Page 19 of A Figure of Love

She nodded. “You should go, Sandy.” Serena couldn’t look away from Miles, whose smile could not hide the danger that rolled off him like waves of heat.

Sandy limped from the carriage house without another word.

Serena heaved a sigh. “I am always happy to see you Miles, but never quite as much as I am today.”

His lazy, amused look was back on his face, a mask he took off and put on so quickly she hadn’t even seen the switch. “I’m hoping it was you who did that to his face?”

Serena gave a weak chuckle.

Miles took her arm, “Come on, darling, I came by to scrounge some tea and a few of those lemon biscuits Mrs. Brinkley makes just for me. I had no idea I’d have to rid the place of rats first. I’m parched.”

She laughed and they went inside, but Sandy’s threats about Bardot continued to ring in her ears. He might have left today, but he was not gone for good.

Chapter Five

Oliver slept on the seat across from Serena, his curly brown head on Nounou’s lap, the old Frenchwoman’s head against the squabs, her jaw sagging as she snored. Although Oliver was too old to require a nurse Serena had kept the older woman on because she had nowhere else to go. Besides, she also served as a chaperone for Serena to those sticklers who thought such things necessary.

It had taken her son a good hour and a half to stop bouncing on the well-sprung, soft leather seat and pelting her with questions. Even three weeks had not been long enough for him to become jaded by the notion of a new home.

He had lived most of his ten years at the house on Albermarle Street, no matter how much the duke and duchess had tried to convince Serena to move into one of their houses, or, barring that, to let them raise their grandson. No, Oliver was hers. In spite of what her relations seemed to believe, she was not raising him in squalor, but with love in a perfectly stable home—albeit a bit more unconventional than most children of his class. He spent late summer every year and Christmas with his grandparents and family at Keeting Hall. But the rest of the year he lived with his mother. He was growing up too fast and she enjoyed his company too much to yield to their wishes to send him away to some barbaric English boarding school, where the other boys would taunt and torment him for his plebeian mother, a woman who actually worked for her living. No, he would stay with her until they, together, decided how he wished to spend his life.

Serena opened the sketchbook she was never without. It contained both the sketches she had made of Rushton Park as well as, for some reason, one she had made of its odd owner. It was Gareth Lockheart as he had looked that morning at breakfast—when he had described the appeal of numbers and symbols. In her sketch his hair was wilder, his cravat untied and his coat loose and flapping, as if he were in a cyclone. The drawing made her smile and she shook her head. Oh, she was such a predictable female, attracted to his handsome face and body and intrigued by his remote, untouchable manner. In her saner moments she told herself numbers were the only thing that would bring such a cold man to life. But in the night, when she was alone and remembering the hours they had spent together planning and creating beauty for the grounds around his house, she pictured herself as the key that would unlock him. Like a princess kissing a frozen prince.

She closed the book and her eyes with it, laying her head back against the plush upholstery. She would not have believed such romance remained in her after so many years alone. When was the last time she had looked at a man as a man? Her friend Miles’s face flickered into her mind. It was true Serena could hardly look at anything else when her handsome friend was in the same room, but that was true for most women. But Serena’s initial infatuation with the beautiful man had quickly grown into warm, sisterly affection. It was lucky for Serena that Miles was not the type of man to excite her romantic interest. Oh, he had his share of deep, dark secrets, but he was—by and large—open, social, and sunny. For whatever reason—most likely just sheer stubbornness—Serena had always gravitated toward the shy, inscrutable, or wounded men. Freddie said it was a strong mothering instinct.

“You are the type of woman who should have many children, Serena.” Freddie had told her on more than one occasion, most often when Serena was offering excuses or coming to the rescue of some student who had neither the ability nor enthusiasm to complete a project.

That might be true, but Gareth Lockheart was not a child, and she was not being paid to rescue or save him.

∞∞∞

It was near dusk when their coach rolled down the long drive that led to Rushton.

Oliver had woken up a short time earlier and they’d been staring out the window together. He’d been properly impressed by the mansion.

“Il n'est pas si vieux que la maison du grand-père?”

“No, this is a far newer house than your grandfather’s.” Serena glanced from Nounou to her son. “I think it would be best if you spoke English with me while we are here, Oliver. You may continue to speak French with Nounou when you are in private. However, it is quite rude to speak a language those around you do not speak.”

“Hurray!” he yelled, as if speaking English was a treat.

Nounou, a cranky old woman who had come to England with a family of refugees who had not been able to continue paying her, had no patience for the language of the country that gave her asylum. She snorted and rolled her eyes at Serena’s dictum, clearly determined to continue on in any manner she chose.

The carriage rumbled smoothly over cobblestones and Serena looked up to see they had arrived. To her surprise, a long row of servants stood waiting. And, she squinted through the gloom, there was Jessup at the head of them.

“What is he doing here?” Nounou demanded, her eyes fastened to the butler as the carriage came to a halt.

“In English, Nounou. He works for Mr. Lockheart now.” She cut her willful, surly servant a sly smile. “I’m sure you will enjoy becoming reacquainted with him.” She couldn’t help the gentle teasing. Jessup and Nounou had been at loggerheads since the first time they’d met years ago, at Keeting Hall. Serena thought they behaved like lovers. Well, now they would get to spend months in the same house together and be something to entertain her of an evening.

“Gather your things, Oliver,” Serena said as the carriage shifted, indicating the groom had disembarked. The coach was the same massive, luxurious thing Mr. Lockheart had sent her home in three weeks earlier. Serena worried she was now spoiled for any other kind of vehicle.

Jessup stood outside the door, waiting. “Welcome back, Mrs. Lombard, and Master Oliver, I have not seen you since you were just a—” He stopped, his face turning to stone. “Ah, you are still in England, Madame Petit.”

“And so are you, Monsieur Jessup.” Nounou’s posture was regal as she allowed the handsome footman to assist her from the carriage. The two older servants surveyed each other like cats with twitching tails before Jessup turned to the line of waiting people and began to make introductions.

Once Jessup had led her down the long line of servants and Serena had greeted each of them, aware she would forget half the names already, he turned to her. “I’ve taken the liberty of having the schoolroom equipped and two rooms made ready. Would you care to see them before I show you to your quarters, ma’am?”

Serena looked down at her son. Oliver’s eyes were heavy, no matter how excited he was. “Yes, I shall see he is situated and perhaps take a light supper with him in the schoolroom.”