The Truth About Love by Stephanie Laurens Page A

here it spread wide, an area in which guests from the drawing room and the ballroom next door could gather and admire the view.
    Tonight the view was shrouded in shadows, the moon a mere sliver shedding just enough light to limn all it touched in silver, transforming the gardens into a fantastical landscape, yet his attention remained on the creation who walked beside him, not on those spread before him.
    She’d walked to the right, away from the area he was increasingly certain contained the Garden of Night. It was said to be best viewed in the evening, yet he felt no urgency over exploring it just yet; he’d see it in daylight first, tomorrow maybe.
    He glanced at Jacqueline. Her gown of pale green silk faded to beaten silver in the faint light; her skin appeared translucent; only the rich color of her hair retained its warmth. Her expression was calm, composed, yet he sensed she was thinking rapidly.
    It seemed wise to speak before she could distract him. “I mentioned to your father the necessary demands that sitting for a portrait places on the subject—he wasn’t sure you were aware of the details.”
    Strolling slowly beside him, Jacqueline told herself to concentrate on his words, and ignore the voice that uttered them. “What are those demands—in detail?”
    Lifting her head, she met his eyes, dark in the night, and marveled again that she was so quiveringly aware of him in a way she’d never been of any other before. She battled to quell a shiver, difficult to excuse given the warmth of the gentle, perfumed breeze wafting about them.
    After a moment, he replied, “Initially, I’ll demand a great deal of, if not most of, your time, although largely in social settings, much the usual round of your life. I need to gain a strong sense of who you are, how you feel about many subjects.” He glanced out at the gardens. “How you react to things, your likes, dislikes, and the reasons behind them. The subjects you’re happy to talk of, and those you’d rather avoid.”
    They walked on for a few paces, then he looked at her. “Basically, I need to get to know you.”
    She studied his face. The light was good enough for her to make out his expression, but she couldn’t read his eyes. His expression he controlled; his eyes were more revealing. What he was suggesting was frankly unnerving. “I thought portraitists paint”—she gestured—“at best what they see.”
    His lips quirked in wry acknowledgment of the qualification. “Most do. I don’t. I paint more.”
    “How so?”
    He didn’t immediately answer; as they walked on, she sensed he was considering the question for the first time. Eventually, he said, “I think it’s because every person I’ve painted to date is someone I’ve known for years, someone I’m connected to, whose background and family I know.” He met her gaze. “What I paint goes far deeper than a face and an outward expression. Just as with landscapes I paint not just the detail but the atmosphere as well, so, too, with people. It’s the intangibles that are most powerful.”
    She nodded and looked ahead. “I’ve heard of your reputation, but I’ve never seen any of your works.”
    “All are in private hands.”
    She glanced at him. “You don’t show them?”
    “Not the portraits. They were created as gifts.” He lightly shrugged. “And to see if I could.”
    “Do you mean to say my portrait will be the first for which you’ve received a commission?”
    Her tone was even, the question direct if somewhat forward; nevertheless, it struck a nerve. Gerrard halted, and waited until she did the same and faced him. “Miss Tregonning, why do I get the impression you’re assessing my abilities as a portraitist?”
    She blinked at him, then equally succinctly replied, “Probably because I am.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Surely you didn’t expect me to simply agree to be painted by”—she gestured—“someone whose talents are unknown to me?”
    “Just