There. Angle right, and hair up, a neat knot with a tendril or two trailing down on the right, a subtle highlight to draw attention to the exposed curve of her throat.
That was the line he wanted to capture, vulnerability, grace and strength combined. Youth, yet with intrinsic wisdom, instinctive and true. A pose that had clarity, that resonated with truth.
Again his gaze skimmed the line of her throat, skin white and flawless, tinted by the fading golden light. Raising his gaze, he took in the medley of browns, vibrant and earthy, worldly, too, of her hair; he would capture that and use it.
He lowered his gaze to her face.
Met her eyes, the mossy shade darker, the gold more intense as they widened, darkened.
Her lips were lush, edged with rose gilt.
Time stood still.
He raised his gaze to her eyes, saw a curiosity the counterpart of his own staring at him from the hazel depths.
What would it be like?
Lowering his head, tipping her face up, he touched his lips to hers.
Felt them quiver. And took, seized, albeit gently, with all the expertise he’d learned over the years. He increased the pressure beguilingly, seductively, brushing lightly, tantalizing and tempting.
He wanted to devour, yet it was she who captured him with a tentative response so slight it was like gossamer, a fleeting moment of innocence and pleasure. For one fraught instant he felt completely caught, taken captive-then reality returned, and he realized what he’d done.
Realized he’d gathered her into his arms.
Realized he’d taken the step he hadn’t yet made up his mind he would take. He’d been tempted, not solely by his own desires but by hers, too, yet the feel of her in his arms, of her lips beneath his-the feelings those sensations evoked-assured him at some elemental level that this was right.
Yet if he was wise, he’d go slowly.
Lifting his head, he looked down into eyes the color of woodland moss. He drew in a breath, surprised to discover his lungs parched and tight. “I’m sorr-” He broke off, unable as he looked into her eyes to utter the polite lie. He felt his jaw firm. “No. I’m not sorry, but I shouldn’t have done that.”
She blinked up at him. “Why not?”
He searched her eyes; she was asking with her usual candor, an open honesty he’d grown to treasure. “Because it’ll make it that much harder not to do it again.”
The truth. She heard it; he saw comprehension widen her eyes, followed swiftly by calculation.
“Oh…”
He looked into her eyes, was drowning in them…With a mental curse, he shut his. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
He gritted his teeth, and kept his eyes shut. “Look at me as if you want me to kiss you again.”
She didn’t reply. Three heartbeats passed.
He was debating whether to open his eyes when her soft whisper reached him.
“I’m not good at lying.”
Five words, and she vanquished him. Overthrew that part of his mind that was fighting to maintain control, and cast him adrift. Into the sea of desire that welled in her eyes as they met his when he lifted his lids.
She searched his eyes, hesitated for a heartbeat, then lifted her lips to his. Touched lightly.
He could no more resist the explicit invitation than stop the sun from sinking beneath the sea.
Summoning what restraint he could, he kissed her back, then, unable to deny her or himself, he pressed the caress further, aware that, just as he had expectations of the kiss, so, too, would she. He wondered what they were, why…but then he traced her lower lip with the tip of his tongue, her lips parted, and he stopped thinking.
Jacqueline quivered as his tongue slid between her lips, held her breath as he shifted and gathered her deeper into an embrace that, no matter how alien, felt safe. His arms were steel bands, caging her, but protectively, his chest a muscled wall of comforting solidity against her breasts. His lips moved on hers, impressing, engaging. Tentatively she met his questing tongue with hers, lightly stroked-and sensed his encouragement, his appreciation.
She relaxed, secure in his arms, and mirrored his actions. There was heat in the exchange, persuasive and tempting, beguiling yet contained, not overwhelming but tantalizing, a promise of more, later. For now, she was content returning his caresses. Raising one hand, she lightly traced his cheek, the angular planes quite different from her own, cloaked in abrading stubble lacing firm skin.
By subtle degrees, he deepened the kiss and she, knowingly, followed. With growing confidence she kissed him back-and gloried in his response, in the continuing exchange that spun out in delight and mutual pleasure.
The reciprocity, for she knew it was so, caught her, and held her enthralled.
She tasted like summer wine, heady and sweet, potent and warm. Faintly illicit, carrying the promise of dark sultry nights and stirring passion. Now he’d learned, now he’d savored, he should draw back, yet still Gerrard lingered. The question of what she sought from the kiss returned; he now knew she’d shared few kisses, if any, before, not like this.
The reluctance he felt to end the interlude was not solely on his own account.
And that surprised him. Who was leading whom, and was that safe? The question gave him the strength to act, to gradually draw back and lift his head.
He watched as she opened her eyes, as she blinked and refocused on his. He’d kissed many ladies in far more illicit encounters, yet this time his charm didn’t come to his aid. No glib words sprang to his tongue, no suave smile to his lips. This time, he didn’t want to end the moment, didn’t want to let her go; despite his experience, he couldn’t pretend he did.
Looking into her eyes, a glorious medley of greens and gold, he could only hold her, and wonder…
Jacqueline saw his equivocation, felt it in the arms surrounding her that didn’t ease. She comprehended something of what she read in his eyes; she, too, felt…distracted. As if she’d just experienced something that was important to explore further, but…the moment was already slipping away.
Her hands had come to rest against his chest; she found a half smile and gently pushed back. After an instant’s hesitation, his arms eased, and he released her.
“The sun’s almost gone.” She looked down the valley to where the burning orb of the sun was disappearing below the horizon. Shifting along the coping, she glanced his way. “We should go inside. It’ll soon be time to change for dinner.”
He nodded and stood. He picked up his sketch pad, stuffed the pencils in his pocket, then he looked at her, and held out his hand.
She met his gaze, then placed her fingers in his and let him help her to her feet.
He released her once she was steady. Together they turned, and, side by side, without words, walked up through the gardens.
With one long, shared glance, they parted on the terrace.
7
Late that night with the moon riding the sky, Gerrard stood in the balcony doorway of his bedroom staring moodily out at the silvered gardens, and considered where fate had led him.
Not by the nose, but by another part of his anatomy, together with a section of his psyche he hadn’t previously known existed.
He could hardly claim he hadn’t known what he was doing, that he hadn’t been cognizant of the dangers, the risks. He’d known, but had acted anyway; he couldn’t remember when last he’d been so heedlessly impulsive.
Arms folded, he leaned against the doorjamb; eyes fixed unseeing on the shadows below, he tried to get some mental purchase on what, precisely what, was driving him. It wasn’t anything he’d experienced before.
He knew what he wanted: Jacqueline. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d seen her watching him through the window when he’d arrived at Hellebore Hall-but what was driving him to it? The compulsion that was growing day by day, pressing him to make her his-from where did that spring?