The Truth About Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

side.
    By the simple expedient of not moving until she did, Gerrard kept Jacqueline Tregonning beside him throughout the introductions. He had no interest whatever in those he met, yet he was adept at the social niceties; part of his mind dealt with them, responding appropriately, placing names with faces, noting the connections. None of those with whom he spoke would have guessed his entire attention was riveted on the woman by his side.
    He could barely believe his luck. Far from being a hated and deeply detested chore, painting Lord Tregonning’s daughter was going to be…precisely the sort of challenge he relished.
    She’d captured every last shred of his awareness; there was so much about her to learn. Put simply, she fascinated him.
    He was distantly conscious that elements of that fascination were similar to those elicited by ladies who sexually rather than artistically caught his eye, yet given Jacqueline Tregonning was the first lady he’d decided to paint to whom he was not in some way related, he wasn’t sure that wasn’t to be expected. He saw women as they were, as whole, complete, sexual beings; that was one of the reasons behind his portraits’ success.
    With Jacqueline Tregonning, he’d struck painter’s gold—a subject who had depth, who had layers of emotions and feelings, cares and concerns, all residing behind a face that in itself was intriguing. Just one glance into her beautiful eyes and he’d known what he was looking at—a subject who embodied the vital thing he needed to create a true work of art. She was an enigma.
    She was too young to be as she was. Ladies of her years did not normally possess depths, let alone hidden depths; they hadn’t lived long enough, hadn’t experienced enough of life’s tragedies to have acquired them. Yet Jacqueline Tregonning was the epitome of a person of whom it was said: still waters run deep. She was a still, deep pool, calm and glossy smooth on the surface, but with strong currents, strong emotions, running beneath.
    Of what those emotions were, of what had caused not just them but her to be as she was, he had as yet no clue, yet he would need to learn the answer to that and all else about her in order to capture all he could see in her eyes, all he could sense behind her controlled expression.
    He remained attuned to her as they spoke with those present; with each one, he instinctively catalogued not so much her outward reactions as what he sensed of her true feelings. Reserve, distance, a keeping apart. Her attitude was so consistent, so striking, the words resonated in his head. It wasn’t shyness; she didn’t seem at all shy. She was comfortable and assured, at ease in her own home with people he gathered she’d known most of her life. But she didn’t trust them.
    Not a single one, with the sole exception of her aunt Millicent.
    He was assimilating that when he heard a slow step and the soft thump of a cane. He turned, as did the others, as an older gentleman appeared in the doorway. The man located him, studied him, then came forward. Slowly, yet his movements weren’t frail or ponderous so much as measured.
    Marcus, Lord Tregonning, was of the old school. Gerrard recognized the signs—the outdated cut of his coat, the knee breeches, the deliberately slow gait, the cane he didn’t need, the apparent invisibility of all others beyond the person in his lordship’s sights.
    Himself. He was glad of the discipline Vane and Gabriel Cynster had taught him, the ability to keep his expression impassive, in this case squelching the urge to smile. Neither he nor Barnaby were likely to be affected by the intimidatory style of their grandsires.
    From the corner of his eye, he could see Barnaby fighting a grin—an appreciative one, although his lordship was unlikely to see it so. They were, after all, guests in the man’s house, and there they stood, very much like predators, of distinctly different caliber to the other males in the room, bloods in