Many had witnessed the scene earlier, and had understood the implications; they were now busily explaining to those who hadn’t seen.
Lady Tannahay directed them onto the terrace; they admired the lights strung through the trees. On hearing it was in part Gerrard’s work, Lady Tannahay complimented him on the effect. “Quite a magical creation.”
Music drifted out from the ballroom, summoning the dancers. Accompanying them back inside, Lady Tannahay halted and smiled. “Well, we’ve done our part for the evening’s entertainment—Gertie Trewarren should be thoroughly grateful. Now we can give ourselves over to amusement—enjoy the rest of your evening, my dears.”
With a gracious nod, she moved away.
Roger Myles pushed through the crowd; grinning, he bowed before Jacqueline. “My dance, fairest one.”
Jacqueline laughed, and gave him her hand.
Gerrard squeezed the hand that lay on his sleeve and leaned closer to whisper, “Come back to me here at the end of the dance.”
She cast him a glance, but nodded. He let her go, and watched Roger gaily claim her attention.
Deciding such light relief was precisely what she needed—what would most effectively lighten her mood—he retreated to the side of the room. All was going as planned, and Lady Tannahay had turned up trumps for them. Noting the many ladies and gentlemen who glanced appraisingly at Jacqueline, he felt confident their strategy was working; after tonight, no one would credit any tale of Jacqueline being involved in Thomas’s death.
Barnaby rolled up while the dancers were still whirling. “Sir Harvey’s a shrewd one—he grasped all I had to say immediately. Like Jacqueline, they’ve already mourned Thomas. They have other children, and want to see this put to rest for everybody’s sake. In terms of Jacqueline, they’re definitely in our camp. They’ll help in any way they can in learning who’s behind all this.”
Gerrard nodded, his gaze on Jacqueline twirling down the line of dancers.
Beside him, Barnaby surveyed the nondancers, most of whom were of the older generation. “I’d forgotten what it’s like in the country—the discovery of Thomas’s body is the main topic of conversation.” He caught Gerrard’s eye. “I’m going to circulate and see if, using my status as ignorant outsider, I can draw a bead on who’s behind the whispers.”
Gerrard looked back at the dancers. “Do you think there’s any chance that way?”
“I don’t know, but the more I run up against the effects, the more I realize the whispers have been both subtle and very pervasive. Whoever’s behind it, they have access to a large number of ears.”
With that, Barnaby drifted away. The music came to a triumphant end. Laughing, the dancers halted; the lines wavered, then broke up.
Gerrard saw Jacqueline turn and look for him. Roger Myles went up in his estimation by taking her hand and leading her back. Yet she’d barely regained his side before the musicians struck up again, and Giles Trewarren appeared to claim her hand.
He suffered through that dance, but the next was the first waltz. Meeting Jacqueline and Giles at the edge of the dance floor, he claimed Jacqueline’s hand, chatted with Giles until the first squeak of the violins, then swept Jacqueline into his arms and onto the floor the instant the first familiar strains floated out.
And felt something within him ease as the sensation of having her in his arms once more permeated his brain.
They’d revolved four times before Jacqueline caught her breath. Aware of the subtle shushing of the heavy silk of her gown against his coat, the brush of his long legs against her skirts, the intensity of his gaze as he looked down at her, his attention so focused…she dragged in a huge breath, and gave thanks when his eyes remained locked on her face. “You’re very good at this.”
She didn’t just mean waltzing.
The faint curve of his long lips suggested he understood, but all he said in reply was, “So are you.”
Looking up, he whirled them through the turn at the end of the long ballroom, his hand at her back, heated and heavy, drawing her fractionally closer; when they were precessing once more up the room, he looked down at her once more. “You can’t have been dancing all that much in recent times.”
“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 attr
acted 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.
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, sh
e 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!”