With what Eleanor was almost certainly doing, and how Gerrard might respond.
With the possibilities, with her decision. With how much of a sign she was waiting for…and why.
The music finally ceased, and she blinked back to her surroundings. They were close by the terrace doors at the other end of the ballroom from where she’d left Gerrard.
“My dear, I wonder if I can claim a few minutes of your time? The next dance won’t start immediately.” Sir Vincent gestured to the doors to the terrace. “Perhaps we could stroll in the quiet-others are out there, too. Quite proper, I assure you.”
The ballroom was stuffy; a few minutes of cooler, fresher air sounded like an excellent idea. She needed to clear her head so she could think. “That would be pleasant.”
On Sir Vincent’s arm, she walked onto the terrace. They paused to look around. Lantern-lit paths led away, crossing the lawn to meander between the shrubs and trees. A light breeze blew, shifting leaves; the lanterns winked and blinked, myriad tiny stars.
Numerous other couples were strolling the terrace and lawns. Glancing along the terrace, Jacqueline felt her heart stop. Gerrard stood at the other end with Eleanor on his arm; from her gestures, she was attempting to entice him down the steps and into the gardens.
She and Sir Vincent stood in relative shadow, but Gerrard and Eleanor were lit by light pouring from the ballroom. Eleanor was facing their way, but hadn’t seen them. Her attention was focused on Gerrard, on…seducing him. Apparently he didn’t wish to be seduced; curtly he shook his head and shifted back, attempting to disengage, but Eleanor brazenly clung to his arm-even more brazenly raised her face to his and tried to step closer still.
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.”