided adequate to your needs? If there s anything more you require, please ask. A clear change of subject, but she d given him precisely the opening he wanted. The amenities are satisfactory, however, there are a number of aspects we need to discuss. He glanced at the pianoforte; Barnaby was turning music for Millicent and chatting with Mitchel. Before dinner, he d asked Barnaby to keep Millicent and any others occupied to clear his way with Jacqueline. Barnaby had grinned widely, but wisely made no comment beyond assuring him he d be delighted to oblige. He returned his gaze to Jacqueline s face. I nd music rather distracting. Perhaps we could walk on the terrace, and I ll explain what will be necessary to create the portrait your father wants. She hesitated, her gaze on his face yet not, he would swear, seeing him, then she nodded. That would be helpful. Rising, he offered his hand. Again she hesitated, yet this time he knew why; he was aware of how she steeled herself before placing her ngers in his. He gripped, and felt a surge of purely male satisfaction at the faint tremor he detected before she suppressed it. He drew her up, then released her; suavely waving her to the French doors open to the terrace, he reminded himself it formed no part of his plan to discompose her, much less make her wary of being in his company. Side by side they strolled out, into the soft night. Onto the terrace he d seen from his balcony. Below his room, the terrace was relatively narrow; here it spread wide, an area in which guests from the drawing room and the ballroom next door could gather and admire the view. Tonight the view was shrouded in shadows, the moon a mere sliver shedding just enough light to limn all it touched in silver, trans- 38 S tephanie Laurens forming the gardens into a fantastical landscape, yet his attention remained on the creation who walked beside him, not on those spread before him. She d walked to the right, away from the area he was increasingly certain contained the Garden of Night. It was said to be best viewed in the evening, yet he felt no urgency over exploring it just yet; he d see it in daylight rst, tomorrow maybe. He glanced at Jacqueline. Her gown of pale green silk faded to beaten silver in the faint light; her skin appeared translucent; only the rich color of her hair retained its warmth. Her expression was calm, composed, yet he sensed she was thinking rapidly. It seemed wise to speak before she could distract him. I mentioned to your father the necessary demands that sitting for a portrait places on the subject he wasn t sure you were aware of the details. Strolling slowly beside him, Jacqueline told herself to concentrate on his words, and ignore the voice that uttered them. What are those demands in detail? Lifting her head, she met his eyes, dark in the night, and marveled again that she was so quiveringly aware of him in a way she d never been of any other before. She battled to quell a shiver, difficult to excuse given the warmth of the gentle, perfumed breeze wafting about them. After a moment, he replied, Initially, I ll demand a great deal of, if not most of, your time, although largely in social settings, much the usual round of your life. I need to gain a strong sense of who you are, how you feel about many subjects. He glanced out at the gardens. How you react to things, your likes, dislikes, and the reasons behind them. The subjects you re happy to talk of, and those you d rather avoid. They walked on for a few paces, then he looked at her. Basically, I need to get to know you. She studied his face. The light was good enough for her to make out his expression, but she couldn t read his eyes. His expression he controlled; his eyes were more revealing. What he was suggesting was frankly unnerving. I thought portraitists paint she gestured at best what they see. His lips quirked in wry acknowledgment of the quali cation. Most do. I don t. I paint more. The Truth About Love 39 How so? He didn t immediately answer; as they walked on, she sensed he was considering the question for the rst time. Eventually, he said, I think it s because every person I ve painted to date is someone I ve known for years, someone I m connected to, whose background and family I know. He met her gaze. What I paint goes far deeper than a face and an outward expression. Just as with landscapes I paint not just the detail but the atmosphere as well, so, too, with people. It s the intangibles that are most powerful. She nodded and looked ahead. I ve heard of your reputation, but I ve never seen any of your works. All are in private hands. She glanced at him. You don t show them? Not the portraits. They were created as gifts. He lightly shrugged. And to see if I could. Do you mean to say my portrait will be the rst for which you ve received a commission? Her tone was even, the question direct if somewhat forward; nevertheless, it struck a nerve. Gerrard halted, and waited until she did the same and faced him. Miss Tregonning, why do I get the impression you re assessing my abilities as a portraitist? She blinked at him, then equally succinctly replied, Probably because I am. She tilted her head, studying him. Surely you didn t expect me to simply agree to be painted by she gestured someone whose talents are unknown to me? Just any old artist was what she d meant to say. He narrowed his eyes; she didn t react, her expression remained open. Your father gave me to understand that you d agreed to allow me to paint your portrait. She frowned slightly. Her gaze remained steady on his face. I agreed to sit for a portrait. Not to sit for any particular painter. Papa chose you I ve yet to decide whether you meet my requirements. Again he had cause to thank Vane and Gabriel Cynster for teaching him the knack of impassivity in the face of extreme provocation. He let a moment go by a fraught moment in which he reined in his reaction, and found words in which he could acceptably express it. Miss Tregonning, do you have any idea how many petitions, if not 40 S tephanie Laurens outright pleas, I ve received to do portraits of young ladies of the ton? No, of course not, but that s neither here nor there. This is me, my portrait, not theirs. I m not one to be ruled by the opinion of the giddy horde. She looked at him with slightly more interest. Why did you refuse them? I assume you did? Yes. I did. His words were excessively clipped; she didn t seem perturbed in the least. Her eyes remained on his, waiting . . . I wasn t interested in painting any of them. Now, before we go any further before she asked the obvious next question it seems I should share with you the particulars I made clear to your father. I paint what s there, both in a face and behind it. I won t alter, exaggerate or suppress what I see any portrait I paint will be a faithful representation not just of how the person appears, but also of who they are. She d raised her brows at his fervor, but all she said was, And what they are? Indeed. In the nal work, what they are will show through. She held his gaze for a moment a frankly assessing moment then she nodded, once, decisively. Good. That s precisely what I need what my father needs. She turned and walked on. Gerrard mentally shook his head, then followed, still grappling with the way the situation had swung around. Apparently his painting her was not, as he d thought, a case of his conferring a boon on her; it seemed there d been a real question of whether she d condescend to sit for him! The possibility of her not doing so forced him to tread carefully. Lengthening his stride, he came up with her. He glanced at her face; her expression was uninformative, her eyes veiled. So . . . He felt forced to ask the plain question. Will you sit for me? She halted and faced him. Calmly, she met his gaze. For the rst time, he felt he was seeing further that she was letting him sense something of the woman she was, and the strength she possessed the reason, surely, for her steadiness, her assurance, so much stronger than usually found in young ladies of her age . . . How old are you? She blinked. Why? Does it matter? His lips thinned at the faint amusement in her tone. I need to get to know you, to understand you, and knowing how old you are helps The Truth About Love 41 to get an idea of your life, and what questions to ask, what else I need to know. She hesitated; he sensed her withdrawing, being more careful. I m twenty-three. She lifted her chin. How old are you? He recognized the diversion, but calmly replied, Twenty-nine. Her brows rose. You seem older. It was hard to remain on his high horse when she was so determinedly ignoring convention. I know. The understated elegance he d absorbed from Vane always had made him appear more mature. He continued to hold her gaze. So do you. Also true. She smiled eetingly, a genuine, amused if faintly wry expression. It was the rst spontaneous smile he d seen from her; he immediately determined to see more. They stood for a moment, each studying the other, then he said, You haven t answered my question. She held his gaze for a moment longer, then her lips slowly curved. Swinging around, she started strolling back toward the drawing room. If you re half the painter you believe yourself to be she glanced over her shoulder, caught his eye, then faced forward and strolled on then, yes, I ll sit for you. Her words drifted back to him. Papa chose well, it seems. He watched her walk away, aware to his bones of her bold yet veiled challenge, and his response to it. Deliberately, he xed his gaze on her exposed nape, then let it slide caressingly down her back, tracing the line from shoulder to hip, to ankle . . . then he stirred, and followed her. 3 H e 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-con dent and strangely assured, yet she wasn t lighthearted; she was de nitely 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 The Truth About Love 43 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, speci cally 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 cha ng 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 owery 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 elds. 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. 44 S tephanie Laurens 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 ourishingly 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 brie y. 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 ight of steps to a gravel path that led to the ridge. The Truth About Love 45 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 car- 46 S tephanie Laurens rying 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 brie y 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 eld 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 un- The Truth About Love 47 furled their parasols; the sun was high enough to ood 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 owed 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 ow 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? 48 S tephanie Laurens 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 rst 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 ll the air, tinkling, burbling, almost singing. It was a pleasant, relaxing sound. Gerrard scanned the area; it was rich with lush lawns and burgeoning ower 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. The Truth About Love 49 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 ve 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 brie y 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 owered 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-greatgrandfather completed the design, but the planting wasn t complete until my great-grandfather s time. 50 S tephanie Laurens 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 lled 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. The Truth About Love 51 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 ashed 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. 52 S tephanie Laurens 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 ngers 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 gure, 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, ghting 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. The Truth About Love 53 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 na vet . 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 rm 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 xed 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 brie y at him, ready to be morti ed 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. 54 S tephanie Laurens 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 ve 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 ngers 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 ngers 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 ery red and orange owers and bronze foliage, followed in turn by the Gardens of Hermes and Diana, the former dotted with or- The Truth About Love 55 namental 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. Re ecting 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 pro le. 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 signi cantly higher than it had been when they d set out. She slowed her pace; Millicent 56 S tephanie Laurens 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 ight 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 owed, 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 ashed 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. The Truth About Love 57 Her breath caught; her lungs seized. Millicent, thank heavens, spoke to him, de ecting 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 ickering. 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. E pilogue April 1832 The Grange, Derbyshire S ummer waned, the year turned, and spring came again. Gerrard sat on the shaded terrace overlooking his gardens, and watched Jacqueline, his wife, stroll amid the owers. She stopped here and there, admiring this bloom, then that. In his eyes, none could match her beauty. He wasn t the only one who thought so. Her portrait, shown at his hugely successful winter exhibition, had garnered not just praise, but awe. He d been credited with setting a new standard for portraiture; while the accolades had been sweet, the secret smiles they d shared had been his nectar. The true meaning of the portrait, the reason it had been painted, had been shared with few. There d been no need, in the end, to make a point of it. Jordan was dead, Eleanor locked away. Lord and Lady Fritham had disappeared, too shattered to remain in the area that had for so long welcomed them. Months later, Barnaby had traced them to a village outside Hull; they were settling in there. All sincerely pitied them and wished them well; they had known nothing of their offsprings aspirations, let alone their perversions. Marcus had emerged from his seclusion to give away both Jacqueline and, a month later, Millicent. Now he knew the truth of the deaths at Hellebore Hall, and all his neighbors did, too, the shadow of darkness, of lingering evil, had lifted from him, and from the house and the 382 S tephanie Laurens gardens, too. That little corner of Cornwall was emerging into sunshine once more. There d been considerable discussion over what to do about the Garden of Night. Jacqueline and their children would ultimately inherit the estate; she loved it and most of the gardens, but couldn t bear to go into the Garden of Night. Quite aside from having seen her dead mother and then Millicent there, like him, she d guessed that Jordan and Eleanor had used the bower for their frequent trysts. Hardly surprising she couldn t stomach the garden as it was, yet it was an integral part of the whole. Driven to slay every last dragon that plagued her, he d unearthed the original plans for the gardens in the Hall library. He d shown them to Wilcox, who d agreed with his suggestions. Over the winter, the garden had been remodeled and replanted; he d stuck with the original design, but by changing species, the new garden would be a celebration of love in the brightest and best sense, no longer steeped in the darker shades of passion. Jacqueline s birthday was in May. She didn t yet know of the work on the garden; they were all planning it as a surprise gift when he and she traveled down to spend a week with her father. And Millicent; she and Sir Godfrey had taken up residence at the Hall to keep Marcus company. The household was now relaxed, more easygoing and happy than any could have imagined it might be. Gerrard watched as Jacqueline stooped to sniff a crimson rose. As she straightened, her hand drifted to her belly, to the slight, very slight mound there. Her face was that of a happy madonna, her expression one of wonder, of joyful anticipation. The exact opposite of the expression he d painted in the portrait to free her. He stared, drank in the sight, his hand reaching for his sketch pad and pencil, as ever by his side. Without taking his eyes from Jacqueline s face, he started to sketch. Poured all he saw into the lines. Let his eyes see, acknowledge, let his ngers faithfully record. In the months since they d wed by ducal command at Somersham Place during the Cynster summer gathering the connection between them had developed and evolved, until it was more than tan- The Truth About Love 383 gible, until the link was so solid it would, they both knew, withstand any test on the physical plane. They both counted themselves blessed. And he d nally fully understood what Timms had meant. Love wasn t a happening one decided on to indulge or not, to partake or not. To feel or not. When it came, when it struck, the only decision left to make was how to respond whether you embraced it, took it in, and made it a part of you, or whether you turned your back and let it die. Love was something humans experienced, not made happen. It wasn t in anyone s control. Beneath his ngers, his sketch came to life. His next portrait, better, more revealing, than any he d done before. He already knew its title, what it would show, what he would paint into it. The Truth About Love. A NNOUNCEMENT OF The Bastion Club #4 A F ine Passion T O BE RELEASED IN SEPTEMBER 2005 A NNOUNCEMENT OF 1 Early May Avening Village, Gloucestershire A pple blossoms in springtime. Julius Jack Warne eet, Baron Warne eet of Minchinbury, reined in at the top of the rise above the valley of Avening and looked down on the pink and white clouds surrounding Avening Manor. His rst sight of his home in more years than he cared to count couldn t, he felt, have been more apt. Apple blossoms always reminded him of brides. Regarding the sea of blossoms with a jaundiced eye, he twitched his reins and set his gray gelding, Challenger, ambling down the long hill. Everything, it seemed, was conspiring to remind him of his failure of the fact he hadn t found a bride. Avening Manor had been without a lady for most of his life. His mother had died when he was six years old; his father had never remarried. He d spent the last thirteen years ghting for king and country, almost all of those years behind enemy lines in France. His father s death seven years ago had brought him brie y home, but only for two days, just long enough for the funeral and to formally place the running of Avening into the hands of old Griggs, his father s steward, before he d had to slip back over the Channel, back to the varied roles he d played in disrupting French shipping and 388 S tephanie Laurens commercial links, draining the life blood from the French state, weakening it. Not the sort of battles most people imagined a major in the Guards engaged in. Along with an elite group of fellow officers, he d been seconded to work under a secretive individual known as Dalziel, who d been responsible for all covert English operations on foreign soil. Neither Jack nor any of the six colleagues he d recently met were sure how many operatives Dalziel had commanded, or how widespread their activities had been. What they did know was that those activities had been legion, and had directly contributed, indeed, been crucial, to the nal, ultimate defeat of Napoleon. But the wars were now over. Along with his colleagues, Jack had retired from the fray and nally turned his mind to picking up the reins of civilian life. The previous October, he and his six colleagues, all gentlemen blessed with title, wealth and the consequent responsibilities, and therefore all sorely in need of wives, had banded together to form the Bastion Club their haven against the matchmakers of the ton, their castle from which they would sally forth, do battle with society s dragons, and secure the fair maid they required. That, at least, had been their plan. Matters, however, had not fallen out quite that way. Tristan Wemyss had stumbled across his bride while overseeing the refurbishment of the house that was now the Bastion Club. Shortly after, Tony Blake had, even more literally, stumbled across his bride along with a dead body. Charles St. Austell, eeing the capital and his too-helpful female relatives, had found his bride inhabiting his ancestral home. And now Jack was eeing the capital, too, but not because of female relatives. The rattle of carriage wheels reached him. Through the screening drifts below, he glimpsed the black roof of a carriage smoothly bowling along the lane from Cherington. The carriage crossed the junction with the Tetbury lane down which Jack was descending, and continued west toward Nailsworth. Jack idly wondered who the carriage belonged to, but he d been away so long, he had no idea who might be visiting whom these days. On returning permanently to England, he d had to decide which of his responsibilities to attend to rst. He was an only child; his The Bastion Club # 4 389 father s death had set Avening in his lap with no one else to watch over it, but he knew the estate from the ground up he d been born and raised there, in this small green valley on the northwest slope of the Cotswolds. Avening had been in sound hands; he trusted Griggs as his father had. Much more pressing had been the need to come to grips with the varied investments and far- ung properties he d entirely unexpectedly inherited from his great-aunt Sophia. His mother had been the daughter of an earl and his father the grandson of a duke; an eccentric spinster, Great-aunt Sophia had been a twig somewhere on his paternal family tree. Her hobby had been amassing wealth; although Jack could only recall meeting her brie y twice, on her death two years ago Great-aunt Sophia had willed a sizable portion of her amassed wealth to him. By the time he d returned to England, various decisions associated with that inheritance had become urgent. Learning about his new holdings and investments had been imperative. He d duly suppressed a deep-seated longing to return to Avening, to reassure himself it was all as he remembered that after all his years away, after all he d had to do, witness and endure, his home was still there, as he remembered it and instead had devoted the last six months to coming to grips with his inheritance, welding the whole into one workable estate. Although his estate now boasted numerous elegant country houses, to him, Avening was still the centerpiece, the place that held his heart. That was why he was here, slowly ambling down the lane, letting his jaded senses absorb the achingly familiar sights and sounds, letting them soothe his abraded temper, his less than contented mood, and the dull but persistent ache in his head. Temper and mood were due to his failure to nd a suitable bride. He d accepted he should and had bitten the bullet; while in London organizing his inheritance he d applied himself to looking over the eld. Once the Season had commenced, he d assumed suitable ladies would be thick on the ground; wasn t that what the marriage mart was all about? Instead, he d discovered that while sweet and not so sweet young ladies littered the pavements, the parks and the ballrooms, the sort of lady he could imagine marrying had been nowhere to be found. He would have said he was too old, and too nicky, but he was only thirty-four, prime matrimonial age for a gentleman, and from ex- 390 S tephanie Laurens perience he knew he had no physical preference in women. Short, tall, blond or brunette were all the same to him: it was the fact they were female that counted soft perfumed skin, feminine curves and, once they were beneath him, those breathy little gasps falling from luscious, parted lips. He should have been easy to please. Unfortunately, he d discovered he couldn t bear the company of young ladies for longer than ve minutes; he inevitably grew so bored he had difficulty remembering their names. For reasons he didn t comprehend, they had no power whatever to focus, let alone x his attention. Inevitably, within ve minutes of being introduced, he d be looking for an avenue of escape. He was good at escaping. Or so he d thought. Until he d met Miss Lydia Cowley and her gorgon of an aunt. Miss Cowley was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist, her aunt distantly connected to some Midlands peer. Jack had, as usual, found little in Miss Cowley to interest him. He, however, had been of great interest to Miss Cowley and her aunt. They d tried to entrap him. His mind elsewhere, he hadn t seen the danger until it was upon him. But the instant he did, his wellhoned instincts sprang to life, the same instincts that had kept him alive and undetected through thirteen long years of living with the enemy. They d thought they d cornered him alone with Miss Cowley in a rst- oor parlor, yet when her aunt swept in, with Lady Carmichael in the role of unwitting witness by her side, the parlor had been empty. Devoid of all life. Put out, confused, the aunt had retreated, leaving to look elsewhere for her errant niece. She hadn t looked out on the narrow ledge outside the parlor window, hadn t seen Jack holding Miss Cowley locked against him, her eyes starting above the hand he d clapped over her lips. He d held her there, silent and deadly, precariously balanced two oors above the basement area, until the parlor door closed and the retreating footsteps died, then he d eased the window open again and swung her inside. And released her. One wide-eyed look into his face and she couldn t get out of the parlor fast enough. He hadn t tried to hide his understanding of what had happened, or his reaction to that, and her. She d stumbled through a garbled excuse and ed. The Bastion Club # 4 391 He d canceled all further social engagements and retreated to the club, there to brood over his situation. But then Dalziel had sent word that Charles had needed assistance down in Cornwall. The information had seemed godsent; he d nished dealing with his inheritance, and, he d decided, he was also nished with searching for a wife. With Gervase Tregarth, who had also been staying at the club, he d ridden away from London, back to a world he understood. While the action in Cornwall had ultimately ended in success, he d suffered a crack on the head that had been worse than any he d received before. Once the villain had been dispatched and Charles back in his own fort, he d returned to London, head still aching, for Pringle to check him over. An experienced battle eld surgeon the members of the Bastion Club routinely consulted, Pringle had informed him that had his skull not been so thick, he wouldn t have survived the blow. That said, there was nothing seriously amiss, and no damage a few weeks of quiet rest wouldn t repair. He d stayed at the club for a few more days, nalizing his business, letting the club s majordomo, Gasthorpe, look after him, then he d headed down to Cornwall for Charles s wedding. That had been two days ago. Leaving the wedding breakfast, he d ridden across Dartmoor to Exeter, then the next day had taken the road to Bristol, where he d rested last night. Early this morning, he d set out along the country lanes on the last leg of his journey home. It had been seven years. Seven years since he d set eyes on the limestone fa ade of the manor, and watched the westering sun paint it a honey gold. He knew just where to look to glimpse the manor s gables through the trees lining the lane and the intervening orchards. The scent of apple blossom wreathed about him; for all it meant bride, it also meant home. His heart lifted; his lips lifted, too, as he reached the junction of the Tetbury lane and the Nailsworth-Cherington road. To his left lay the village proper. He turned Challenger to the right; head rising, he touched his heels to the big horse s anks and cantered down the road. He rounded the bend, heart lifting with anticipation. A phaeton lay overturned by the side of the road. The horse trapped in the traces, panicked and ungovernable, attempted to rear, paying no attention to the lady clinging to its bridle, trying to calm it. 392 S tephanie Laurens Jack took in the scene in one glance. Face hardening, he dug his heels in, pushing Challenger into a gallop. Any second the trapped horse would lash out at the lady. She heard the thunder of approaching hooves and glanced eetingly over her shoulder. Watching the trapped horse, Jack came out of his saddle at a run. With hip and shoulder, he shoved the lady aside and lunged for the reins just as the horse lashed out. Oh! The lady ew sideways, landing in the lush grass beyond the ditch. Jack ducked, but the iron-shod hoof grazed his head in exactly the same spot he d been coshed. He swore, then bit his lip, hard. Blinking against the pain, weaving to avoid being butted, he grabbed the horse s bridle above the bit, exerted enough pressure to let the animal know he was in the hands of someone who knew, and started talking. Crooning, assuring the animal that all danger had passed. The horse, a young bay gelding, stamped its hooves and shook its head; Jack hung on and kept talking. Gradually, the horse quieted. Jack shot a glance at the lady. Riding up, all he d seen was her back that she had a wealth of dark mahogany hair worn in an elegantly plaited and coiled chignon, was wearing a plum-colored walking dress, and was uncommonly tall. On her back on the bank beyond the ditch, she struggled onto her elbows. Across the ditch, their gazes locked. Her face was classically beautiful. Her dark gaze was a fulminating glare. About the Author New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career, and her series about the masterful Cynster cousins has captivated readers, making her one of the romance world s most beloved and popular authors; she has also introduced the equally unforgettable members of the Bastion Club. She currently lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters. Visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com for more information on the Cynster novels. To receive notice of author events and new books by Stephanie Laurens, sign up at www.authortracker.com. Also by Stephanie Laurens C ynster Novels T he Ideal Bride The Perfect Lover On a Wicked Dawn On a Wild Night The Promise in a Kiss All About Passion All About Love A Secret Love A Rogue s Proposal Scandal s Bride A Rake s Vow Devil s Bride B astion Club Novels A L ady of His Own A Gentleman s Honor The Lady Chosen Captain Jack s Woman Credits Jacket design by Beth Middleworth Jacket photographs by Mary Javoreck Photography Designed by Renato Stanisic Map illustrated by Jeffrey L. Ward Copyright This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE. Copyright 2005 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound . PerfectBound and the PerfectBound logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader February 2005 ISBN 0-06-077208-5 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for. About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www.perfectbound.com.au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www.perfectbound.ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www.harpercollins.co.nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.uk.perfectbound.com United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www.perfectbound.com

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