Gerrard saw that realization grow, read it in her more sober demeanor when the others moved on. When the last lantern was up and the gardeners left them, he pulled out his watch. “There’s half an hour left before luncheon.”
All those who’d passed had gone to the lake; they could glimpse it glinting through the trees.
“I could use a moment away from the throng.” Pocketing his watch, he glanced around. “In all these acres, there must be somewhere else we can go for a moment of rustic peace?”
She smiled. “There’s a pond upstream. None of the others will have gone there-they always head for the summerhouse.”
“I’ve a fondness for ponds.” He waved her on.
She led him down a path lined with tall trees; within minutes they were out of sight and sound of the lake.
“You’re doing very well.”
She glanced at him, but said nothing. She was growing more comfortable, more consistently leaving her inner barriers down. More consistently and confidently being herself.
That was part of the reason he’d come, to simply be here if she’d needed help. But she’d weathered Cecily Hancock’s malicious spite well; she hadn’t needed him to intervene, yet he’d had to be there.
He glanced at her, very conscious of the other, more major part of his reason for remaining by her side.
She hadn’t yet agreed to be his.
He’d thought that by now she would have, or at least would have given him some sign of acceptance, of intent. His strategy dictated he shouldn’t pressure her. He’d weakened once; he remained determined not to do so again.
But…
He glanced briefly at her profile as she walked beside him. That night in the nursery…had he, perhaps, overplayed his hand? He looked ahead, matching his strides to her shorter ones. He’d been so utterly confident she would come to him; last night, even while he was painting, he’d broken off, again and again, to glance past the canvas at the door, and its knob.
Every little sound had had him focusing on that knob, waiting for it to turn. But it hadn’t.
Had he read her wrongly?
Two seconds of remembering how she’d writhed under his hands, under his mouth, eliminated that as a possibility. Which meant that something-some thought, some consideration-was holding her back.
Causing her to hesitate, to rethink and assess.
He drew in a breath, felt a tightness reminiscent of desperation close about his chest. Nonsense-it could only be a temporary hesitation. If she needed reassurance, he was willing and able to give it; if it transpired he needed to adjust his approach, to modify his stance, his declared position, he was willing to do that, too.
Perhaps she simply needed a little encouragement?
Jacqueline kept her gaze on the trees ahead, on the path as she led him on, yet she was acutely aware of the glances he threw her, of the way his gaze lingered on her face.
As if he found her as puzzling as she found him. Just as she was so constantly aware of him, he, too, was absorbed with her; his attention, his focus on her, never really wavered.
The trees thinned; the path opened out into a clearing, dividing to encircle a deep pond fed by the stream that ultimately flowed on to fill the lake. The surface of the pond was still, reflecting the surrounding canopies and the sky. Rushes fringed the edge; waterlilies spread in patches, white and pink splotches floating on dark green leaves.
“We’ve circled around-the house isn’t far.” She indicated another path on the far side of the pond, then led the way to a large flat rock on which a stone bench sat, the perfect place to sit and look out over the pool, and reflect.
He paused beside the rock, looking at the other path, then back at the path they’d come down. “I see.” Stepping onto the rock, he waited for her to sit and draw in her skirts, then sat beside her. He pointed across the pond to where in the middle distance water shimmered silver through the trees. “The lake, I take it?”
“Yes.” She managed not to jump when he took her hand. Her nerves flickered, then pulled tight. She shifted to face him as he raised her hand to his lips, turned it and, catching her eye, holding her gaze, pressed an ardent kiss to her palm.
She felt the lingering caress to her toes, had to fight to quell a reactive shiver.
Before she was free of the effect, he shifted and reached for her face. His long fingers curled about her nape, his thumb cradling her jaw as he drew her to him.
Drew her lips to his, and kissed her.
Ardently.
Making no secret of his desire for her, or of what he wanted.
Richly textured, his tongue found hers and stroked, caressed, then commanded her response. Demanded it, drew her to him and into their play. Into a passionate exchange, an exploration of another degree, on yet another level of their evolving interaction, of their mutual desire.
Hot, increasingly urgent, hungry, yet contained.
Not restrained yet limited, delimited; there was no sense of being swept away, but of meeting him, matching him, of sharing control.
The kiss drew her in, lured her deeper. Quite how it happened she didn’t know, yet when she managed to lift her head enough to draw in a shallow breath, she discovered he’d leaned back against the stone bench and she was leaning over him, his face clasped between her hands, her lips parted as she looked down into his eyes.
“Why?” She searched his eyes, glowing richly brown beneath the distracting fringe of his lashes. “You want so much from me, but why do you want me to decide?”
Beneath her, he stilled-a stillness that communicated the intent focus of his thoughts. Her question had caught him off balance; he was rapidly searching for an answer.
She resisted the urge to press, to reframe the question; it was clear enough and she knew he understood.
He moistened his lips. His gaze lowered to hers, then his hands firmed about her waist. He didn’t lift her from him, but simply held her, then he raised his gaze to her eyes. “I told you-I want all, everything that’s in you to give.”
“What do you mean by that, and why do you want it?”
“Because…that’s what desire is, between a man and a woman. A wanting.”
“You told me yourself, intimated at least, that what you wanted from me was more. More than the usual, the norm.” Whatever that might be. She waited. And sensed for the first time a degree of uncertainty, of, not confusion but wariness in him.
Why would he be wary of her?
When he said nothing, just ran his large, warm palms up and down her back, she arched her brows. “You’re being very mysterious.”
Something flared in his eyes. “There’s nothing mysterious about this.”
He must at some point have lifted her; she was half sitting on his lap. She could feel his erection riding against her hip. The growl that had edged his voice, the strength in his hands, only emphasized the aura of danger, of being in the arms of a sexual predator.
Yet she felt no fear, not the slightest lick of trepidation. She looked down into his darkening eyes, and knew that no matter how blatantly he hungered for her, no matter how frankly he displayed his ardor, harming her, hurting her, either physically or emotionally, wasn’t any part of his game.
Why she felt so safe, so secure, so sure when in his arms, she didn’t know, couldn’t explain.
She kept her eyes locked on his. “You haven’t answered my question.”
When his lips remained sealed, she reiterated, “Why do you want more from me? Why is it important I agree to that?”
He exhaled. His gaze dropped to her lips; his own remained set in a stubborn line.
She leaned closer, boldly skated her parted lips over his. “I’m seriously considering not making my decision until you answer my question.”
She’d breathed the words over his lips; she felt his chest swell, knew she’d succeeded in twisting the rack. Two could play at ultimatums. Pressing closer, she kissed him, held his face between her hands, covered his lips with hers and challenged him to take…