Sir Godfrey humphed. “What I want to know is who she’s lying to protect. Someone must know.” He looked at Jacqueline. “Who’s she interested in, heh? Anyone she’s been seen with?”
Jacqueline opened her lips to say she had no idea, then paused. The four men all noticed her hesitation, and waited. She felt color rise to her cheeks; she briefly debated the question of loyalty to a friend, then remembered her aunt lying upstairs, silent and still. She drew in a deep breath. “Eleanor has a lover. I don’t know who, but…” She gestured vaguely. “She’s been seeing him for years.”
Sir Godfrey’s brows couldn’t get any higher. “Same man for all those years?”
“As far as I know. And before you ask, I have absolutely no idea, no clue, as to who he might be.”
“But he’s someone who’s always here?” Barnaby asked. “In the area?”
Jacqueline shrugged. “As far as I know.”
Sir Godfrey frowned. “We’ll have to find someone who knows more about Miss Fritham’s secret lover.”
They’d all heard footsteps in the hall, coming from the front door; all had assumed it was Treadle. But the footsteps abruptly stopped-just beyond the open door. As one, they looked up.
Mitchel Cunningham stood framed in the doorway, his face pale, his expression stunned. He stared at Sir Godfrey as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, then he blinked, and frowned. He took a step nearer. “Is anything wrong?”
“Mitchel-do come in.” Lord Tregonning beckoned. “You might be able to help us with this.”
Swiftly, Lord Tregonning outlined what had happened; they all watched Mitchel’s face-his shock was beyond question sincere.
“Good God! But she’s all right?”
“Yes.” Sir Godfrey took up the tale. “But…” He explained they were now searching for the gentleman Eleanor was in the habit of meeting in the gardens at night. “Do you have any idea who this blighter might be?”
Gerrard didn’t know if it was his artist’s perception, or if his connection with Jacqueline had made him more sensitive, but he had no difficulty reading the pained-nay, tortured-expression in Mitchel’s eyes. For form’s sake, he quietly asked, “It wasn’t you, was it?”
His tone made it clear the words were more statement than question. Mitchel’s dark eyes deflected to his face. Mitchel met his gaze, then slowly shook his head. “It wasn’t me.” The words were hollow, achingly empty.
None of them doubted he spoke the truth.
Lord Tregonning cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mitchel.”
Mitchel nodded; he barely seemed to see them. “If you’ll excuse me?”
They let him go.
When his footsteps had died away, Sir Godfrey asked, “Am I right in thinking…”
Gerrard nodded. “Mitchel has, I think, nurtured hopes, although I doubt it’s gone beyond that.”
“Hopes we’ve just dashed,” Lord Tregonning said. “But better he learn now than later.”
Briefly, they revisited all they’d learned; Sir Godfrey asked about protection for Millicent, and was reassured.
“When she wakes, she’ll be able to point her finger at the villain.” His gaze hard, Sir Godfrey sounded uncharacteristically bloodthirsty. “And heaven help him after that.”
They determined to forge ahead with the ball. Gerrard, Barnaby and Lord Tregonning spent the afternoon writing and dispatching invitations, while Jacqueline attended to all the myriad arrangements.
After dinner, she retired to sit with Millicent, leaving the men discussing their plans. Later, Gerrard fetched her from Millicent’s room, and followed her to hers.
Leading the way in, she crossed to the windows, and stood looking out at the black velvet sky. Closing the door, Gerrard paused, considering the line of her spine, head erect, the way she’d folded her arms. There were no candles burning; the room was washed with gray shadows. Slowly, he followed her, wondering.
Halting behind her, he reached for her, and drew her back against him. She leaned back, let her head settle against his shoulder. He glanced down at her face, at her stormy expression, and waited.
Eventually, she drew a long breath. “It’s always, always, people who love me, who care for me, who get hurt. Who die.” Her next breath shook. “I don’t want you to be in their number.”
He bent his head, brushed his lips over her temple. “I won’t be. And Millicent isn’t dead-there’s no change for the worse, no reason to think she’ll die. Regardless, trust me, I’m not about to let this villain take me from you.” With his gaze, he traced her face. “I’m not about to let him deny us this-what we have, what our future will be.”
Commitment rang in his tone; Jacqueline heard it, and felt tears sting her eyes. What if she believed him, and then…
“It won’t happen.” Gerrard breathed the words across her ear; his grip firmed, holding her more securely. “All the times before, it was one person alone he had to deal with-this time, there’s all of us. We’re all ranged against him-you, me, Barnaby, your father, Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles, Sir Godfrey. This time, he can’t win.”
Her champion, he’d gathered supporters to her cause; without him, she’d still be trapped in the nightmarish web her tormentor had spun.
Jacqueline closed her hands over his at her waist, felt the strength in his hard, warm body at her back. For the first time, she understood in her heart the nature of the fear that drove him to protect her, even over her protests. If she could lock him away somewhere safe until the villain had been caught, she would, in a blink.
It seemed his mind was following a similar tack. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about announcing our betrothal.”
Not, she noted, about agreeing to marry him, which she still hadn’t done. “I told you-ask me once he’s caught. Until then”-she turned in his arms, lifting hers to circle his neck, meeting his gaze-“we’re just lovers.”
His eyes, dark in the night, held hers. A long moment passed, then he shook his head. “No. We’re not.”
He bent his head, covered her lips with his-and showed her. Demonstrated, orchestrated a shattering display of how far beyond mere lovers they were.
Impossible to deny, not just him, but the reality of what had come to be, of the depth, the breadth, the overwhelming power of the connection that had grown between them. The heat, the searing need, the possessiveness that flamed and raced through them both, cindering any inhibitions, any residual reservations. It opened the door to passion unrestrained, to rampant desire and its assuagement. Infused their minds and drove them, invested their touch, their bodies, their souls.
Beyond physical intimacy, beyond desire and passion, beyond, it seemed, the earthly realm, the power swelled, shone, and claimed them.
Accepting their worship, their devotion-ultimately accepting their surrender.
As night deepened and the shadows turned black, Jacqueline lay in Gerrard’s arms, listening to his heart beating steadily beneath her ear while the strength and devotion carried in that connection surrounded and closed about them.
She wondered what the next fraught days would bring, knew he was thinking the same.
Heard in her mind Timms’s fateful words, suspected he did, too.
What will be will be.
There was nothing they could do but accept, and follow the path on.
21
They gathered about the breakfast table late the next morning. Jacqueline had checked on Millicent; there’d been no change in her aunt’s condition. Millicent lay straight and still under the covers, her eyes closed, gently breathing, looking far more fragile than she normally did.
Gerrard squeezed Jacqueline’s hand when she slipped onto the chair beside him; she smiled weakly in return, then gave her attention to her father and the details of the ball.