Someone had, with malice aforethought, cast Jacqueline as a scapegoat.
Something dark within him leapt, all gnashing teeth and sharp claws. Muttering a savage curse, he suppressed it; now was not the time for that sort of action-he couldn’t see the enemy yet.
He looked out at the dark gardens, at the black and purple sky, at the roiling clouds forming fantastical shapes as they blew in from the west; a landscape artist’s dream, he barely saw them.
Rescuing Jacqueline was now critical to him. Not just for her sake, but for his, too.
How she felt, how she was. That was his immediate and all-consuming focus; since Barnaby had told them of the body, the question hadn’t left the forefront of his brain. He was worried, concerned, about her-anxious, with his heart uncertain and his gut tight.
Part of him wanted to pretend it was just his painterly instincts wanting to observe her in an emotional state, but that was balderdash. He cared for her in the same vein he cared for Patience, and other females like Amanda and Amelia…that was closer to the truth, yet still not all of it.
His imagination was too active not to create visions of her alone in her room, grieving, yes, but more-feeling her aloneness, feeling helpless. Thomas would have been her champion once, but he’d disappeared, left her alone-at least now she knew it hadn’t been deliberately.
But he was her champion now.
He swung from the windows and paced, frustration growing. The clock struck eleven; he glowered at it, at the reminder of how many more hours he would have to endure before he saw her again, before he could reassure this insistent and strangely vulnerable part of him that she was whole, still well…still willing to explore what lay between them with him.
That last part of his motive was there, to be sure, but somewhat to his surprise it wasn’t the predominant element; knowing she wasn’t weighed down with grief, worry, and especially fear, was.
He wasn’t going to get much sleep, not until he knew she was all right. Could he find out now, tonight?
He’d feel ridiculous knocking on her door and asking her outright, not at this hour…
Creative imagination was a wonderful thing. Inspiration gleamed; within seconds, his mind had filled in the details.
He didn’t stop to think. Turning, he strode to the door, opened it, and closed it quietly behind him.
9
He only needed to see her, to speak with her. To reassure himself that she was all right.
He didn’t meet anyone on his way to her room, hardly surprising given the hour. Stalking to her door, he glanced down. Strong light showed beneath it. Grimly encouraged, he rapped on the door. Half a minute passed, then Jacqueline opened it.
Her eyes widened; she stared at him.
He tried not to stare back. She was wearing a fine lawn nightgown with a gauzy robe thrown over it. Her hair was down, a rich brown veil rippling over her shoulders-it was transparently clear she hadn’t been abed.
With the lamps blazing behind her, that wasn’t the only thing transparently evident.
Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
Jaw clenching, he reached for her arm and moved her back. Stepping into the room, he shut the door.
“What…?” She was still staring at him.
The light now reached her face. He noted her pallor; her stunned, lost and off-balance expression wasn’t solely due to his arrival. “I want to look through your wardrobe.”
Scanning the room, he saw a large armoire positioned along the side wall. He headed for it.
“My wardrobe?” Her tone incredulous but growing stronger, she flitted in a flutter of fine fabrics after him.
“I need to look over your gowns.”
“My gowns.” Not a question; her tone suggested he’d taken leave of his senses. “You need to see my gowns now.”
“Yes.” He pulled open the wardrobe doors, revealing a full length of hanging space filled with gowns. “You weren’t asleep.” He reached for a creation in amber silk.
She tried to peer into his face. “What are you about? Why this burning need to look at my gowns?” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s after eleven!”
He didn’t look at her. “I need to gauge what will look best on you.”
“At night?”
Holding the amber gown before him, he shot her a sidelong glance; arrested, his gaze lingered. “Indeed.” He drank in the way the lamplight flowed over her skin, gilding it with the softest of gold washes. He drew in a shallow breath. “I might very well paint you in candlelight. Here-hold this.” Thrusting the amber gown into her hands, he dived back amid the rest.
“This”-he pulled out a bronze silk sheath and tossed it at her-“and this.” He added a gown in figured green satin to the pile growing in her arms. “Although”-he glanced back at the last gown-“that might be too dark. We’ll see.”
Returning to the wardrobe, he flipped through the contents, making more selections. “I have a certain look in mind-the color and style of your gown will be critical.”
Jacqueline watched him, bemused and suspicious. She accepted the dresses he piled in her arms, and wondered. At last, he stepped back, reached for the wardrobe doors-and shot her a swift glance that was too saber-sharp, too assessing, to be casual.
He met her gaze; she raised a brow.
His lips twisted, rather grimly. He closed the wardrobe doors and reached for her hand. “Come here.”
He towed her, her arms full with seven gowns, over to the hearth. Two lamps stood on either end of the mantelpiece, spilling strong, steady light out over the room.
“Here.” Drawing her about, he positioned her before the mantel, a foot or so from the lamp on one end. He stood back, looked, then shifted her a fraction closer to the lamp. He seemed to be judging the play of light on her hair.
“That’s it. Now turn your face up a little, toward the lamp.” His fingers touched, lingered beneath her chin. “Just so.” He cleared his throat. “Now.” Scooping the gowns out of her arms, he selected one in spring green, and flung the rest over her armchair.
Ignoring the thought of her maid’s protests, Jacqueline watched as he shook the spring-green gown out, looking at it, then at her; his gaze drifted down her body…she recalled how fine her nightgown and robe were, recalled she was standing before the fire.
Abruptly, he held up the gown, as if to preserve her modesty-although he’d already looked and, she would wager, his keen artist’s eyes had seen all there was to see. He handed her the gown. “Hold this against you and let me see.”
She did as he asked, mystified, wondering why she was humoring him, yet she stood before the fire, bathed in light, and allowed him to hand her gown after gown. Some he dismissed, others he returned to; the selection he’d chosen covered a range of colors from deepest forest green-a color, once she’d held it up, he rejected out of hand-to old gold, another shade that on examination didn’t meet with his approval.
“Somewhere in between,” he muttered, returning to a gown of eau de nil silk.
That he was in truth evaluating her gowns was plain enough, but the swift searching glances he every now and then directed her way assured her that wasn’t his sole aim. Indeed, as he returned to assessing gowns in various shades of bronze, she was increasingly sure his interest in her gowns and on the play of candlelight on her hair was not so much an aim as his excuse.
Finally, he stood back. Hands on hips, he studied her, head tilted, a critical expression in his eyes, a slight frown on his face. “That’s the closest you have to the right color-an intense bronze but with more gold than that is what we need. And, of course, the drape is all wrong, but at least now I know what’s necessary.”
“Indeed.” She waited until his gaze rose to her eyes, then asked, “So why are you really here?”