The Truth About Love Read Online Free PDF

unperturbed and unthreatened. Despite his presence, and Barnaby’s for that matter, he could detect not the slightest hint of feminine fluster.
    She wasn’t seeing them as gentlemen—as men—but as something else.
    The truth came to him as her gaze deflected to her aunt. She was viewing him solely as a painter.
    “And this is my niece, my brother’s daughter, Miss Jacqueline Tregonning.”
    Jacqueline turned to Gerrard Debbington. Smiling, she held out her hand. “Mr. Debbington. I hope your journey down was pleasant—it’s such a long way.”
    He again met her gaze, then took her hand, the long fingers she’d remarked earlier closing, not too tightly yet firm and sure, about her slender bones. He bowed gracefully, his eyes never leaving hers. “Miss Tregonning. I’m grateful your father sought me out. The journey was indeed long, yet, had I not made it, I would certainly have lived to regret it.”
    She barely registered his words. The tone of his voice, low, masculine, slid over her like a caress; the strength in his fingers, a sense of male power, spread over her skin and set her nerves flickering. His gaze held hers, intent with an interest she couldn’t name. Her fingers quivered in his—shocked, she stilled them.
    His face, lightly tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones, the angular planes aristocratically austere, remained impassive, his expression politely detached—it was that intentness in his eyes, glowing brown, rich and alive as they held hers, that shook her.
    That forced her to look again, and truly see.
    She’d dubbed him society’s lion and he was unquestionably that, yet his polished elegance wasn’t a guise adopted for the world but a reflection of himself; it exuded from him, a tangible shield. His lightly waving hair, a darker brown than her own, was fashionably cut, framing his wide forehead and deep-set eyes; his brows were dark, well arched, his lashes long and thick.
    He was tall, almost a head taller than she, broad of shoulder and long of limb; although he was lean rather than heavy, his graceful movements screamed of muscled strength camouflaged by stylish manners. That sense of innate strength was echoed in his face, in the hard lines of brow, nose and chin.
    No fop, no self-absorbed popinjay. A lion, albeit a subtle one—in thinking him that she’d been right. He was dangerous, more dangerous than she’d imagined any man might be. Just by holding her hand, meeting her eyes and uttering a few words—what the devil had he said?—he’d made her lungs seize.
    The realization rattled her; determinedly, she drew breath and politely inclined her head. “Indeed.” She hoped the old standby fitted; it usually did, regardless of what the preceding comment had been.
    He smiled—briefly, tantalizingly—a genuine smile of such rampant charm she was distracted all over again. With an effort, she turned to his friend; Gerrard Debbington relinquished her hand, which aided considerably in her battle to focus her wits.
    The tawny-haired god smiled at her. “Barnaby Adair, Miss Tregonning. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
    She managed a smile and gave him her hand—and waited. Yet while Adair appeared cut from the same cloth as Gerrard Debbington, the clasp of his fingers had no discernible secondary effects; his eyes—a merry blue—were simply a pair of laughing eyes, and his voice held no power to make her forget his very words.
    Relieved, she welcomed him, then stood back as Mitchel and Millicent made to usher the two gentlemen to the chaise, there to continue the introductions.
    Mitchel, Millicent and Adair started off. Gerrard Debbington hesitated; she sensed him looking down at her. She looked up and met his eyes. With the lightest of gestures, the faintest lift of his brows, he indicated he expected her to accompany them. Acquiescing—she wasn’t entirely sure why, but quibbling was clearly ineligible—she stepped out in her aunt’s wake.
    He prowled by her