The visit to Helen Purfett’s salon had been interesting; they would return tomorrow afternoon, and the three afternoons after that, for fittings, but it would be just the two of them. Millicent, Minnie, Timms and Patience had lost interest in the process, although they were still exceedingly keen to see her in the finished product.

She hesitated, then remembered Gerrard was not yet sketching any details, just the lines of her body, her limbs. He’d promised tonight would be a short session, a training for the hours that would come; for now she could let her expression relax-let her lips curve as she recalled the rest of her day.

During their journey, she’d wondered whether she would find his relatives, especially the ladies, intimidating; they were, after all, members of the haut ton, and had been all their lives. Admittedly, she wasn’t all that easily intimidated, yet the transparently warm welcome they’d accorded her, and the ease with which she’d found herself relaxing into, as it were, the bosom of his family, had not just surprised her, but left her feeling amazingly buoyed.

Not just reassured, but more-as if she was one of them, accepted and embraced.

Millicent, too, seemed happy and gratified. Her aunt had already formed a bond with Minnie and Timms; they were much of a kind, absorbed with observing the lives of those around them.

By the time she’d gone up to dress for dinner, she’d lost every last trepidatious reservation. She’d looked forward to the prospect of his family dinner with genuine anticipation.

To her surprise, he’d arrived at the house while she was dressing. He’d paced in the drawing room, then whisked her into his carriage the instant she was ready, leaving Millicent to follow later with Minnie and Timms. They’d driven to Patience’s house in Curzon Street-and gone straight to the nursery.

Her smile deepened. She hadn’t until then thought of Gerrard with children, but the trio who’d yelled and come pelting toward him had been totally sure of their reception. With, it had proved, complete justification. He’d devoted half an hour to them. After quelling their rowdy greetings, he’d introduced her; the children had smiled and accepted her in the same, trusting manner their parents had-as if, because she was with Gerrard, she was beyond question a rightful member of their circle.

He’d filled their ears with tales of the gardens of Hellebore Hall. She’d sat quietly and listened; the little girl, Therese, had climbed onto her lap with sublime confidence that she would be welcome. She’d smiled and settled the warm bundle of soft limbs and body, then rested her cheek on the child’s head and listened to Gerrard paint her home as she’d never seen it.

Yet she recognized it. That was his talent, to see and be able to convey the magic in landscapes, in the combined creations of nature and man.

When they heard the gong summoning them downstairs, she’d been as reluctant to leave as the children had been to let them go. To her surprise, Therese had kissed her cheek and solemnly informed her she had to come with Gerrard when next he visited.

Touched, she’d smiled. Leaning down, she’d brushed a kiss to Therese’s forehead, then lightly ruffled her golden curls. A strange feeling, warm and appealing, had bloomed inside her-even now, reliving it, she wasn’t sure what it had meant.

They’d gone down to dinner. It should have been an ordeal, a test she’d had to face. Instead, it had been a relaxed and entertaining affair with much laughter, conversation unlimited, and goodwill on all sides.

She hadn’t expected the men to be so charming. No one had had to tell her that they wielded considerable power, not just in society but in wider spheres. Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, was the head of the family, a mantle he’d been born to and carried with flair. He was impressive, yet he’d smiled and teased her; his duchess, Honoria, had dismissed her powerful husband with a haughty wave and welcomed her warmly.

Yet despite their outward ease, in the drawing room after dinner she’d noticed the men-Devil, Vane and Horatia’s husband, George-gathering around Gerrard with their port glasses in hand. The subject of the discussion had been serious; she was certain she knew what it had been.

Unconditional, instinctive support-that’s what had been behind that purposeful discussion. From the corner of her eye, she focused on Gerrard, still wielding his pencil, absorbed; she wondered if he knew how lucky he was to have a family like that. Not just behind him but all around him.

Always there to lend a hand.

He looked up, caught her eye, then he looked back at his work; a moment later, he stepped back. Head tilted, he glanced from it to her and back again, then he sighed, waved her to him, and turned aside to lay down his pencil.

She lowered her hand, worked her arm back and forth as she walked to him.

He met her before she rounded the easel, caught her waist and steered her back from the canvas. “There’s not enough there to make sense of yet.”

From a distance of inches, she met his eyes, searched them. “I can pose for longer-I’m not that tired.”

He shook his head. His gaze dropped to her lips. “I don’t want to overtax you.”

He bent his head and his lips found hers; as he whirled her senses into the flames, she wondered if her potential tiredness had prompted him to call a halt, or whether the strength of his desire-which apparently had escalated over five nights of abstinence-wasn’t instead the principal force driving him.

Regardless, he wanted her-here, now, as desperately as, within mere seconds, she wanted him. Their desire was mutual, wonderfully so, freeing them both from any hesitation. She offered her mouth, willingly offered her body; she was his to possess.

Gerrard knew it; her eager surrender was pure joy, the vital element that again and again reassured him, that soothed his primitively possessive soul-that side of his nature only she connected with. Only with her had he experienced it; only with her could he explore it and, it seemed, be whole, complete in a way he never had been before.

Between them, passion rose, heated and demanding. Without breaking the kiss, he stooped and swung her up into his arms. Her hands clutching his shoulders, urgently gripping, he carried her down the long narrow room. Ducking a shoulder between the tapestry hangings screening the room’s end, he walked through-to the wide boxed bed set under a pair of dormer windows on the western end of the house. If he’d been painting all night and couldn’t face the short walk home, this was where he collapsed.

Compton had made up the bed; with clean sheets, white pillows and a green satin comforter, it sat waiting.

Lifting his head, he waited for Jacqueline’s eyes to open, held her gaze for an instant, then smiled, wickedly, and tossed her on the bed.

She half swallowed a shriek, then laughed as, in a froth of skirts, she sank into the soft mattress; he’d had her pose in the gown she’d worn to dinner. Eagerly she looked to right and left, noting the sparse furniture in the alcove. He shrugged out of his shirt, then bent and eased off his boots, watching her all the while.

By the time her gaze returned to him, he was unbuttoning his trousers. She watched, her gaze steady, direct, then she lifted her eyes to his, and raised her hands to the buttons of her bodice.

Undid them, not shyly but with the sultry deliberation of a siren.

His lips curved, not in a smile but in blatant expectation. He stripped off his trousers. Naked, he stood at the end of the bed and flipped her skirts up to her hips. Reaching out, he let his fingertips glide down the fascinating curves of her legs, tracing, then he caught one garter and rolled it down, removing it, her stocking and slipper in one smooth caress. He repeated the action on her other leg, paused for a moment to admire the result, then joined her on the mattress. Pushing her skirts to her waist, he straddled her thighs, and reached for the gown’s shoulders as, on her elbows, she struggled to slide her arms free. Between them, they managed it; he drew the gown off over her head and tossed it aside.

Before he could, she tugged the drawstring of her chemise loose, and drew the fine garment up and off.

He had no idea where it landed, had no eyes for anything except her. Here, naked in his bed beneath him. He leaned forward, covered her lips and kissed her with all the passion in his soul, then he closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her.

Sitting back, he set her down straddling his thighs; he didn’t need to urge but simply guide her as she shifted forward, over his erection, then sank down and took him deep.

Into the heavenly heat of her body. Their eyes locked, held, and he felt as if she drew him into her soul.

He thrust in, deeper, nudging her womb. Her sheath was a velvet clamp, tight yet giving, slick and scorching as it contracted about his rigid length.

She spread her knees wider, pressed lower, then, satisfied she’d taken him all, she leaned forward; hands splaying, needy and greedy across his chest, she licked one nipple.

He caught his breath, then bent his head and nudged hers up. Their lips met, and the intimate fusion they both craved began.

Without reservation. Without restriction.

Hotter, harder, more intense, ultimately more primal, more primitive and powerful. It was as if with every day that passed they grew closer, learned more of the other, appreciated and thus knew there was yet more they could ask, more they could give. More they could give that the other would want. Would value.

In the last gasping moments when from under heavy lids, their gazes met and desperately clung, that last was beyond obvious. This was special, to them both unique. With no other could they give this much; no other could touch and take, no other would so wantonly seize.