Wonderful, he’d opened her eyes, yes, he was masterful, but gentle, too-and male-he’d tasted like the essence of male.

Those would be her answers, but she was reluctant to share them. The incident yesterday hadn’t been intended, not by either of them. He hadn’t played with her hair intending to seduce her into a kiss, of that she was sure. And she…she hadn’t known that after his lips had touched hers once, she’d ache to feel them again-that she’d want, and be so brazen as to invite, so much more.

Yet he had, and she had. She wasn’t yet sure how she felt, or should feel, about either of those happenings.

While Eleanor had always shared the intimate details of many aspects of her life, she had always been more reserved, more circumspect in what she let out. But she knew Eleanor well; she would have to say more.

“Sitting for him has been quite different from what I expected. He’s only done pencil sketches so far, and he’s very quick with those.”

“Do you have to strike a pose? Jordan said he met you and Gerrard in the gardens yesterday, but that he’d finished by then.”

“Not finished-we were in between gardens. We strolled through, trying various spots. It’s not so much striking a pose as just sitting as he tells me to sit, then talking.”

“Talking?” Eleanor drew back to look at her. “About what?”

Jacqueline smiled and kept walking. Their usual bench lay just ahead, set between two flower beds. “Anything, really. The topics aren’t all that important. I’m not even sure he listens to what I say, not to my words.”

Eleanor frowned. “Why talk, then?” Reaching the bench, they sat. “It’s so I’m thinking of something-because of course I have to think of whatever I’m talking about. He’s more interested in what shows in my face.”

“Ah.” Eleanor nodded. They sat quietly for a few moments, then she said, “Mr. Adair’s quite interesting, isn’t he?”

Suppressing a cynical smile, Jacqueline agreed.

“He’s the third son of an earl, did you know?”

There followed a largely one-sided discussion of Barnaby’s character and person, with occasional comparisons to Gerrard. Jacqueline interpreted those with the ease of familiarity; as she’d expected, Eleanor found Gerrard the more attractive, an attraction only heightened by his apparent unattainability, his disinterest, but she viewed Barnaby as the easier conquest.

“Gerrard probably reserves all his intensity for his painting-artists can, I believe, be terribly selfish in that way.”

When Eleanor’s pause made it clear she expected a response, Jacqueline murmured, “I suspect that’s so.”

But he hadn’t been selfish yesterday. He’d been…what? Kind? Generous, certainly. He must be accustomed to dallying with experienced lovers; with her untutored kisses, she was very far from that. Yet he hadn’t seemed disappointed. Or had he just been polite?

Inwardly, she frowned.

“Hmm,” Eleanor purred. She stretched, raising her arms, pushing them up and out.

Glancing at her face, lifted to the sun, Jacqueline noted again the impression she’d gained the instant she’d seen Eleanor that morning. Eleanor’s expression was that of a contented cat stretching languorously in the sunshine.

Jacqueline had seen that expression before; Eleanor had been with her lover last night.

A spurt of some feeling rushed through her, not quite jealousy, for how could one be jealous over something one didn’t know-a yearning, perhaps, to…live a little. Eleanor was only a year older than she, yet for years Jacqueline had felt the gap between them widening. Before Thomas disappeared, they’d seemed much closer in experience, even though Eleanor had already taken a lover, but when Thomas walked away and never came back…from that point on, her life had stalled. Then her mother had died and life had been suspended altogether.

She’d been alive but stationary, going nowhere, learning nothing, not growing, or experiencing any of those things she’d always thought life and living were about.

She was tired of life passing her by.

It would continue to do so-leaving her to experience all that might be only at a vicarious distance-until Gerrard completed her portrait, and forced those around her to see the truth, and start the process of finding who had killed her mother and avenging her death; only once all that had occurred would she be free to move forward and live again.

Restlessness seized her. She stood and shook out her skirts, surprising Eleanor.

“I should get back to the house-I promised Gerrard I would make myself available to sit whenever he wishes, and he must have finished with his sketches by now.”


Contrary to her expectations, Gerrard wasn’t looking for her; he hadn’t sent or come searching for her. Treadle told her he was still in his studio.

She’d told Eleanor that Gerrard had insisted all sittings be private, just her and him, and that he’d made it clear he’d show none of his sketches or preliminary work to anyone; disappointed, but also intrigued, Eleanor had sauntered off, heading home through the gardens.

Jacqueline had returned to the house, only to discover her presence wasn’t required-not by anyone, least of all the ton’s latest artistic lion.

Disappointed-and irritated that she felt so-she found a novel and sat in the parlor. And tried to read.

When Treadle rang the gong for luncheon, she felt hugely relieved.

But Gerrard didn’t appear for the meal. Millicent, bless her, inquired, saving Jacqueline from having to do so; Treadle informed them that Mr. Debbington’s man had taken a tray up to the studio. Apparently his master, once engrossed in his work, had been known to miss mealtimes for days; part of Compton’s duties was to ensure he didn’t starve.

Jacqueline wasn’t sure whether to feel impressed or not.

When at the end of the meal, Millicent asked whether she would join her in the parlor, she shook her head. “I’m going to stroll on the terrace.”

She did, slowly, from one end to the other, trying not to think about anything-especially artists who kept all their intensity reserved for their art-and failed. Reaching the southern end of the terrace, she looked up-at the balcony she knew to be his, then lifted her gaze higher, to the wide attic windows of the old nursery.

Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned.

Muttering an unladylike curse, she swung on her heel and headed for the nearest door, and the nursery stairs beyond.


Gerrard stood by the nursery windows looking out at the gardens-and not seeing a single tree. In his hands, he held the best of the sketches he’d done yesterday. They were good-the promise they held was fabulous-but…

How to move forward? What should his next step be?

He’d spent all day weighing the possibilities. Should he, for instance, insist that Millicent be present through each and every sitting from now on?

His painterly instinct rebelled. Millicent would distract, not just him, but Jacqueline. It had to be just the two of them, alone-in intimate communion, albeit of the spiritual sort.

His problem lay in keeping the spiritual from too quickly transforming to the physical. That it would at some point he accepted, but she was an innocent; wisdom dictated he rein in his galloping impulses to a walk.

A tap sounded on the door. “Come.” He assumed it was a maid sent to fetch the tray Compton had brought up earlier.

The door opened; Jacqueline walked in. She saw him, met his gaze directly, then, closing the door behind her, looked around.

It was the first time she’d been there since the area had been converted for his use. Her gaze scanned the long trestle table and the various art supplies laid out along its length; she noted the stack of sketches at one end, then glanced at the sheets he held in his hand.

Then her attention deflected, drawn to the large easel and the sized, blank canvas that stood upon it, draped in cheesecloth to protect it from dust.

Walking slowly into the room, she considered the sight, then transferred her gaze to him. “I wondered if you wanted me to sit for you.” She halted two paces away, beside the window, and waited.

He looked into her eyes, studied her face, then lightly tossed the sketches he’d been examining-for hours-onto the table; folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the window frame, and looked at her. “No-you wondered what was wrong.”

She eyed him, not so much warily as considering what tack to take.

He sighed, and raked one hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration Vane had broken him of years ago. “I’ve only just met you, yet I feel I’ve known you forever.” And felt compelled to protect her, even from himself.

She hesitated, puzzled. “So…?”

“So I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Paint the portrait?”

He glanced up, saw consternation and fear fill her face. “Yes-but don’t look at me like that.”

Her eyes locked on his. “How else? I need you to paint that portrait. You know that-you know why.”

“Indeed, but I also know…” With two fingers, he gestured between them. “About this.”

The careful look returned to her eyes. “This what?”

Exasperated, he waved between them. “This, between us-don’t pretend you don’t understand, that you don’t feel it.”

For a long moment, she met his gaze steadily, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Then she drew a tight breath, and lifted her chin. “If this is about that kiss yesterday-”

“Don’t apologize!”

She jumped.

He pointed a finger at her nose. “That was my fault entirely.”

She huffed at him, a derisive sound. “I can’t imagine how me kissing you could be your fault. I wasn’t under any spell, no matter what you might think.”