The Truth About Love by Stephanie Laurens

chaise, a lamp on the table beside her, the soft light sheening on her tumbling curls as, head bent, she plied her needle over a piece of embroidery.
    He headed her way, eager to learn of her interests, her pastimes—of her.
    She looked up, smiled politely, then made to gather up the embroidery; a basket sat by her feet.
    “No—I’d like to look.” He smiled when, surprised, she blinked up at him. He summoned his charm. “If I may?”
    She stared at him for a moment, then made a small gesture. “If you wish.” Her tone stated she didn’t understand why he would.
    Sitting beside her, he cast an inevitably critical eye over the fine linen she spread on her lap so he could see. His gaze raced over it, then slowed. It was his turn to blink. He leaned closer, looked harder.
    He’d expected the usual embroidery ladies wasted their time with, some conventional scene done in conventional style. That wasn’t what she was creating.
    And creating it was.
    His painter’s eyes drank in the lines, the balance of shapes and colors, the use of varying textures to give the illusion of depth. “This isn’t from a pattern.”
    No question. After a moment, she said, “I make it up as I do it. I have a picture in my head.”
    He was barely conscious of nodding; he hadn’t expected her to have any artistic streak, but this…He pointed to a patch above the center. “You’ll need a visually strong element there—it’s the focal point.”
    The look she cast him was faintly irritated. “I know.” She gathered the linen, tucking the strands of silk she was working with into the folds. “There’s a sundial there.”
    He could see it; that would work. He glanced at her as she bent to tuck the embroidery into the basket. “Do you paint or draw?”
    She hesitated, then answered, “I draw a little, but mostly in preparation.” She looked back, met his eyes. “I do watercolors.”
    Not perhaps the easiest of confessions to make to the country’s foremost landscape artist; his landscapes were watercolors. “You must show me your works sometime.”
    Her eyes, currently more green than gold, snapped. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
    “I mean it.” His tone, clipped and definite, faintly impatient, emphasized that fact. “I want to—will need to—see them.”
    She held his gaze, faintly puzzled; beyond that, he couldn’t read her thoughts. Then she said, “Speaking of painting, are the amenities provided adequate to your needs? If there’s anything more you require, please ask.”
    A clear change of subject, but she’d given him precisely the opening he wanted.
    “The amenities are satisfactory, however, there are a number of aspects we need to discuss.” He glanced at the pianoforte; Barnaby was turning music for Millicent and chatting with Mitchel. Before dinner, he’d asked Barnaby to keep Millicent and any others occupied to clear his way with Jacqueline. Barnaby had grinned widely, but wisely made no comment beyond assuring him he’d be delighted to oblige.
    He returned his gaze to Jacqueline’s face. “I find music rather distracting. Perhaps we could walk on the terrace, and I’ll explain what will be necessary to create the portrait your father wants.”
    She hesitated, her gaze on his face yet not, he would swear, seeing him, then she nodded. “That would be helpful.”
    Rising, he offered his hand. Again she hesitated, yet this time he knew why; he was aware of how she steeled herself before placing her fingers in his. He gripped, and felt a surge of purely male satisfaction at the faint tremor he detected before she suppressed it. He drew her up, then released her; suavely waving her to the French doors open to the terrace, he reminded himself it formed no part of his plan to discompose her, much less make her wary of being in his company.
    Side by side they strolled out, into the soft night. Onto the terrace he’d seen from his balcony. Below his room, the terrace was relatively narrow;