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stirred, lips firming. “I’ll speak with her.”
    “No. With due respect, it might be better if I did. I could then answer any questions she may have, which will ensure there are no subsequent misunderstandings.” Gerrard held Tregonning’s gaze. “The demands on her time will actually decrease once we commence formal sittings.”
    Tregonning’s face cleared; nodding, he relaxed in his chair. “That might be best. She did say she was agreeable, and I’m sure she won’t refuse, but it would be wise for her to know what you need of her.”
    Gerrard quietly exhaled. He had much greater confidence in his powers of persuasion than he had in Tregonning’s. The man seemed distant from everything, and that might well include his daughter; while he hadn’t yet gained even an inkling of Jacqueline’s attitude to her father, he didn’t want to risk any adverse reaction from her.
    He was even more determined than Tregonning that his portrait of Jacqueline Tregonning would go ahead, and under the most favorable circumstances. So he’d talk to the lady himself, and ensure he got an agreement he could fall back on if she later turned difficult.
    Reviewing all they’d covered, he continued, “As I don’t normally accept commissions, I think it wise to be plain about what I’ll eventually deliver. The commission is for a final, framed, full-length portrait in oils of your daughter—unless there’s some major catastrophe that prevents its execution, that’s what I’ll deliver to you within the next year. I, however, will retain all sketches and preliminary works. In addition, I never permit any early viewing of my work—the first you’ll see of it will be the completed work I present to you. Should you not wish to accept it, I will keep the portrait and no commission will apply.”
    Tregonning was nodding. “That’s entirely acceptable.” He caught Gerrard’s eye. “You’re also keen to paint the gardens.”
    Gerrard blinked. “Indeed.” He glanced at the window; the fabulous gardens that had for decades obsessed him and his peers lay displayed before him. “Whatever sketches and paintings of the gardens I complete will be mine to keep. Should I ever offer any for sale, you will, of course, be given first refusal.”
    Tregonning humphed. “I suppose,” he said, levering himself up from the depths of the armchair, “that you’ll want to start exploring the gardens straightaway.”
    His gaze still locked on the vista beyond the window, Gerrard rose, too, then turned to meet Tregonning’s old eyes. “Actually, no. I don’t anticipate exploring the gardens, artistically speaking, other than as a backdrop for your daughter, until I’ve got the portrait under way.”
    Tregonning was surprised but pleased, indeed, gratified.
    Accompanying him back to the drawing room, Gerrard was aware of the irony. He’d come here to paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall, yet despite his obsession with them, ever since he’d laid eyes on Jacqueline Tregonning, he’d been consumed by thoughts of painting her.
    Against her allure, not even the Garden of Night could compete.
     
    T hey returned to the front hall. Lord Tregonning saw him to the drawing room door, but stopped short of entering. “I’ll instruct Treadle and Mrs. Carpenter as to your needs—no doubt they’ll consult with you.”
    “Thank you.”
    With a nod, Tregonning turned away. Gerrard watched him walk back in the direction from which they’d come. Feminine chatter spilled out of the drawing room. Clearly his lordship intended to seek refuge in his study, leaving him and Barnaby to the tender mercies of Lady Fritham, Mrs. Myles and the censorious Mrs. Elcott.
    Accepting the inevitable, he turned and strolled back into the fray. Tea had been served in his absence; Millicent Tregonning smiled and poured him a cup. Accepting it, he chatted to her and Mrs. Myles, seated beside her, regarding his first impressions of the area. Mrs. Myles was instantly