Why was he, as he demonstrably was, so deeply interested in her?
The obvious, transparently real answer was that he was fascinated with her as a subject, yet was that the whole answer? Reviewing his absorption with painting her, contrasting that with the intensity he focused on her when he held her in his arms, whether the force that drove him was one and the same she couldn’t tell, and could see no ready way of discerning.
Did she truly care whether his interest in her was driven solely by an artist’s fascination?
The question slid into her mind, and revolved there-yet another question with no easy answer.
Minutes ticked by as she mentally circled. What did she want of this, of him, of what had flared between them?
That she knew-she wanted experience. Of the physical, the sensual, all the aspects of a woman’s life of which, due to the events of recent years, she remained ignorant. At its simplest, she wanted to know. Now he’d arrived and unexpectedly offered her the chance to learn, was she going to take it?
All her instincts sang “yes!” yet she clung to caution and the sensible approach. Was there any reason she shouldn’t accept his terms?
Mentally, she looked ahead, thinking of how a liaison with him as he’d described it would affect her life…and discovered a void.
Her future.
Frowning, she tried to bring her expectations into focus, but the emptiness in her mind remained; she had no vision of her future at all.
Staring unseeing at the night, she felt oddly hollow as realization solidified. The killer had stolen her expectations; her future was a blank canvas, and she had no idea of the picture she wished to see upon it.
It was a shock to discover such complete and utter nothingness where surely something should have been.
She was twenty-three, well dowered and attractive enough, yet she’d been frozen-was still frozen-on the threshold of her life. What dreams she’d nurtured when Thomas had lived had vanished with him; not even a ghostly vestige remained. Presumably once she was free of the nightmare of her mother’s and Thomas’s deaths, her mind would turn from its fixation on the past and present and attend to the future, and sketch in some details. Until then…she had no expectations of her future to guide her.
But Gerrard and his offer were there, before her now; how should she respond?
By agreeing. He’d made it plain he wasn’t asking for her future, but her present; he’d talked in terms of a physical liaison, with no defined strings attached.
If she’d been younger, or felt more a part of the usual round of social life, she might have felt shocked, might have felt she was risking something, might have hesitated. But now?
Given all fate had denied her, given what might yet be denied her forever more, the compulsion to accept his terms burgeoned and grew.
“I want to live.” The whisper fell from her lips, a potent exhortation. A direction. If she waited…until when? Once she was an old maid, would such a chance come again?
Conviction welled. Instinct, yes, but that was all she had to guide her. Yet in this arena, she had so little previous knowledge, so little practice in listening to her heart…
Arms folded, lips set, she tapped one slippered toe. She felt a strong urge to have done with thinking, to open her door, slip through the quiet corridors and return to his lair and his arms. She’d never been an impulsive person, yet in this, with him, instinct was urging her on.
Innate caution held her back.
Turning from the window, she paced into the room and stopped, her gaze fixed on the corridor door. For long minutes, she debated: to yield and accept now, or wait for some further sign?
Or, perhaps, ask more questions?
It took effort to turn aside, but she did. Shedding her robe, she climbed into bed, slid under the covers, tugged them up, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.
Not terribly successfully, but she felt rested enough when she joined the others in the breakfast parlor the next morning. She was conscious of the intentness of Gerrard’s gaze on her face, but merely bade him a good morning, and applied herself to tea and toast.
Intentness of gaze didn’t qualify as a sign.
The day was fine. She, Gerrard and Barnaby decided to drive Gerrard’s curricle to Trewarren Hall; his pair needed exercising. They bowled down the lanes toward Portscatho and the cliffs along the Channel. Trewarren Hall lay a few miles back from the cliffs-far enough so the trees in the park grew tall and straight, not bent and twisted by the Channel winds.
Lady Trewarren was briefly taken aback when she realized Gerrard and Barnaby intended joining the group, but she rallied, setting Barnaby to assist with garlanding the ballroom while Gerrard was dispatched with Jacqueline to oversee the stringing of lanterns through the trees.
Two gardeners were waiting with the crate of lanterns; all she and Gerrard had to do was point out the most suitable positions, something Gerrard with his landscape artist’s eye accomplished with barely a thought.
The first half of the morning passed in pleasant endeavor, then other members of the decorating party, having completed their chores indoors and elsewhere, found them. A laughing group comprising Roger, Mary, Clara and Rosa were the first; they paused to comment excitedly, looking forward to the night, before waving and heading off along the path to the lake.
Gerrard watched them go, then arched a brow at her. “I take it the tradition ends with a party by the lake?”
She smiled. “We gather there, in and around the summerhouse, until the gong sounds for luncheon on the terrace.”
The next group of decorators to come down from the house included Cecily Hancock. Pausing beside Jacqueline, she asked Giles Trewarren, also in the group, if the Entwhistles were expected that evening; she ingenuously pointed out that Sir Harvey was Master of the Hunt.
Glancing apologetically at Jacqueline, Giles admitted Thomas’s parents had sent word they would attend, although they’d leave before the dancing.
Everyone looked to see how she’d react. Jacqueline fought not to retreat behind her usual poker face. Sensing Gerrard beside her helped. She met Cecily’s eyes and kept her expression open, allowing her sympathy for the Entwhistles to show. “I’m looking forward to speaking with them. They’ve had so much to bear. What with being in mourning, I haven’t had a chance to talk with them recently, and now with Thomas’s body being found, I do feel for them.”
Glancing at Gerrard, she found encouragement in his gaze. She looked at Cecily. “And, of course, I must introduce Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair, who found the body and discovered so much about how Thomas died.”
Cecily searched her face. A spark of surprise showed in her eyes.
The others, too, were watching her, yet they clearly accepted her words as fact. Giles assured Gerrard he’d make sure his father introduced them to Sir Harvey, then the group made their farewells and headed on to the lake, Cecily subdued, apparently thinking.
Jacqueline felt a surge of satisfaction over that.
Turning back to Gerrard, she found him waiting to catch her eye, approval in his. “You handled that well. Every person who shifts their view is one more the killer has lost his hold over. After tonight, I predict he’ll be cursing and gnashing his teeth.”
She smiled, but sobered quickly. “We can but hope.”
Three more groups trailing down from the house found them. After successfully dealing with Cecily, Jacqueline handled the careful comments-about her joining in the decorating again, about her dancing again after her mother’s death, of the dreadful finding of Thomas’s body and speculation over his death, and his parents’ likely feelings-with aplomb.
Yet every mention of Thomas, of the suspicions that lingered in people’s minds, was a reminder of how widely the poison had spread.