The Truth About Love by Stephanie Laurens Page B

indiscreetly modulated voice—he was quite sure she’d intended all around them to hear—everyone was waiting to hear his response. Beside him, Eleanor had angrily tensed; seated beyond Cecily, Mitchel Cunningham had colored painfully, but was avidly listening. Jacqueline had calmly turned to Roger and made some comment, drawing both Cedric and Mary—a quiet girl quite different from her sister—into the conversation, yet although they were ostensibly involved in their discussion, they were all waiting, listening, too.
    It took him a mere instant to absorb that; he smiled, gently, at Cecily. “I’m afraid, Miss Hancock, that painters such as I don’t follow fashion.” His tone was cool, his drawl patronizingly light. He hesitated a heartbeat, holding her gaze, before adding, “We set it.”
    With that, he turned to Eleanor, smoothly engaging her with a question about St. Just, without compunction leaving Cecily-the-spiteful to come about as best she could.
    For a few minutes, she sat in total silence, then he heard Mitchel Cunningham ask her a polite question. After a moment, Cecily quietly replied.
    Across the table, Jacqueline caught his eye. Their gazes held for a heartbeat; he sensed she was grateful, yet puzzled, too—why, he had no clue.
    A few minutes later, Lady Fritham rose, gathered the ladies and led them from the room. The gentlemen regrouped, congregating in the chairs about the table’s head as the brandy and port were set before Lord Fritham. Gerrard was surprised when Jordan Fritham circled the table to claim the chair beside him. They both helped themselves to the port as the decanter was passed around, then settled back.
    Lord Fritham appealed to Barnaby, “What’s this I hear about Bentinck? Got himself in a spot of bother, so I hear.”
    Understanding his lordship’s request, Barnaby launched into a highly colored recounting of Samuel Bentinck, Lord Mainwarring’s latest and possibly last attempt at matrimony. Gerrard sat back, relaxed; he knew the story, had heard Barnaby’s version at least twice, yet his friend was an excellent raconteur—it was no hardship to hear the tale again.
    Barnaby rattled on; beside Gerrard, Jordan Fritham grew restless.
    Eventually, he leaned closer to Gerrard, lowering his voice. “Quite a coup, I understand, that old Tregonning managed to persuade you to travel into our wilds to paint Jacqueline.”
    Gerrard glanced at Jordan. He’d looked down, studiously examining the wine as he twirled his port glass. Jordan was in his mid to late twenties, yet Gerrard found it difficult to view him as a peer; Jordan’s perpetual arrogance, his condescending attitude, his often petulant, if not truculent expression, marked him so clearly as immature.
    Barnaby’s story had some way to run; Gerrard was curious as to where Jordan intended to lead their conversation. “I rarely paint portraits of anyone.”
    Jordan nodded, looking up—along the table, not at Gerrard. “Ah, yes—your real interest lies in the gardens, of course.” Raising his glass, he sipped, then, still without meeting Gerrard’s gaze, murmured, “A very lucky circumstance that Tregonning could offer you access to the gardens as inducement.”
    Gerrard inwardly frowned. What the devil was Jordan getting at? “Lucky?”
    Jordan darted a glance his way, then once more fell to studying his port. “Well, it’s common knowledge, at least to those of us who know the family well, why Tregonning wants the portrait done.”
    He was too experienced to ask the question Jordan wanted him to ask—not yet. “You and your family know the Tregonnings well?”
    Looking up, Jordan frowned. “Of course.”
    “I understood from your father that the family hailed from Surrey.”
    “Originally, but so did Miribelle, Tregonning’s late wife. As girls, she and m’mother were neighbors, bosom bows. Then they both married and Miribelle moved down here. After a few years, Mama and she grew frustrated with talking