Frowning, she slowed, then stopped and stepped to the window. She looked to left and right, confirming that there was no breeze. Not even the tips of the tall, feathery herbs in the Garden of Vesta were stirring.

She looked again at the bushes surrounding the upper entrance to the Garden of Night. They’d definitely moved, but now were as still as the rest of the gardens. She pulled a face. “One of the kitchen cats-must be.”

Turning, she continued along the gallery, her attention reverting to her goal.


See? I told you! She’s off to his room-the trollop.”

“Keep your voice down.”

A long moment passed. Cloaked in the heavy shadows of the entrance to the Garden of Night, the first speaker stirred, and glanced, sharply, at the other. “Did you know he’s started her portrait?”

The other shrugged and made no reply.

“I tell you, it’s serious! You should hear what the old biddies are saying-how if the portrait shows her as innocent, they’ll have to think again. They’re starting to expect to have to think again.”

“Are they?” The words were softly uttered. A moment passed. “Now, that won’t do.”

“Precisely! So what are we going to do to stop it?”

Another long silence ensued. Eventually, the other spoke, voice flat, even, cold. “Don’t worry-I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”

“You’ll see. Come on.” The larger figure turned into the enshrouding darkness of Venus’s garden. “Let’s go in.”


Jacqueline reached Gerrard’s room and whisked through the door. Shutting it, she looked across the room, and saw him standing by the windows.

He’d been looking out, but had turned. No lamps were lit; cloaked in shadow, he watched as she crossed the room to him.

As she neared, she looked into his face. The planes were hard-edged, angular and unreadable. Impassive and implacable. Boldly, she walked to him. Walked into his embrace as he reached for her; his hands slid around her waist, fingers flexing, grasping, drawing her to him and holding her.

He studied her. After a moment he said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

She arched a brow. “Did you think I’d be satisfied with one night?”

His shoulders lifted slightly, but she saw the ends of his lips curve as he bent his head. “It’s an unwise man who claims to read a female mind.”

His lips brushed, then covered hers, and she decided his caution was just as well-her mind held precious few thoughts, and even those were spinning away. She sighed into the kiss, then went to sink against him, but he held her back, keeping a space of inches between them.

She didn’t know why, but followed his lead as he deepened the kiss, parted her lips and claimed her mouth-intently, completely. No quarter, but also no hurry. He took everything he could from the kiss, and left her gasping.

Reeling.

“I think,” he murmured, his eyes dark beneath the screen of his lashes, “that before we go any further we should agree on some rules.”

She blinked. “Rules?”

“Hmm. Such as…you remember I warned you that if you came to me I would expect to possess you-all of you-utterly?”

She was hardly likely to forget. “Yes.”

He drank her answer from her lips in a long, lingering sip.

“There’s a corollary to that rule.” He drew back enough to catch her eyes again. Slowly let his hands slide up until they cupped her breasts. His fingers found the tight peaks and played-delicately, too knowingly.

She could barely breathe. “What?”

“Having agreed to be mine utterly, you can’t rescind that state-you can’t not be mine until I release you, until I let you go.”

He never would. Gerrard waited, watched her fight to hold on to sufficient wit to consider his decree…Releasing her breasts, he loosened her sash, parted her robe and slid his hands beneath. Around, past her waist to slide down, over her hips to possessively caress the lush curves of her bottom.

Her gaze grew more distant, her senses following his wandering hands.

“Do you agree?” he prompted.

She refocused on his face, studied his eyes. “Do I have any choice?”

He eased her closer, moving deliberately into her. “No.”

Hands rising to his shoulders, she tipped back her head to keep her eyes on his. “Then why ask?”

“Because I wanted you to know the answer. To understand how things are…will be.”

“I see.” Jacqueline held his gaze as he drew her against him, quelled a reactive shiver at the strength in his hands, wondered what it was she saw burning behind the rich brown of his eyes. “And now I know…what next?”

“Now you know…” He bent his head. “We go on.”

On. That was precisely where she wanted to go; Jacqueline returned his kiss with fervor, eager to learn what path he’d chosen, what sensual avenue he’d set his mind upon.

He shifted, angling his head; the kiss turned heated, demanding. His arms closed around her, locking her to him, then his hands spread, molding her to him, leaving her in no doubt whatever of his rapacious need.

To her surprise, he drew back from the kiss, unhurriedly, as if he knew she was his and intended taking all the time he wished to savor her. Eventually he raised his head; she lifted her lids and looked up at him. He studied her face, searching, she didn’t know for what.

His hand tightened about her bottom, lifting her to him, blatantly shifting her hips against the ridge of his erection.

“The lamps-do you mind if I light them?”

His tone and the predatory look in his eyes suggested the question had sprung from ingrained manners; it was no true request.

“If you wish” was on the tip of her tongue; she caught it back, asked instead, “Why?”

His roving gaze returned to her eyes. “Because I want to see you.” Smoothly, gracefully, he released her, and clasped her hand. “To view you as I make love to you.”

Her senses leapt; she felt giddy. The heat in his eyes beckoned, caressed-promised all manner of illicit delights.

Eyes locked on hers, he raised her hand, brushed his lips across her fingers, then unfurled them and pressed a burningly hot kiss to her palm.

She swallowed, nodded. “Very well.”

Her voice wasn’t entirely steady. He turned her; she dragged in a breath as he led her across the room to where a pair of bronze lamps stood on either end of a narrow side table. On the wall behind the table hung a rectangular mirror, wide and high within an ornate gilt frame.

He halted before the table. Releasing her, he lit one lamp; she tracked him in the mirror as he crossed behind her to light the other. The flames flared, then steadied; he glanced at her, clearly gauging the golden light bathing her. To her surprise, he turned the lamp lower, checking the level of light, then crossed to adjust the other.

When he turned, she swung to face him. He took her hand; she expected him to lead her to the bed-instead, he moved her back, turning her, positioning her before the center of the table, facing the mirror midway between the lamps. He moved to stand behind her; over her head, he looked into the mirror-at her, her body-then lifted his gaze to her eyes. And smiled.

Not his charming social smile but that slight curving of the corners of his lips that was far more sincere-and infinitely more predatory.

“Perfect.” Reaching for her shoulders, he drew her robe down and away. He tossed it aside, over an armchair, but his eyes never left her; as he stepped closer, his gaze lowered from her face. In the mirror she followed his gaze, and saw what he did, the tight peaks of her full breasts standing proud through the fine lawn of her nightgown.

The gown was virginal white, thin and soft, now gilded by the warm glow from the lamps. She’d fastened the long placket to just above her breasts. His gaze drifted lower, over the indentation of her waist and the flare of her hips, and lower, over her stomach to the faint shadow that was the curls at the apex of her thighs. His gaze lingered, then swept slowly on and down, then unhurriedly returned to her face.

The lengthy perusal had heated her; as he studied her eyes she wondered if it showed. She was tensing to turn and face him when he shifted, and lifted her hair. She’d brushed it out; a thick rippling river, she’d left it running down her back. He speared his fingers through it, then raised his hands and lifted the spread veil forward, over her shoulders.

His face a mask, hard, unreadable, he laid the long tresses down. Shaking his fingers free, he studied the result, then artfully shifted this strand, then that, until he was satisfied.

Until her bright brown hair lay partially over her breasts, an inadequate but distracting screen, burnished by the lamplight.

Before she could comment, he reached for her; sliding his hands about her waist, he closed the last inches between them. She felt his hard warmth at her back and relaxed, but his hold on her waist prevented her from sinking back against him.

Holding her before him, he bent his head; through the strands of her hair, with his lips he found and traced her lobe, then dipped to press a long kiss to the sensitive spot behind her jaw.

“Unbutton your nightgown.”

The words whispered past her ear, distilled seduction. She inwardly smiled; catching his eye as he glanced up, into the mirror, she willingly raised her fingers to the highest button, and slid it free.

His hands rode at her waist, hot and strong, fingers tensing as her hands descended. He watched, unblinking, as she slipped each button free.

“Open it. Wide.”

Gravelly, forceful, the quiet words sent a shiver spiraling down her spine. Her gaze locked on the vision in the mirror, she grasped the sides of the nightgown and slowly lifted them apart, drew them aside, revealing her breasts, full, firm, already tight.