Gerrard stepped back. With icy precision, he lifted Eleanor’s arm from his and dropped it.
He said something; Eleanor’s face fell.
Turning brusquely on his heel, Gerrard strode back into the ballroom.
“Ahem!” Sir Vincent cleared his throat, and belatedly turned Jacqueline in the opposite direction. “I have to say I did wonder—never do know with London bloods—but Debbington seems to have his head on straight. I wouldn’t mention it normally—I know she’s a friend of yours—but Miss Fritham needs to take a powder.”
They’d reached the end of the terrace. Sir Vincent looked around the corner of the building. “Ah, yes. Just the ticket.”
He continued around the corner. Absorbed with what she’d just witnessed, with her relief that Gerrard had dismissed Eleanor so ruthlessly even though he hadn’t known she’d been watching—and with the kernel of competitive pleasure that was blossoming, nurtured by the thought that he preferred her less fashionable beauty to Eleanor’s—it was an instant or two before Jacqueline registered the oddity in Sir Vincent’s words.
Just the ticket for what?
By then he’d led her, unresisting, to the French doors leading into one of the minor parlors. The doors were unlocked; Sir Vincent opened them wide, and guided her in with his usual courtly suavity…She went, uncertain, suspicions flickering.
The moon shed enough light to see by, but Sir Vincent immediately lit a lamp; the glow spread, easing Jacqueline’s nascent fears. This, after all, was Sir Vincent; despite his occasionally too particular attentions, he’d always accepted her rebuffs like a gentleman. As he turned to face her, his expression resolute, she wondered if perhaps he was going to warn her about the whispers; mentally composing a suitable reply, she waited for him to speak.
To her shock, he threw himself on his knees before her.
“My dear!” He grasped her hands.
Stunned, she tugged, but he tightened his grip.
“No, no—don’t fear! You must excuse my intemperate passion, sweet Jacqueline, but I can no longer stand by without speaking.”
“Sir Vincent! Do, please, get up, sir.” Jacqueline cast a glance at the side terrace. Just because no one had been there didn’t mean no one would venture that way, and the lamplight was now shining out through the open doors, a beacon.
Instead of rising, Sir Vincent lifted her hands to his lips and pressed impassioned kisses to her knuckles. “
Dear
Jacqueline, you must listen. I cannot allow you to become infatuated with these London bloods—they’re not worthy of you.”
“What?” She stared down at him. “Sir—”
“I’ve waited too long not to speak. At first I thought you too young.” Still holding her hands, Sir Vincent clambered to his feet. “Then came that unfortunate incident with Entwhistle, and then, just as you were going about once more, Miribelle died, and I had to wait again. But I’ll wait no more. My dear, I desire to make you my wife.”
Jacqueline felt her jaw drop. “Ah…” She struggled to marshal her wits. “Sir Vincent, I never dreamed—”
“No? Well, why would you? I’m a man of the world, while you’ve little experience of it, but I’ve had my eye on you for some time—your mama was aware of my intentions. She insisted I wait before addressing you, and so I have.” Stepping nearer, he tightened his grip on her hands and looked down at her. “So, my dear, what do you say?”
Jacqueline dragged in a huge breath. “Sir Vincent, you do me a very great honor, but I cannot agree to marry you.”
Sir Vincent blinked.
She tugged, but he still wouldn’t release her. He seemed to be thinking—too hard for her liking. “Sir Vincent—”
“No, no—I see my mistake. No doubt you have dreams of being swept away by passion.” He pulled her to him.
Her heart rising to her throat, she braced her arms and fought to keep her distance. “Sir Vincent—
no!”
“No need to fear, my dear.” Inexorably, he drew her closer. “Just a kiss to show you—”
“Perry.”
The single word fell with the crushing weight of a millstone. Clipped, hard, resonant with menace, it shook Sir Vincent to his toes. Jacqueline felt alarm ripple through him; she wasn’t surprised.
Gerrard stepped into the room. “I suggest you unhand Miss Tregonning immediately.”
There was a quality to his voice that rendered any “or” redundant.
Sir Vincent blinked, then, as if abruptly coming to his senses, released Jacqueline.
She stepped away, closer to Gerrard, flexing her crushed fingers.
Gerrard turned to her. “Did he hurt you?”
She looked into his face; a primitive promise of immediate retribution was etched in the austere lines, unforgivingly hard in the moonlight. She was relieved she could say, “No. I was just…surprised.”
Looking back at Sir Vincent, she saw he was blushing furiously, shaken, embarrassed and, she suspected, annoyed. “Sir Vincent, I repeat, you do me a great honor, but I have no wish to become your wife. Please believe that nothing, no persuasions of any kind, will change my mind.” She thought, but there was nothing more she wished to add. Inclining her head, she held out her hand to Gerrard. “Mr. Debbington?”
His eyes were locked on Sir Vincent. She waited; transparently reluctant to leave without administering appropriate justice, Gerrard eventually glanced at her face, then, accepting her unspoken edict, he took her hand, set it on his sleeve and, turning, escorted her from the room.
Behind them, she heard Sir Vincent exhale.
Barnaby was waiting by the door. He fell back to let them through.
Once on the terrace, Jacqueline dragged in a huge breath. Beneath her fingertips, the steel that had infused Gerrard’s muscles remained. They walked slowly back to the main terrace. Barnaby strolled beside them.
She sighed, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Thank you. I had no idea he was intending that.”
“Hmm.” Barnaby was frowning. “I did hear correctly, didn’t I? He just asked for your hand?”
Jacqueline recalled their hypothesis; she shivered. “Yes. But I can’t believe—” She broke off, remembering.
Gerrard’s gaze raked her face. “What?”
Could it be?
“He said he’d told Mama. And he was at the house the last time Thomas called. Sir Vincent left before Thomas…or at least we thought he did.”
Barnaby shook his head. “Your stablemen said he didn’t come to fetch his horse until later—they assumed he’d been down to the cove.”
They reached the main terrace and paused.
“Down to the cove, or in the Garden of Hercules.” Gerrard glanced at Barnaby, then at her. “Who’s to say?”
O
nce back in the ballroom, Barnaby drifted off, intent on pursuing his inquiries. The musicians had finished for the evening, yet the gathering was still in full swing.
Gerrard strolled with Jacqueline, but when they stopped to chat with a group of fellow guests, he realized that wasn’t the sort of diversion she needed. The incident with Sir Vincent and its implications were distracting her, making her appear distant and enigmatic once more.
He inwardly cursed. Except for that moment at supper, she’d done a superb job of being open, transparently herself, of keeping her inner shields down; she didn’t need, courtesy of Sir Vincent, to tarnish her success this late in the night.
Grasping the first opportunity, he excused them and drew her back toward the terrace. “Come and walk in the gardens.” Glancing down, he met her eyes. “We should at least assess our creation.”
She smiled; he saw the relief in her eyes and was content.
It was mild outside; many couples and small groups were still ambling about the paths. They descended the terrace steps and followed a path across the lawn, then took the extension that led to the pond.
Lanterns bobbed overhead. Jacqueline looked about, studying the pattern of glimmering lights through the screening trees. “It’s the best I’ve ever seen it.”
Turning, she smiled up at him.
Lowering his arm, he closed his hand about hers, and they walked on.
The lanterns stopped halfway to the pond; they’d deliberately not lit the clearing, not wanting to encourage anyone to venture close to the deep water at night. Reaching the shadows, they exchanged a glance, then walked on.
The night embraced them. Their eyes adjusted to the silvery moonlight. The moon wasn’t full, but had waxed enough to cast a faint glow over the landscape. When they strolled into the clearing, the pond was a dark, still expanse; the distant trickle of the stream running down to the lake was the only sound to punctuate the silence.
The tall trees ringing the clearing, the shrubs and bushes beneath, created the illusion of a private room in the night, one that was exclusively theirs.
Jacqueline went to the stone bench. Gerrard handed her to it and watched her sit on one end. He didn’t trust himself to sit beside her. Pensive, she looked across the pool; he studied her face, then sank his hands in his pockets and remained where he was, like her, staring at the black water.
The coolness of the stone and the pleasant night soothed Jacqueline’s chaotic thoughts. She’d been keyed up when they’d first entered the ballroom; since then, her feelings had veered through growing confidence in the way she appeared, and the way others responded to her, through the meeting with the Entwhistles, the moment of shared sorrow, then the laying of that sorrow to rest. Lady Entwhistle’s encouragement to look forward and live echoed in her mind. After that…
She’d enjoyed the dancing more than previously. The waltzes with Gerrard had been highlights, moments that had reflected the undercurrent of thoughts, of emotions, that had run beneath all else through the evening. Indeed, through the last days.
Jordan’s comment, albeit intended in support, had disrupted that pleasant and positive train, throwing her back into the uncertainties of before, but then Eleanor’s behavior with Gerrard, and his reaction, had brought her obsession with him racing back.
As for Sir Vincent…
She sighed softly, then drew in a deep breath, enjoying the sweet, night-stock-scented air. Could Barnaby and Gerrard be right? Was Sir Vincent more sinister than he seemed?
She’d known him for most of her life. She honestly couldn’t see him as Thomas’s, let alone her mother’s, killer, yet she hadn’t thought of him as a would-be suitor, either. And there was no gainsaying that the killer was someone she knew.
She paused, feeling her thoughts settle like leaves stirred by a wind; despite the distractions, one subject remained uppermost, most compelling, continually capturing her.
Gerrard.
Only a few minutes had passed since she’d sat, yet all else had slid away, unimportant in a relative sense given he was standing beside her.
Given she’d yet to make her decision, and the declaration he’d demanded.
Facets of the evening resurfaced, flotsam thrown up by her questing mind. When Sir Vincent had hauled her into his arms, when he’d pressed passionate kisses to her fingers, she’d felt nothing beyond mild revulsion. All Gerrard had to do was look at her, meet her eyes and
think
—and she responded, ardently, instinctively.
The relief she’d felt when she’d heard his voice, and known he was there, glowed again. How was it that in a mere week he’d come to represent safety and, more, protection, to her?
Was that the sign she was looking for?
And what of his turning from Eleanor? Her friend was unquestionably more beautiful than she, and certainly more experienced in the ways of attracting men, yet he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in any of Eleanor’s offers, even when those offers had grown blatant.
Another sign? Perhaps.
Gerrard watched her thoughts flow over her face. Some he identified, others…
He wanted to know them all, wanted to understand, to know and so be certain of her, in every way. He was a long way from achieving that goal. Standing beside her in the night, he still had no idea if she would agree to be his—his as he wished, as he’d—increasingly he suspected unwisely—stipulated.
It was time, perhaps, to alter his stance.
Looking down, he shifted, drawing her attention. “When we were here this afternoon, you asked me why I wanted a clear decision from you.” He met her eyes, shadowed and unreadable, and selected his words with care. “In the sense of sweeping you off your feet, of sweeping you into bed on a tide of desire—primarily mine…I don’t want to seduce you.”
She blinked.
Ruthlessly, his voice hardening, he went on, “I know I could. That all I need do is push a little harder. But—” He broke off. Looking away, he drew in a breath. “I don’t want just that from you.” He looked back and caught her gaze. “I don’t want what’s between you and me to be like that.”
A seduction driven solely by me.
He didn’t say the words, but Jacqueline heard them. The light was sufficient to limn the planes of his face, to confirm that there was absolutely no lightness in his expression.
From the first, he’d made it clear he couldn’t promise anything, yet equally clearly, he viewed her as different. As something more than just another conquest, one, she knew, of many.