Jacqueline stared into Minnie’s steady blue eyes. “He isn’t thinking of marrying me.”
“Oh, yes he is,” Timms averred. “I’ve known him since he was a squalling infant, and he’s definitely set his sights on you.” She met Jacqueline’s eyes, and grinned. “Mind you, given he’s done such an excellent job of hiding his intentions from you, I wouldn’t want to be in his boots when he finally asks for your hand.”
Minnie chuckled. “Indeed, not.”
Jacqueline looked from one to the other; both were clearly enjoying imagining Gerrard’s difficulties when he proposed. But he wasn’t going to…
It was hopeless. She sighed and sat back, then rose and excused herself. They let her go with fond smiles, and reassurances that all would be well-she would see.
She returned to her room; she spent the hour before dinner bathing-and thinking.
It was impossible not to wonder, just for a moment, if they could be right and she wrong. Minnie, Timms and Patience-and the rest of them-indisputably knew Gerrard, knew gentlemen of his ilk, much better than she; they all had much more experience in correctly interpreting male behavior.
That was all very well, yet in this case…
Head back on the edge of the tub, steam wreathing about her face, she closed her eyes and thought back to all she and he had ever said on the subject. She couldn’t be sure she recalled his words verbatim, but he’d insisted he could make no promises. She’d accepted his attentions on that basis; he’d said nothing since to suggest he’d changed his mind.
Yet Minnie, Timms and Patience were convinced…and they didn’t even know of the interludes in the alcove off Gerrard’s studio.
Didn’t know of all that had grown between them.
Cocooned in the warm water, veiled by the steam, detached from the world, she looked inward. And asked herself, in light of all that had evolved between them over the past weeks, what she wished now. She thought, considered, weighed as well as she could the connection, the link, the indescribable communion that between them transformed the physical act into an emotional, almost spiritual experience. A transcendent moment of glory, for which she now yearned.
She’d wanted to know, to learn, and he’d shown her, taught her, and more. He’d given her all that; she was more grateful than she could say. Simply thinking of the feelings that welled and spilled through her when they joined was wonderful. Joyous.
He’d shown her that-all a woman could be.
She was grateful, happy, and would gladly sup further at his table. For herself, yes, she would accept any extension of their time together, and take full pleasure in all they could share, but would she go so far as marriage?
To that, no ready answer sprang to mind. She hadn’t considered the concept, not for years; she was no longer sure how she felt in that regard.
Yet with regard to him, how he felt, she knew he’d accepted the commission to paint her because of the professional challenge, and he’d stuck with it because of a chivalrous determination to see her free. He hadn’t seduced her-she’d insisted on it. As her portraitist, he’d wanted to learn more of her, all he could of her; that their interaction had subsequently evolved to its present extent wasn’t something she could, or wished to, lay at his door.
It had simply happened. It simply was.
She couldn’t hold him responsible. To her mind, there was no justification to even mention the subject of marriage, let alone expect him to be thinking of it. Even if, on reflection, she decided marriage to him might suit her, it wouldn’t, to her mind, be honorable to even raise the matter, much less expect him to agree.
The water had grown cold. Rising, she stepped onto the rug spread before the hearth, and reached for the towel the maid had left ready. Drying herself, she followed her thoughts. Between them, all seemed clear and straightforward. However…
She couldn’t leave the ladies who’d been so kind to her, who’d so openly taken her to their hearts, believing there was a wedding in the wind. That would be deceitful, and she’d never been that-Eleanor’s province, not hers.
Yes, she’d tried to correct their mistake, and yes, they’d routed her comprehensively, but that didn’t absolve her from doing all she could to convince them that she wasn’t, as they clearly supposed, Gerrard’s intended, his fiancée in all but name.
So how was she to convince them they were wrong?
Proof. She needed some words, action or evidence that clearly indicated he wasn’t thinking of marrying her. Something actual, factual…
She brightened; crossing to the bellpull, she rang for the maid. After dinner, they were to attend a party, with dancing, at Lady Sommerville’s. Collecting suitable, citable evidence in such a venue shouldn’t be too hard.
18
One of the great attractions of a trip to London was the chance of visiting the very best modistes. With Millicent, Jacqueline had taken full advantage of the capital’s amenities; when, that evening, she climbed Lady Sommerville’s staircase on Gerrard’s arm, she felt positively glowing in a gown of amber silk surprinted with a delicate dark bronze tracery.
She’d donned the new gown to bolster her confidence; she also hoped it would make her task that evening easier by attracting the attention of other gentlemen.
During their evenings’ entertainments, Gerrard always hovered by her side, presumably to ensure she remained untroubled, and so he could whisk her away when the clocks struck ten. She was his subject; naturally, he wanted her in the right frame of mind to pose for him. There was nothing more behind his attentiveness, his hovering, than that. They were lovers, true, and he was possessive in that sphere, but in general in society, she could see no reason for him to be so.
Not unless he was thinking of marrying her, which he wasn’t. That was what she needed to prove.
After greeting Lord and Lady Sommerville, she and Gerrard swept into the ballroom. It wasn’t a huge room, and this wasn’t, she’d been told, a large party, yet she was pleased to note numerous dark coats dotted amid the bright satins and silks.
Gerrard steered her in Millicent’s wake; they eventually stopped beside a chaise on which Lady Horatia Cynster sat. Exchanging pleasantries, Millicent settled beside her ladyship; with Gerrard, Jacqueline moved to stand to one side of the chaise.
Intent on her plan, she lifted her head and eagerly scanned the guests.
Gerrard seized the moment to less than approvingly scan her. Where the devil had she gotten that gown? The silk hugged her figure, clung to her breasts, outlined the quintessentially feminine curve of her waist and the evocative flare of her hips. As for the long line of her legs that always transfixed him, the fine material flirted and seduced, first revealing, then concealing as she moved. Worse, whenever she moved, the light corruscated over the complex fabric, drawing the eye to her delectable curves.
And not just his eye.
Mental alarm bells rang. Glancing around, he inwardly swore. It was summer. The crowd was small and commensurately more select-and of quite a different caliber to that of a ball during the Season. There were few bright young things in evidence; they were all attending country house parties in the hope of snaring a husband. Likewise, the younger gentlemen had in the main been hauled off by their fond mamas, to either do their duty by their sisters, or to look over the field, also at those same house parties.
The vast majority of those left in town, including all those strolling or prowling through Lady Sommerville’s ballroom, weren’t interested in snaring a husband or wife. They were, however, definitely interested in members of the opposite sex.