He knew women, had interacted more closely with them than most-he knew enough to cloak his driving need, to veil his vulnerability by insisting Jacqueline make her own decision to give herself to him, to commit herself through her own, considered act.

Now he’d chosen, fought and succeeded in following that tack, when the time came, she would view the consequences of becoming his as something she’d invited, and, he hoped, accept them without complaint.

His plan was sound, well grounded. It would work.

Smothering an inclination to growl, he swung on his heel and paced across the room. His blood was still coursing too fast through his veins, desire still lashed and passion prodded-leashed, for now.

But not for long.

He was as arrogant as Devil or Vane, enough to feel confident of her decision-of what she’d choose. She’d choose to be his, and then he’d have her.

Without her knowing she’d been seized.

12

The following morning, with Gerrard in attendance, Millicent reviewed Jacqueline’s wardrobe. Jacqueline was unsurprised when her bronze silk sheath was declared most suitable for the Summer Hunt Ball; a present from her mother just before she’d died, it was her most sophisticated and revealing gown, but she’d yet to wear it-apparently, its time had come.

It was the middle of summer; in that corner of the world so distant from the capital, it was customary for the local families to entertain themselves and their youth with some event every few days. Today, Mrs. Hancock was hosting a picnic, or as she more grandly termed it, an “alfresco luncheon.”

They left the Hall at noon; by the time they reached the Hancocks’ house beyond St. Just, most of the guests had arrived.

Once again, Jacqueline found herself tensing as they emerged onto the Hancocks’ terrace and all eyes swung her way. Some of the guests had been at the Frithams’ yesterday, but there were others who had yet to assimilate their new direction. She held her head high, kept a smile of precisely the right, unconcerned degree on her lips, and followed Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby’s leads. She was grateful for their support, especially Gerrard’s; as at the Frithams’, he remained by her side.

Somewhat to her surprise, Mrs. Elcott, the vicar’s wife, usually so severe, unbent enough to compliment her on her spring-green muslin. “I’m delighted to see that you’re not hiding yourself away. No doubt the discovery of poor Mr. Entwhistle’s body has caused you distress, but it never does to overindulge such passions. Facing forward is precisely what a young lady of your standing must do.”

Mrs. Elcott pursed her lips, as if holding back further comment, then surrendered to temptation. “Have you spoken with the Entwhistles yet?”

Jacqueline managed to look unconcerned. “Not yet.”

Gerrard smoothly cut in with a distracting remark. A minute later, he drew her away.

“She wanted to know so she could be first with the news.” She allowed him to lead her to the trestle table where refreshments had been laid out.

Reaching for the lemonade jug, he glanced at her. “True, but it seems she’s shrewd enough not to credit the killer’s whispers-or if she has in the past, she’s now willing to run with the truth instead.”

Jacqueline accepted the glass of lemonade he’d poured for her. “To give the devil his due-or in this case the vicar’s wife her due-I’ve never heard her gossip maliciously. She’s simply addicted to being up with the latest, to understanding what’s going on.”

She could relate to the impulse. Over the rim of her glass, she glanced at Gerrard; she wished she knew what, precisely, was going on between them. Last night…once she’d returned to her bed, she’d fallen deeply asleep. She’d assumed she’d have time today to assess his proposition, his veiled ultimatum. She was certain she ought to think before she allowed her, where he was concerned, too impulsive desire to sweep her into his arms. Especially now he’d informed her the step would involve irrevocable surrender, at least on her part.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to consider him and his lionlike propensities while he was beside her, or even in the vicinity, which meant there was nothing to be gained by attempting to think of such things now; she might as well enjoy the moment, and his company.

He was the perfect escort-always there, yet never crowding her. Supporting, guiding, but not directing, he played the perfect foil in helping her project just the right image-the impression, as he’d said, of being herself.

By the time they settled on picnic rugs to sample the delicacies Mrs. Hancock’s cook had prepared, she’d relaxed enough not just to laugh, but to do so spontaneously, without reserve. As Barnaby, the inveterate storyteller, continued his tale, she sipped from the flute of champagne Gerrard had handed her, then glanced at him. He caught her eye, held her gaze for an instant, then raised his flute to hers, clinked, and sipped, too.

Suddenly a touch breathless, giddy as if the champagne had gone to her head, she looked away, at Barnaby, and drew in a tight breath. Her breasts rose above the scooped neckline of her gown; she felt Gerrard’s warm gaze sweep her exposed skin.

Raising her glass again, she sipped, and fought to slow her pulse; she wished she had a fan.

“You’re such an accomplished raconteur.” Opposite Barnaby, Eleanor bestowed on him an openly inviting smile. “Why, your adventures seem almost legendary.”

Beside Jacqueline, Barnaby stiffened. “Oh, no,” he airily replied. “I’ve just seen a thing or two-inevitable in the capital.”

“Ah, yes, the capital.” Eleanor was not the least deterred by the less than encouraging response. “Do you spend most of your time there?”

Barnaby murmured a noncommittal response, immediately capping it with a general question, drawing the others-Clara, Cedric and Hugo and Thomasina Crabbe-into the conversation. On Jacqueline’s other side, Gerrard shifted, then glibly deflected a question from Eleanor designed to once again fix Barnaby’s attention on her.

Despite the undercurrents-primarily Eleanor’s doing-the mood remained light. Eleanor, Jacqueline knew, was merely amusing herself; she wished to see Barnaby wound about her little finger, but then she would discard him. Aside from her mystery lover, gaining power over the males who hove on her horizon was Eleanor’s chief amusement.

Jacqueline had seen that for years, but she hadn’t, until now, thought much of it. Now…she couldn’t help but feel Eleanor’s behavior wasn’t very ladylike, or kind. Luckily, Barnaby, the male currently in Eleanor’s sights, showed no signs of succumbing.

The picnic consumed, the matrons sat back in the shade and chatted. Everyone else elected to go on a ramble through the adjoining woods. They set off in a large, rambunctious group; before long, they’d strung out along the path.

Whether by luck or good management, she and Gerrard brought up the rear. That didn’t please Matthew Brisenden. He was swept ahead with the others yet, whenever the curve of the path allowed, stared back at her strolling on Gerrard’s arm.

Gerrard was aware-more aware than he liked-of Matthew’s dark looks. The boy was ridiculously possessive; Gerrard recognized and labeled his attitude instantly, and was in no way amused by it. He was also screamingly conscious of Jacqueline beside him, strolling along with, it seemed, not a care in the world. He was pleased that she’d relaxed, that she was more and more able to show her true colors to the world, yet…

Step by step, they fell further behind. She seemed absorbed with the flowers and trees, for which he gave thanks; he wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter. Increasingly, he watched her face, felt himself falling ever deeper under her spell.

“Oh!” She stopped, looking ahead.

He followed her gaze; the rest of the party had disappeared out of sight around the next bend.

She glanced at him; a challenging light danced in her eyes. “There’s a shortcut, if you’re willing to risk it.”

He was willing to risk a great deal for a few minutes alone with her. He waved. “Lead on.”

She smiled and turned aside, pushing past a thick bush onto a minor path. “This leads to the stream. The main path crosses it at a wooden bridge further on, then curves back on the other side, but it’s a long way around.”

“So what’s the risk?”

Even as he voiced the question the bushes before them thinned, and he saw the stream gurgling along the middle of a wide bed and spanned by an old fallen tree.

“Behold.” Jacqueline waved at the tree. “The challenge.”

She started down the slight slope. Gerrard followed. The stream had shrunk to within its summer banks, leaving the lush green of its winter flood plain ten yards wide on either side. Yet the stream was still too wide to jump, and too deep to wade through, and the tree trunk wasn’t large.

Jacqueline turned to him. “Are you game?”

He looked down at her. “Do I get a reward if I succeed?”

Jacqueline studied all she could see in his eyes, and wondered why he and only he made her feel like a siren. She let her lashes veil her eyes and looked back at the tree. “Possibly.”

“In that case”-he leaned down so his words wafted past her ear-“after you, my dear.”

To her hyperaware senses, he even sounded like a lion.

She drew breath, took the hand he offered to step up to the narrow bole, paused to catch her balance, then ran lightly across. She’d performed the same feat countless times. Jumping down to solid ground at the other end, she turned-and found Gerrard stepping off the tree immediately behind her.

He caught her; hands locking about her waist, he whirled her, then lowered her until her feet touched earth. For one finite instant, they stared into each other’s eyes, then he drew her-fully-against him. He looked into her eyes, briefly searched, then his gaze lowered to her lips. “Reward time, I believe.”