“Brisenden?” Gerrard caught Jacqueline’s eye. It was late afternoon, and they were heading out to the gardens. He had a sketch pad under one arm, and three sharpened pencils in his pocket. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh…because he appears so intense, so focused on me, but he isn’t, or rather he means nothing by it, not really.”

“Not really?” He shot her a sharp glance. “He acted too familiarly, as you-and the others, too-recognized perfectly well.”

Her lips formed a small moue. “Perhaps, but he always behaves like that.”

“As if he owns you-has some claim on you?”

“He’s not usually that bad. He seems to have taken it into his head that it’s his personal duty to protect me and keep me from all harm.”

“Hmm.” Gerrard kept to himself the observation that to Brisenden, him painting her portrait might well constitute “harm.”

Reaching the steps leading to the Garden of Athena, Jacqueline led the way down. “His whole family’s quite…well, intense, if you take my meaning. About religion and God and all the rest. And he is their only son.”

Gerrard digested that as he followed. Reaching the gravel, he stepped out in her wake. “Be that as it may, Mr. Brisenden needs to keep his hands to himself, at least when their assistance isn’t required.”

They’d ridden back without further incident. Jordan and Eleanor had cantered with them all the way to the Hall; Tresdale Manor lay farther on-the way through the Hall lands was a shortcut. To Gerrard’s relief, the Frithams hadn’t lingered, but had left them at the stable arch and ridden on.

Barnaby had parted from them when they’d reached the terrace; by then Gerrard had confirmed that the light in the gardens was perfect, and had declared that Jacqueline had to sit for him, at least until the light died. She’d met his eyes, hesitated, then agreed, but she’d insisted on changing out of her habit. He’d permitted it only because he’d had to go and fetch his pads and pencils.

He glanced at her as she walked beside him. It hadn’t occurred to him to specify what she wore, yet the gown she’d chosen was perfect for the late afternoon light, a soft, very pale green that complemented her hair and eyes. He had an excellent memory for color; a few jotted notes in his margins would be enough to bring his sketches alive, vibrant in his mind.

The gardens spread out before them; he glanced around, pulse quickening with the familiar lift of energy, of eagerness, that came with the start of a new project. He pointed to the bench where they’d sat the previous night. “Let’s start there.”

She sat on the stone bench built out from the square fountain. “You’ll have to instruct me in how one sits for an artist.”

“At this stage, the requirements are not arduous.” He sat at the other end of the bench, swiveling to face her. “Turn to face me and get comfortable.” While she did, he placed his ankle on his knee, opened his sketch pad and balanced it on his thigh. Quickly, he laid down a few strokes, just enough to give him setting and perspective.

“Now.” Glancing up, he met her gaze, and smiled with his usual easy charm. “Talk to me.”

Her brows rose. “About what?”

“Anything-tell me about your childhood. Start as far back as you remember.”

Her brows remained high as she considered, then slowly lowered, her gaze growing distant. He waited, his eyes on her, his fingers smoothly moving lead across the paper. She wasn’t looking directly at him; he didn’t think she would. Like most people relating such things, she’d fasten her gaze to the side of his face, giving him precisely the not-quite-direct angle he wanted. His suggestion of topic hadn’t been as idle as he’d intimated; thinking of childhood elicited all sorts of memories, memories that showed in his subjects’ faces.

“I suppose,” she eventually said, “that the earliest moment I can remember clearly is being set atop my first pony.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh, yes! His name was Cobbler. He was a tan and black cob, and had the sweetest nature. He died years ago, but I can still remember how he loved apples. Cook always gave me one when I went out for my riding lesson.”

“Who taught you?”

“Richards, the head stableman. He’s still here.”

“Did you go walking through the gardens?”

“Of course-Mama and I used to walk every day, rain or shine.”

“When you were a child?”

“And later, too.”

For a moment, he let silence claim them. She didn’t move, either because she was held by her memories, or because she knew how fast his fingers were moving, how rapidly he was re-creating the expressions that had flowed across her face-the simple delight of childhood happiness shadowed by more mature sorrow.

Eventually, he flipped over the page; without looking up, he said, “It must have been quite lonely when you were young-the Frithams weren’t here then, were they?”

“No, they weren’t-and yes, I was lonely. There weren’t even children among the staff or the nearer workers, so I was entirely on my own except for my nanny and later my governess. It was wonderful, the start of a new and exciting life, really, when the Frithams came.”

Again, the happiness in her face shone clear; Gerrard worked to get some sense of it down. “How old were you then?”

“Seven. Eleanor was eight and Jordan ten. Their mama, Maria, and mine were childhood friends, which was why they came to live close. Overnight, I had an older brother and sister. Of course, I knew the area much better than they did, especially the gardens, so we were more equal, so to speak. Later…well, Eleanor is still my closest friend, while Jordan treats me much as he does Eleanor, as an older brother.”

He was tempted to ask how she viewed Jordan; instead, he asked about their youthful exploits. She described a number of incidents, the process occasionally bringing a smile to her lips, a laughing glint to her eyes.

After twenty minutes had passed, she glanced at him. “Is this working?”

He added a few more strokes, then lifted his gaze and met her eyes. “You’re doing wonderfully. That’s all there is to this stage of sitting. Just chatting and letting me get acquainted with your face, your expressions.”

Finishing his latest sketch, he flipped back the earlier sheets and critically reviewed them. “During the next days”-he scanned what he’d caught so far, various expressions all from the same angle-“I’ll do a lot of these, but as I become more certain what expressions I want to work more deeply with”-and what topics elicited the emotions in her that gave rise to those expressions-“I’ll do fewer sketches but they’ll be in greater detail, until I have enough practice in re-creating exactly the effect I want to show.”

Looking up, he met her gaze. “Until I can draw you as we need to portray you.”

Jacqueline held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “It seems far easier than I’d thought, at least for me.”

“This is the easy part-the further we go, the more time I spend on each sketch, the longer you’ll have to sit in one place, in one pose.” Shutting the pad, he smiled. “But not yet. By the time we get to the final sittings and you need to sit perfectly still for an hour, you’ll be trained to it.”

She laughed, conscious of a tightening in her chest, of a tension she was coming to recognize as more akin to excitement and anticipation than fear.

He rose; sketch pad in one hand, he held out the other.

She looked up at him, then laid her fingers across his palm. Steeled herself as his long fingers closed over hers.

Felt, for one finite instant, her heart skip, still, then start beating again, more rapidly.

His eyes were locked with hers; he didn’t move.

And she suddenly saw, realized, understood that what she was feeling, sensing between them…it wasn’t just her alone.

He felt it, too.

She saw the truth in the shifting planes of his face, the sudden tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible flare of something behind the glowing brown of his eyes.

He drew her up and she rose. He hesitated, then released her hand.

Looking down, she smoothed her skirts; glancing up from beneath her lashes, she saw him look away, saw the rise of his chest as he drew in a breath-one that seemed as tight as hers.

He waved deeper into the gardens. “Let’s walk. I want to see you against different backdrops, in different levels of light.”

They walked into the Garden of Diana, but after two quick sketches, he shook his head. Dappled shade, he declared, wasn’t appropriate. They strolled on into the Garden of Mars, which met with his approval. He had her sit by a burgeoning bed while he sprawled nearby. Again he asked questions and she answered; it was odd for he didn’t expect her to meet his eyes. From his sudden silences, filled with the swift scratch of pencil on paper, she realized he wasn’t really listening but watching, that it was her expressions he was reading.

A curious communication.

A strange catharsis-she quickly realized she could say almost anything, and he wouldn’t react; he wasn’t there to judge what she said, but to see how she felt about the subjects he raised, to explore her feelings as she allowed them to show.

It had been a long time since she’d spoken her thoughts freely; the exercise, focusing on her reactions, allowed her to examine them, to know and recognize what she felt and how she felt.

After a while he rose, drew her up briskly and waved her on into the Garden of Apollo. He had her sit before the sundial; this time, he sketched from her other side. “Given we’re here,” he said, “let’s talk about time.”

“Time how?” she murmured, cheek on her updrawn knees as he’d requested.

“Time as in, do you feel, living down here, that it’s passed you by?”

She thought about that. “Yes, I suppose I do. There’s very little to do down here. I’m twenty-three and I feel my life-my adult life-should have started by now, yet it hasn’t.” She paused, then added, “What with Thomas disappearing, and then Mama’s death, I feel as if I’ve been placed in limbo.”