Stephanie Laurens - The Truth about Love

Tregonning was surprised but pleased, indeed, gratified.

Accompanying him back to the drawing room, Gerrard was aware of the irony. He’d come here to paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall, yet despite his obsession with them, ever since he’d laid eyes on Jacqueline Tregonning, he’d been consumed by thoughts of painting her.

Against her allure, not even the Garden of Night could compete.

They returned to the front hall. Lord Tregonning saw him to the drawing room door, but stopped short of entering. “I’ll instruct Treadle and Mrs. Carpenter as to your needs-no doubt they’ll consult with you.”

“Thank you.”

With a nod, Tregonning turned away. Gerrard watched him walk back in the direction from which they’d come. Feminine chatter spilled out of the drawing room. Clearly his lordship intended to seek refuge in his study, leaving him and Barnaby to the tender mercies of Lady Fritham, Mrs. Myles and the censorious Mrs. Elcott.

Accepting the inevitable, he turned and strolled back into the fray. Tea had been served in his absence; Millicent Tregonning smiled and poured him a cup. Accepting it, he chatted to her and Mrs. Myles, seated beside her, regarding his first impressions of the area. Mrs. Myles was instantly recognizable as a mother with daughters to establish; her bright eyes and gushing comments explained why Barnaby was on the other side of the room.

Returning his empty cup, Gerrard excused himself and followed.

Of course, neither he nor Barnaby could truly escape. They would remain the cynosure of local attention until the novelty of their presence faded.

Avoiding the chaise on which Lady Fritham sat absorbed in spirited argument with the severe Mrs. Elcott-clad in gray twill that matched her gray hair, the vicar’s wife behaved as if holding herself ready to be scandalized at any moment-he walked down the room to where the younger crew was holding court, Barnaby unsurprisingly center stage.

The Misses Myles saw him approaching, and quickly shifted to create a space between them. He smiled his practiced smile, and with an easy nod strolled around the group to Jacqueline Tregonning’s side.

Although following Barnaby’s tale, she sensed him draw near. She glanced fleetingly up at him, then moved aside to allow him to stand beside her. Detecting exasperation in her brief glance, Gerrard wondered…then realized she couldn’t study him while he was standing next to her.

His lips eased, curved.

Across the circle, the Misses Myles’s eyes brightened. Without appearing to notice, Gerrard gave his attention to Barnaby. The last thing he wished was to raise any hopes in the Misses Myles’s young breasts.

The thought had him glancing discreetly down, to his left, to where Jacqueline’s breasts rose above the scooped neckline of her gown. Her skin was flawless, creamy white; his fingertips tingled-he would wager that skin was rose-petal soft.

Although of perfectly acceptable style for a young lady some years beyond her first season, Jacqueline’s endowments filled out the gown in a manner guaranteed to draw gentlemen’s eyes. Retrieving his gaze, Gerrard glanced around the circle; other than Barnaby, who he was aware had noticed, the other two gentlemen seemed oblivious of Jacqueline’s charms. Contempt for the familiar, or…?

In between attending Barnaby’s story, Mitchel Cunningham ignored the Myles sisters and shot brief, very brief, glances at Eleanor Fritham, Lady Fritham’s daughter. Eleanor was indeed a beauty, a touch older than Jacqueline and in very different style. She was taller, reed slender, with alabaster skin and long, pale fair hair. Her eyes were cerulean blue, her lashes and brows brown. She was using them shamelessly on Barnaby, her attention slavishly fixed on him.

Much good would it do her. She might be a beauty, yet Gerrard instinctively knew she was unlikely to be of serious interest to either him or Barnaby.

Noting another of Cunningham’s swift glances, Gerrard made a mental note to mention the association to Barnaby, purely in pursuit of a peaceful existence, something Barnaby appreciated as much as he.

The brevity of Cunningham’s glances was almost certainly attributable to the other gentleman in the group, Eleanor’s older brother, Jordan Fritham. A brown-haired, precociously superior gentleman in his mid-twenties, he stood between his sister and the Myles girls. Taking in Jordan’s stance, Gerrard smothered a grin. The sketch that sprang to life in his mind was titled: “Cock of the Local Walk Greatly Displeased by the Appearance of Interlopers on His Patch.”

Barnaby and he were the interlopers, yet as far as Gerrard could tell, it wasn’t his attention to Jacqueline but Eleanor’s to Barnaby that was ruffling Jordan’s feathers. He strove to hide his reaction, but there was a hard glint in his eyes, a twist to his thin lips that screamed his irritation.

“So when Monteith came thundering up in his curricle thinking he’d won”-Barnaby struck a dramatic pose-“there was George Bragg, leaning on his whip, waiting to greet him!”

The Myles sisters gasped; Eleanor Fritham’s eyes glowed with laughter. With an engaging grin, Barnaby concluded his tale of the latest curricle-racing scandal. “Monteith was furious, of course, but there was nothing he could do but put a good face on it and stump up the blunt.”

“Oh, that must have hurt.” Eleanor lightly clapped her hands.

“Oh, it did,” Barnaby assured her. “Monteith took off for his Highland eyrie and hasn’t been sighted since.”

Gerrard knew the story; he’d been there. Jordan Fritham made some slighting comment about London horseflesh. Gerrard didn’t catch Barnaby’s reply; Jacqueline had turned to him, considering him. He looked down and met her frankly measuring gaze.

“Are you inclined to such pastimes, Mr. Debbington?”

She’d forgotten he was a man again. He smiled, deliberately charming, and watched her blink. “No,” he murmured. “I have better things-more rewarding things-to do with my time.”

For an instant, she held his gaze, then the bustling rustle of skirts gave her an excuse to glance away.

And breathe in. Deeply. He was acutely aware-to his fingertips aware-of the rise and fall of her breasts.

The interruption was Lady Fritham, come to summon Eleanor and Jordan away. Mrs. Myles somewhat reluctantly followed, gathering her daughters, and the party broke up.

Millicent, Mitchel and Jacqueline went to see the visitors to their carriages. Following some paces behind, Gerrard and Barnaby halted in the front hall.

“An unthreatening bunch, don’t you think?” Barnaby said.

“I’ve been focusing on Jacqueline Tregonning.”

“I noticed.” Barnaby’s eyes danced. “Artist smitten by subject-not an entirely original plot.”

“Not smitten, you idiot, just absorbed. There’s a great deal more to her than meets the eye.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on the latter. As for the former”-Barnaby shot him a sidelong glance he chose to ignore-“we’ll see.”

Mrs. Carpenter entered the hall. She came forward. “Mr. Debbington, Mr. Adair, we have your rooms ready. If you’ll come with me, we can make sure they suit.”

Gerrard smiled. “I’m sure they will.” With a last glance for Jacqueline, standing, waving, on the front porch, he turned and with Barnaby followed Mrs. Carpenter upstairs.

She and her staff had been as efficient as Lord Tregonning had intimated; the room to which she led Gerrard was just along the first-floor corridor from the stairs that led up to the old nursery.

“Treadle’s had the footmen up there moving the heavy pieces. I’ll have the maids go up first thing tomorrow, sir. Perhaps if you’ll look in after breakfast and let us know how you’d like things set up?”