She opened her mouth-he squeezed her fingers to silence her. “Before you argue, consider this-whatever you say, whatever you do, no longer matters. I know you love me-you’ve shown me you do-and I love you. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if need be, and badger you until you accept me as your husband.”

Her eyes searched his, then he sensed her inner sigh. “I know he tried to kill you-I know about the arrow.”

“Ah.” He held her gaze as perception swung, revolved, then settled again. He remembered the door to the stairs, left open by the footman who’d come to remove his shaving water; he’d been on his way to shut it when Barnaby had knocked on the other door. Suddenly all was clear.

She tried to tug her hand from his; when he didn’t let go, she glared at him. Belligerently. “When were you going to tell me? Never? But if we’re considering things, then you ought to consider this-if I loved you, I’d move heaven and earth to keep you from this madman.”

He searched her eyes, then he smiled.

Jacqueline’s heart melted; there was no charm in the gesture, no artful seduction, just an overflowing understanding, acceptance, and love. It glowed in the rich brown of his eyes, a light she couldn’t mistake, a light he made no effort to conceal.

He raised his free hand and cradled her cheek, tipping her face up so he could study her eyes more closely. When he spoke, it was with awe, as if he’d made some great discovery. “It’s not your heart you’re trying to shield by denying you love me-it’s me. You’re trying to protect me.”

Of course. “Perhaps. But-”

His smile deepened; he bent his head and kissed her.

She tried to hold aloof, apart, tried desperately to simply exist and not be swayed…and failed. A shuddering sigh escaped her, and she sank into his arms, parted her lips and welcomed him in.

And felt, again, the power rise between them, felt it swell and whirl and cocoon them. Felt it bind them, hold them, fuse them until they were not the same separate beings they once had been.

When he lifted his head, she was defeated-not by him, but by that power. He, too, seemed caught. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, gravelly. “I thank you for the thought, sweetheart.” He brushed a kiss to her knuckles, then met her eyes. “But that’s not how it’s going to be.”

For a long moment, she felt as if she was drowning in his eyes, then he said, “Timms said something, not long ago, when she was twitting me about love and my attitude to it. I can’t remember her words, but I remember her meaning: when it comes to love, what will be will be-it’s not up to us to decree.”

Those words were patently, self-evidently true. There was no point arguing. However…“I won’t agree to marry you.”

He held her gaze, then nodded. “Very well. If you insist, we won’t make the announcement yet.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He met her look blankly. Unyieldingly. But she could be unyielding, too; if she gave in, even to a secret betrothal, he would use it to, as he would see it, protect her. “No, I am not agreeing. Not yet. Once we’ve exposed our madman, you can ask me again.” A memory stirred. “Knights who champion ladies can’t claim their reward until after the dragon is slain.”

His eyes narrowed; the look in them held more than a touch of hard arrogance, of his customary ruthlessness. His lips thinned, but then he nodded. “Very well.” He drew a deep breath, his chest swelling against her breasts. “We’ll take the portrait back to Hellebore Hall and, hand in hand, side by side, wait for the murderer to appear.”


But first they had a family dinner to attend, all the while concealing the complex web of emotions that, it seemed, hour by hour steadily grew, wove and twined more tightly, linking them ever more incontrovertibly.

He, of course, encouraged it, and she was helpless to prevent it.

They’d arranged to show the portrait in the drawing room; it stood in pride of place before the empty hearth. Before any others arrived, Minnie, Timms and Millicent stood in a semicircle in front of it-and simply stared.

Then Minnie turned to Jacqueline, and took her hand. “My dear, I confess I had no idea matters were quite so bad.” She glanced back at the portrait. “But I can see they are.” She looked up at Gerrard. “Dear boy, this is the best you’ve ever done-and for more than one reason.”

Timms gruffly concurred. “It conveys so much-there’s so much of you both in it-hopefully it’ll accomplish all you need.”

The doorbell pealed; guests started to arrive. Without exception, all were amazed and somewhat stunned by the portrait. Jacqueline’s head spun with all the comments, but she’d met everyone before, knew them, felt comfortable in their company, felt at home within their circle.

Despite all the portrait so eloquently revealed, although she did indeed feel her emotions exposed, she didn’t feel vulnerable. In part it was a matter of trust-of trusting all those around her-but it was also a reflection of the strength she drew from the light in Gerrard’s eyes when they rested on her, from the touch of his fingers lightly trailing her arm as he passed by.

Nothing occurred to mar the evening. The conversation about the dinner table was all about the portrait, of what others saw in it, of their hopes for it. Of the situation that awaited her, Gerrard, Millicent and Barnaby at the Hall, and how they planned to resolve it.

Warm wishes flowed all around them, but in the glances the men shared, Jacqueline read a seriousness, and a readiness to support in whatever manner was required, that was almost medieval. A rallying to the clarion call, a warriorlike response from elegant gentlemen who were clearly only one small step removed from their sword-wielding ancestors.

It was obvious that Gerrard was cut from the same cloth.

None of the men dallied about the table; all rose and followed the ladies back to the drawing room, back to the portrait. Powerful and evocative, it dominated the gathering.

“It takes my breath away.” Amelia stood before it, examining it anew. “But not in a pleasant way.”

Jacqueline had met the twins, Amanda, Countess of Dexter, and Amelia, Viscountess Calverton, at a number of functions. They were a few years older than she, but so full of life she’d been immediately drawn to them. Their husbands, both tall, handsome men, cousins in fact, stood nearby; they’d been teased over the dinner table about their rivalry over who would fill their nursery first-both twins had given birth to firstborn sons within a month of each other, then, later, to daughters, again within the space of a month.

“It gives me the shivers.” Standing beside Amelia, Amanda realistically demonstrated. She turned to Jacqueline. “I hope that whatever that represents”-she pointed to the louring, threatening Garden of Night-“is defeated and behind you.”

Jacqueline looked at the painting. “Not yet.” She met the twins’ eyes. “We hope it soon will be.”

“Humph!” Amanda swung to Gerrard. “All I can say is, if you can see all that well enough to paint it, you’d better be intending to take her hand and pull her out of there.”

Gerrard’s lips curved in a relaxed and open smile. “Rest assured, I fully intend to do just that.” He shot a glance at Jacqueline. “And, indeed, lead her rather further.”

Into a new life. His eyes stated that clearly; for a moment, Jacqueline was lost in the promise that glowed in his brown eyes.

Amelia made a strangled sound, smothering some comment. Both Jacqueline and Gerrard looked to see the twins exchanging glances, then Amanda shook her head with mock severity at Amelia, and took her sister’s arm. “No-don’t say a word. Whatever word we do say will be taken amiss, so…let’s retire and leave these two to their own devices.”

With smiles that could only be construed as regally smug, the twins swept off to join their husbands.

“Grandes dames in the making,” Gerrard muttered.

Another Cynster lady Jacqueline had grown close to was Flick-Felicity-Demon Cynster’s wife. Demon Harry was Vane’s younger brother, an ex-hellion if ever there was one. The resemblance between him and Vane was not strong physically, but Jacqueline saw it in myriad little things. Like the hard glint in Demon’s blue eyes when he paused beside Gerrard to discuss their return to Hellebore Hall.

Flick tugged her hand, distracting her. “You must promise to come to Newmarket later in the year.” She held up a hand, imperious for all she was a slip of a thing. “With Gerrard or without him, regardless, I’ll expect to see you.”

She could only smile, and agree. Dillon Caxton, Flick’s cousin and, as Jacqueline understood it, Demon’s protégé in many ways, joined them. He was startlingly handsome in Byronic fashion; his manners were assured, his address polished, but Jacqueline sensed he held himself back, behind an inner wall of reserve.

Nevertheless, he was a close friend of Gerrard’s; after chatting easily with Flick and herself, Dillon turned to Gerrard and asked if he would introduce him to Barnaby. “Demon mentioned his hobby. There’s a little matter at Newmarket that I think might interest him.”

Gerrard raised his brows, but readily agreed.

He left her with Flick, but returned within minutes, much to Flick’s amusement.

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant whirl. The last guests to depart were Horatia and her husband, George.

“Take care, dear.” Horatia touched cheeks. “And we’ll see you later in the month.”

Without waiting for a response, Horatia turned to Gerrard. “Whatever you need to do in Cornwall, don’t take too long about it. We’ll expect to hear the end of this story when we see you both at Somersham.”

Gerrard innocently swore he wouldn’t drag his heels.