The inn door opened; a young gentleman stepped out. He stopped the instant he saw them. His gaze passed over the men, and locked on Jacqueline. “I saw you riding down earlier-I’ve booked the parlor.”

There was a fractional hesitation, then Jacqueline smiled and went forward. “Matthew, how lovely of you to see to it.”

Giving the young man her hand, she turned to introduce them. “Matthew Brisenden-Gerrard Debbington.” To Matthew, she said, “Papa has asked Gerrard to paint my portrait.” She looked at Gerrard. “Matthew is the son of Mr. Brisenden, the sexton.”

Gerrard shook hands; the intensely disapproving look in Brisenden’s face wasn’t hard to interpret. To some, painters ranked only a few rungs higher than opera dancers on the “persons whose existence should be deplored” scale. However, his elegance, and the fact he’d been commissioned by Lord Tregonning, was clearly causing young Brisenden some difficulty. He wasn’t sure how he should treat him.

Gerrard smiled charmingly, and left him to figure it out on his own.

At least, that was his intention, until Matthew reached for Jacqueline’s arm. Beside her, Gerrard sensed her recoil, but they were too tightly packed into the porch for her to avoid Brisenden’s grasping fingers; he locked them about her elbow.

Gerrard was aware of Barnaby’s surprise, then the swift, warning glance his friend sent him-he was more aware of a sudden surge of reaction that left him tensed, momentarily deaf, with his vision closed down, cloudy around the edges, crystal clear in the center, something that normally would have sent him into a panic, but just now seemed totally right…

What might have transpired he couldn’t have said, but he-they-were saved from it by two men trying to leave the inn. They couldn’t get through the door because Brisenden was blocking their way. He had to release Jacqueline and move on to allow the two past.

Gerrard reached for Jacqueline’s hand, wound her arm through his and laid her hand on his sleeve. Her fingers fluttered, but then settled and gripped lightly-a tentative touch he felt to his marrow. The departing customers clattered down the steps, and Brisenden reascended; Gerrard waved to the door. “Why don’t you lead us in, Brisenden?”

Brisenden noted Jacqueline’s hand lying on his sleeve. The young man’s expression turned to stone. He raised his eyes and met Gerrard’s levelly, but then he inclined his head and led the way in.

From that point on, ably assisted by Barnaby who alternated between acting the distracting fool and deftly engineering both seating and conversation, Gerrard took charge. Enough was enough; Brisenden was banished to the end of the table farthest from Jacqueline, who found herself sitting between Gerrard and Jordan Fritham.

Despite his painful superiority, Jordan had given not the slightest hint of any interest in Jacqueline. In return for Barnaby’s keeping Brisenden occupied, Gerrard felt saving his friend from Jordan was the least he could do.

The meal passed smoothly and pleasantly enough. The conversation flowed easily, ranging over the usual elements of country life, the upcoming church fair, the fishing, the expected balls and parties-who had been to London for the Season and would be there to report the latest news…Almost in unison, all eyes turned to Barnaby.

He smiled, and happily regaled them with a tale of two sisters intent on taking the ton and its peers by storm. Only Gerrard knew how severely censored Barnaby’s account was; he was amused and impressed by how agile his friend’s mind could be.

At the end of the meal, they all rose and left, settling with the innkeeper by placing the whole on their respective fathers’ slates.

Their horses were waiting. Matthew hovered, transparently expecting to help Jacqueline to mount; he didn’t get a chance.

Gerrard escorted her from the inn, down the steps, to her mare’s side. With a crisp command to the groom to hold the mare steady, he released Jacqueline, grasped her waist and lifted her to her saddle.

Easily. But then his eyes locked with hers, the feel of her body, lithe and elementally feminine between his hands, registered, the widening of her lovely eyes impinged…He realized he’d stopped breathing. He had to battle to force his hands from her, to let her go, and step back.

“Thank you.” She sounded even more winded than he felt.

Walking to where another groom held his mount, he flung himself into the saddle. By the time they’d all mounted and were ready to start the steep climb up the lane, he’d managed to unlock his jaw, and was breathing normally again.

He brought his chestnut alongside Jacqueline’s mare as they started up the incline. She noticed, but other than a fleeting look, did nothing, said nothing.

He wasn’t sure there was anything she could have said. Nothing that would have left either of them less on edge. Less aware.

Matthew Brisenden stood on the inn porch, his hand raised in farewell.

Regardless of his senses’ preoccupation with the woman riding by his side, Gerrard felt Brisenden’s dark and brooding gaze between his shoulder blades until they reached the upper slope and left the inn behind.

6

I hope you won’t read too much into Matthew’s behavior.”

“Brisenden?” Gerrard caught Jacqueline’s eye. It was late afternoon, and they were heading out to the gardens. He had a sketch pad under one arm, and three sharpened pencils in his pocket. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh…because he appears so intense, so focused on me, but he isn’t, or rather he means nothing by it, not really.”

“Not really?” He shot her a sharp glance. “He acted too familiarly, as you-and the others, too-recognized perfectly well.”

Her lips formed a small moue. “Perhaps, but he always behaves like that.”

“As if he owns you-has some claim on you?”

“He’s not usually that bad. He seems to have taken it into his head that it’s his personal duty to protect me and keep me from all harm.”

“Hmm.” Gerrard kept to himself the observation that to Brisenden, him painting her portrait might well constitute “harm.”

Reaching the steps leading to the Garden of Athena, Jacqueline led the way down. “His whole family’s quite…well, intense, if you take my meaning. About religion and God and all the rest. And he is their only son.”

Gerrard digested that as he followed. Reaching the gravel, he stepped out in her wake. “Be that as it may, Mr. Brisenden needs to keep his hands to himself, at least when their assistance isn’t required.”

They’d ridden back without further incident. Jordan and Eleanor had cantered with them all the way to the Hall; Tresdale Manor lay farther on-the way through the Hall lands was a shortcut. To Gerrard’s relief, the Frithams hadn’t lingered, but had left them at the stable arch and ridden on.

Barnaby had parted from them when they’d reached the terrace; by then Gerrard had confirmed that the light in the gardens was perfect, and had declared that Jacqueline had to sit for him, at least until the light died. She’d met his eyes, hesitated, then agreed, but she’d insisted on changing out of her habit. He’d permitted it only because he’d had to go and fetch his pads and pencils.

He glanced at her as she walked beside him. It hadn’t occurred to him to specify what she wore, yet the gown she’d chosen was perfect for the late afternoon light, a soft, very pale green that complemented her hair and eyes. He had an excellent memory for color; a few jotted notes in his margins would be enough to bring his sketches alive, vibrant in his mind.

The gardens spread out before them; he glanced around, pulse quickening with the familiar lift of energy, of eagerness, that came with the start of a new project. He pointed to the bench where they’d sat the previous night. “Let’s start there.”

She sat on the stone bench built out from the square fountain. “You’ll have to instruct me in how one sits for an artist.”

“At this stage, the requirements are not arduous.” He sat at the other end of the bench, swiveling to face her. “Turn to face me and get comfortable.” While she did, he placed his ankle on his knee, opened his sketch pad and balanced it on his thigh. Quickly, he laid down a few strokes, just enough to give him setting and perspective.

“Now.” Glancing up, he met her gaze, and smiled with his usual easy charm. “Talk to me.”

Her brows rose. “About what?”

“Anything-tell me about your childhood. Start as far back as you remember.”

Her brows remained high as she considered, then slowly lowered, her gaze growing distant. He waited, his eyes on her, his fingers smoothly moving lead across the paper. She wasn’t looking directly at him; he didn’t think she would. Like most people relating such things, she’d fasten her gaze to the side of his face, giving him precisely the not-quite-direct angle he wanted. His suggestion of topic hadn’t been as idle as he’d intimated; thinking of childhood elicited all sorts of memories, memories that showed in his subjects’ faces.

“I suppose,” she eventually said, “that the earliest moment I can remember clearly is being set atop my first pony.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh, yes! His name was Cobbler. He was a tan and black cob, and had the sweetest nature. He died years ago, but I can still remember how he loved apples. Cook always gave me one when I went out for my riding lesson.”

“Who taught you?”

“Richards, the head stableman. He’s still here.”

“Did you go walking through the gardens?”

“Of course-Mama and I used to walk every day, rain or shine.”

“When you were a child?”

“And later, too.”

For a moment, he let silence claim them. She didn’t move, either because she was held by her memories, or because she knew how fast his fingers were moving, how rapidly he was re-creating the expressions that had flowed across her face-the simple delight of childhood happiness shadowed by more mature sorrow.

Eventually, he flipped over the page; without looking up, he said, “It must have been quite lonely when you were young-the Frithams weren’t here then, were they?”

“No, they weren’t-and yes, I was lonely. There weren’t even children among the staff or the nearer workers, so I was entirely on my own except for my nanny and later my governess. It was wonderful, the start of a new and exciting life, really, when the Frithams came.”

Again, the happiness in her face shone clear; Gerrard worked to get some sense of it down. “How old were you then?”

“Seven. Eleanor was eight and Jordan ten. Their mama, Maria, and mine were childhood friends, which was why they came to live close. Overnight, I had an older brother and sister. Of course, I knew the area much better than they did, especially the gardens, so we were more equal, so to speak. Later…well, Eleanor is still my closest friend, while Jordan treats me much as he does Eleanor, as an older brother.”

He was tempted to ask how she viewed Jordan; instead, he asked about their youthful exploits. She described a number of incidents, the process occasionally bringing a smile to her lips, a laughing glint to her eyes.

After twenty minutes had passed, she glanced at him. “Is this working?”

He added a few more strokes, then lifted his gaze and met her eyes. “You’re doing wonderfully. That’s all there is to this stage of sitting. Just chatting and letting me get acquainted with your face, your expressions.”

Finishing his latest sketch, he flipped back the earlier sheets and critically reviewed them. “During the next days”-he scanned what he’d caught so far, various expressions all from the same angle-“I’ll do a lot of these, but as I become more certain what expressions I want to work more deeply with”-and what topics elicited the emotions in her that gave rise to those expressions-“I’ll do fewer sketches but they’ll be in greater detail, until I have enough practice in re-creating exactly the effect I want to show.”

Looking up, he met her gaze. “Until I can draw you as we need to portray you.”

Jacqueline held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “It seems far easier than I’d thought, at least for me.”

“This is the easy part-the further we go, the more time I spend on each sketch, the longer you’ll have to sit in one place, in one pose.” Shutting the pad, he smiled. “But not yet. By the time we get to the final sittings and you need to sit perfectly still for an hour, you’ll be trained to it.”

She laughed, conscious of a tightening in her chest, of a tension she was coming to recognize as more akin to excitement and anticipation than fear.

He rose; sketch pad in one hand, he held out the other.