Stephanie Laurens - The Truth about Love

This lady, however…he could paint her. He knew it in an instant; just a glance, that’s all it took. Even though her features weren’t that clear to him, there was a quality-one of stillness, of depth, of a complexity behind the pale oval of her face-that commanded his attention.

Just like his dream of the Garden of Night, the sight of her face reached for him, touched him, called to the artist that was his soul.

The front door opened and he turned away. Outwardly set himself to the task of greeting and being greeted. Cunningham was there, doing the honors; Gerrard shook his hand, his expression mild, his mind elsewhere.

A governess, or a companion. She was in the drawing room, the doors of which he could now see, so unless she beat a very rapid retreat, he would meet her. Then he’d have to find some way of ensuring she was included along with the gardens in the other subjects he was permitted to paint.

“This is Treadle.” Cunningham introduced the butler, who bowed. “And Mrs. Carpenter, our housekeeper.”

A stern-faced, competent-looking woman bobbed a curtsy. “Anything you need, sirs, please ask.” Mrs. Carpenter straightened. “I’ve not yet assigned rooms, not being sure of your requirements. Perhaps, once you’ve looked around and decided which rooms would best suit, you could let Treadle and me know, and we’ll have everything arranged in a blink.”

Gerrard smiled. “Thank you. We will.” The charm behind his smile worked its usual magic; Mrs. Carpenter’s face eased, and Treadle unbent a fraction.

“This is Mr. Adair.” Gerrard introduced Barnaby, who with his usual air of genial bonhomie nodded to the two servants and Cunningham.

Gerrard looked at Cunningham.

Who seemed suddenly on edge. “Ah…if you’ll come this way, I’ll introduce you to the ladies, and inform Lord Tregonning that you’re here.”

Gerrard let his smile grow a fraction more intent. “Thank you.”

Cunningham turned and preceded them to the double doors leading into what Gerrard had surmised must be the drawing room.

He was right. They stepped into a room long enough to boast three separate areas for comfortable conversation. At one end, no longer by the window but gathered about the chairs angled before a large fireplace, was the group of ladies and the young man who’d peered out at them, and one other, middle-aged lady he hadn’t previously seen.

Directly ahead, on the chaise that faced the doors, were two matrons, one of whom was eyeing Barnaby and him with incipient disapproval.

Although he didn’t glance her way, Gerrard was instantly aware of the single lady, standing alone and regarding them levelly from the other end of the room.

Suppressing his impatience, he halted beside Cunningham, who’d paused a yard over the threshold. Barnaby halted just behind his shoulder. Gerrard looked at the bevy of young misses, waiting to see which one came forward-which of the three he was going to hate to have to paint. To his surprise, they all hung back.

The middle-aged lady, a welcoming expression on her face, started toward them.

As did the lone lady on his left.

The middle-aged lady was too old; she couldn’t be his subject.

The younger lady drew nearer; he could no longer resist, but looked directly at her.

And saw her, her face, for the first time in good light.

He met her eyes, and realized his error.

Not a governess. Not a companion.

The lady his fingers were already itching to paint was Lord Tregonning’s daughter.

With a lady approaching from either side, Cunningham dithered over whom to introduce first. The decision was taken out of his hands by the middle-aged lady, who swept up with a smile. “I’m Millicent Tregonning, Lord Tregonning’s sister.” She held out her hand. “Allow me to welcome you to Hellebore Hall.”

Brown haired, well dressed, but severe both in style and expression, Millicent Tregonning was saved from appearing overly hard by the softness of her hazel eyes. Clasping her hand, Gerrard bowed. “Thank you.”

He introduced Barnaby; stepping aside so his friend could greet the elder Miss Tregonning brought him closer to the younger lady-Lord Tregonning’s daughter, his subject, she who would be one focus of his artistic attention for the next several months.

She’d halted beside her aunt; of average height, clad in a gown of apple-green muslin enticingly displaying generous breasts, and hinting at a slender waist, nicely curved hips, and legs perfectly gauged to satisfy his critical eye, she calmly waited while Barnaby exchanged greetings. Momentarily free, Gerrard studied her.

Turning her head, unruffled, she met his gaze. Her eyes, a medley of gold, amber and green, were large, well spaced under delicately arched brown brows. Her hair was glossy teak with lighter shades streaked through it, neatly confined in a topknot with just a few ten-drils flirting about her ears. The pale oval of her face was bisected by a straight nose; her complexion was flawless, ivory tinged with a healthy glow, while her lips had been drawn with a subtle hand, full feminine curves yet exquisitely mobile-elementally expressive. He already knew where to look for hints of her real thoughts, her real feelings.

At present, her eyes were calm pools of quiet confidence; she was observing, assessing, totally contained. Totally unperturbed and unthreatened. Despite his presence, and Barnaby’s for that matter, he could detect not the slightest hint of feminine fluster.

She wasn’t seeing them as gentlemen-as men-but as something else.

The truth came to him as her gaze deflected to her aunt. She was viewing him solely as a painter.

“And this is my niece, my brother’s daughter, Miss Jacqueline Tregonning.”

Jacqueline turned to Gerrard Debbington. Smiling, she held out her hand. “Mr. Debbington. I hope your journey down was pleasant-it’s such a long way.”

He again met her gaze, then took her hand, the long fingers she’d remarked earlier closing, not too tightly yet firm and sure, about her slender bones. He bowed gracefully, his eyes never leaving hers. “Miss Tregonning. I’m grateful your father sought me out. The journey was indeed long, yet, had I not made it, I would certainly have lived to regret it.”

She barely registered his words. The tone of his voice, low, masculine, slid over her like a caress; the strength in his fingers, a sense of male power, spread over her skin and set her nerves flickering. His gaze held hers, intent with an interest she couldn’t name. Her fingers quivered in his-shocked, she stilled them.

His face, lightly tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones, the angular planes aristocratically austere, remained impassive, his expression politely detached-it was that intentness in his eyes, glowing brown, rich and alive as they held hers, that shook her.

That forced her to look again, and truly see.

She’d dubbed him society’s lion and he was unquestionably that, yet his polished elegance wasn’t a guise adopted for the world but a reflection of himself; it exuded from him, a tangible shield. His lightly waving hair, a darker brown than her own, was fashionably cut, framing his wide forehead and deep-set eyes; his brows were dark, well arched, his lashes long and thick.

He was tall, almost a head taller than she, broad of shoulder and long of limb; although he was lean rather than heavy, his graceful movements screamed of muscled strength camouflaged by stylish manners. That sense of innate strength was echoed in his face, in the hard lines of brow, nose and chin.

No fop, no self-absorbed popinjay. A lion, albeit a subtle one-in thinking him that she’d been right. He was dangerous, more dangerous than she’d imagined any man might be. Just by holding her hand, meeting her eyes and uttering a few words-what the devil had he said?-he’d made her lungs seize.