The Truth About Love by Stephanie Laurens Page B

any old artist” was what she’d meant to say. He narrowed his eyes; she didn’t react, her expression remained open. “Your father gave me to understand that you’d agreed to allow me to paint your portrait.”
    She frowned slightly. Her gaze remained steady on his face. “I agreed to sit for a portrait. Not to sit for any particular painter. Papa chose you—I’ve yet to decide whether you meet my requirements.”
    Again he had cause to thank Vane and Gabriel Cynster for teaching him the knack of impassivity in the face of extreme provocation. He let a moment go by—a fraught moment in which he reined in his reaction, and found words in which he could acceptably express it. “Miss Tregonning, do you have any idea how many petitions, if not outright pleas, I’ve received to do portraits of young ladies of the ton?”
    “No, of course not, but that’s neither here nor there. This is me, my portrait, not theirs. I’m not one to be ruled by the opinion of the giddy horde.” She looked at him with slightly more interest. “Why did you refuse them? I assume you did?”
    “Yes. I did.” His words were excessively clipped; she didn’t seem perturbed in the least. Her eyes remained on his, waiting…“I wasn’t interested in painting any of them. Now, before we go any further”—before she asked the obvious next question—“it seems I should share with you the particulars I made clear to your father. I paint what’s there, both in a face and behind it. I won’t alter, exaggerate or suppress what I see—any portrait I paint will be a faithful representation not just of how the person appears, but also of who they are.”
    She’d raised her brows at his fervor, but all she said was, “And what they are?”
    “Indeed. In the final work, what they are will show through.”
    She held his gaze for a moment—a frankly assessing moment—then she nodded, once, decisively. “Good. That’s precisely what I need—what my father needs.”
    She turned and walked on. Gerrard mentally shook his head, then followed, still grappling with the way the situation had swung around. Apparently his painting her was not, as he’d thought, a case of his conferring a boon on her; it seemed there’d been a real question of whether she’d condescend to sit for him!
    The possibility of her not doing so forced him to tread carefully. Lengthening his stride, he came up with her. He glanced at her face; her expression was uninformative, her eyes veiled. “So…” He felt forced to ask the plain question. “Will you sit for me?”
    She halted and faced him. Calmly, she met his gaze. For the first time, he felt he was seeing further—that she was letting him sense something of the woman she was, and the strength she possessed—the reason, surely, for her steadiness, her assurance, so much stronger than usually found in young ladies of her age…
    “How old are you?”
    She blinked. “Why? Does it matter?”
    His lips thinned at the faint amusement in her tone. “I need to get to know you, to understand you, and knowing how old you are helps to get an idea of your life, and what questions to ask, what else I need to know.”
    She hesitated; he sensed her withdrawing, being more careful. “I’m twenty-three.” She lifted her chin. “How old are you?”
    He recognized the diversion, but calmly replied, “Twenty-nine.”
    Her brows rose. “You seem older.”
    It was hard to remain on his high horse when she was so determinedly ignoring convention. “I know.” The understated elegance he’d absorbed from Vane always had made him appear more mature.
    He continued to hold her gaze. “So do you.” Also true.
    She smiled fleetingly, a genuine, amused if faintly wry expression. It was the first spontaneous smile he’d seen from her; he immediately determined to see more.
    They stood for a moment, each studying the other, then he said, “You haven’t answered my question.”
    She held his gaze for a moment longer, then