“No.” Eyes locked with his, she thought back. “Not since before Thomas died.”
And even then, never with a partner so assured, so confident in his ability that she could without a qualm resign all control and simply enjoy the moment, the movement, the indefinable energy of the dance.
“I like to waltz.” The admission slipped past her lips without thought.
His eyes held hers. “So do I.”
They’d reached the other end of the ballroom, and an even tighter turn. While others paused and adjusted, he drew her closer still; she sensed his strength as he swept them through and past.
Exhilaration flared, and raced down her veins.
Desire followed, tempted forth by the look in his eyes, by the knowledge of what he was thinking, seeing in his painter’s mind. She studied his eyes, felt herself falling, drowning in the glowing brown-drawn into his vision, under his spell.
A sensual shiver slithered down her spine; her skin flushed, then prickled. Her nipples furled tight. Heat, not from without but within, burgeoned.
“If I dance much more with you, I’ll need to carry a fan.”
He laughed; his eyes glinted. Yet his gaze, to her unscreened, remained passionate and intense, not an invitation but a promise.
A clear statement that between them there would be much more.
She wondered why she wasn’t frightened, not even trepidatious. With him, such emotions had never surfaced, never colored her view of him, or, more particularly, of them. Of what might be…would be, once she agreed.
The music was building to its culmination; his expression grew more serious, his gaze more intense. “Have you decided yet?”
The words were deep, even, but not demanding. More enticing.
“No.” She held his gaze as they swirled to a halt. “But I will. Soon.”
He studied her eyes for an instant longer, then nodded.
Gerrard forced himself to release her. He led her to the side of the dance floor. Her next partner promptly appeared to claim her hand.
He relinquished it with growing reluctance; he would much rather have led her to some private place where he could spend the next hours convincing her to be his. Instead, mindful of his other goal, he danced with other young ladies, and made sure they had as many of the facts regarding Thomas’s death as he felt they could keep straight.
Then Eleanor came up and made it clear she’d saved a dance for him. Ordinarily, he’d have ruthlessly quashed such presumption, but against the risk of giving her even such minor encouragement, he decided to accept, to see, in light of Jacqueline’s appearance tonight, what Eleanor now thought of the circumstances of Thomas’s death.
But Eleanor wasn’t interested in dead bodies. “It’s all so long ago. I’m sure Jacqueline, poor dear, wouldn’t have had anything to do with it, so there’s really nothing more to be said, is there?” Eyes bright, fixed on his face, she tried to press closer, but he prevented it. Lowering her lids, she favored him with a sultry glance. “I’d much rather talk of more exciting things.”
He managed to steer her through the rest of the dance without uttering a blistering setdown; releasing her with relief, he wondered that Lady Fritham-who seemed the usual sort of matron-wasn’t aware of Eleanor’s startlingly improper propensities. He might be doing his best to seduce Jacqueline, yet he was quite certain she was a virgin. Eleanor…there was something in her eyes, a blatantness in her behavior, that left him perfectly certain she’d already dipped her toes in Eros’s fountain.
Normally, he wouldn’t hold that against any lady-he wasn’t such a hypocrite-yet in Eleanor’s salacity there was something that repulsed him, and not just him but Barnaby, too. They hadn’t discussed it; they didn’t need to-one shared glance was enough. Neither felt at all attracted to Eleanor, which was mildly strange as she was physically very beautiful.
The thought had him searching the throng for Jacqueline; the sight of her heading his way lightened his mood, even if she was on Matthew Brisenden’s arm. But Matthew was another who failed to see any attraction in Eleanor; unlike Gerrard, he was open in his disapproval, and Eleanor took herself off.
Gerrard swallowed an impulse to thank Matthew, but did catch his eye and incline his head in approval. The evening continued; increasingly guests moved back and forth between the terrace and the gardens, and the ballroom and reception rooms beyond.
At last, the opening bars of the supper waltz sounded; with real relief-real if hopeful anticipation-Gerrard drew Jacqueline into his arms and started them revolving down the floor.
But she smiled, sighed softly and relaxed in his hold, and he didn’t have the heart to press her. Instead, he held her close, but gently, and let his eyes, and their silence, speak.
Between them, that level of communication was growing, deepening, becoming more acute. By the end of the dance, although they’d uttered not a word, Jacqueline’s mind was filled once more with thoughts of him, of them, and the decision she’d yet to make.
Of the sign she’d yet to see, the answer she’d yet to receive.
Gerrard led her into the supper room. Once they’d filled their plates, they were joined at a table by Giles, Cedric, Clara and Mary, and later Barnaby. The conversation was light and breezy; acutely aware of Gerrard beside her, her mind drifted to more private concerns.
They were talking of returning to the ballroom when Eleanor and Jordan came up. Jacqueline smiled at them as they stopped beside the table; it occurred to her that in the past, at any ball, they would have been together. Not tonight; indeed, no longer. Her absence from ballrooms and parties in recent years had meant she and her childhood friends had grown apart. While not so evident when they visited at the Hall, in situations such as this, their divergence was clear.
Jordan and Eleanor joined in the chatter. Then Jordan caught her eye; moving around the table, he came to stand beside her.
Leaning down, he spoke confidentially. “I say, there’s a host of whispers doing the rounds over who killed Thomas-it seems at long last they’ve realized it wasn’t you. Of course, there’s still a lot of ill-informed nonsense about over your mother’s death, but you may be sure I set all those I heard speculating straight.”
Looking down his nose, he straightened. “Nothing more than gossipmongering, of course-we all know there’s nothing to it.”
Her gaze on his face, Jacqueline was excruciatingly aware of the sudden silence about her. Although Jordan had lowered his voice, he’d still been heard.
She didn’t know how to respond.
Her heart grew colder, and sank. A familiar vise tightened about her chest. Briefly she inclined her head. “Thank you.”
Turning back, she forced herself to glance at the others’ faces. And saw uncertainty, puzzlement, frowns that could have denoted any number of reactions.
The lighthearted atmosphere was gone.
Smiling easily, Gerrard pushed back his chair and stood; Barnaby did the same.
“It’s time to get back to the dancing.” Gerrard closed his hand over hers, gently squeezed. “The musicians are tuning their instruments.”
The others followed his lead with alacrity. Talk erupted on all sides. It sounded false to Jacqueline’s ears, but at least it dispersed the awful silence.
On Gerrard’s arm she walked back into the ballroom. Sir Vincent appeared through the regathering crowd. He smiled delightedly, and swept her a bow in his usual florid fashion. “My dance, I believe, my dear.”
She conjured a smile and gave him her hand, noting that he hadn’t acknowledged Gerrard, as if he wasn’t there. She glanced back as Sir Vincent led her to the floor. Gerrard stood where she’d left him, his gaze locked on her.
Then Eleanor appeared by his side, and slid her hand onto his arm. Gerrard turned to her.
Jacqueline looked ahead, amazed at the sharp feeling that lanced through her, at the sudden tensing of her muscles, and the way her mind reacted. She’d expected Jordan’s words and their effect to claim her, to drag her thoughts back into the uncertain vortex of how people saw her. Instead, while her dance with Sir Vincent did indeed pass in a blur, her mind was wholly occupied with Gerrard.