Page 26 of A Figure of Love

Gareth could hear the anxiety in her voice.

“If the degree of elevation is as you have indicated in this drawing, you will need to shift your berm perhaps fifteen degrees to get the support necessary.” He looked up and found her face only inches from his, a deep notch between her green-gold eyes. This close, he saw fine lines around her eyes, perhaps from squinting, and parentheses around her plump, coral-pink lips. The texture of her skin was quite fascinating. She was golden brown—unfashionably so, he knew—a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her straight, small nose. Her lips were small but shapely, the corners of them invariably curled up in a smile. But not now. Now they were moving, and Gareth had not been paying attention. Instead he’d been imagining his own lips on hers, his tongue delving between them.

“Mr. Lockheart?”

He blinked. “Mrs. Lombard?”

She gave him an uncertain smile. “Will you come down with me tomorrow?” She looked at the watch pinned to the left side of her bodice. “It is too late now, but perhaps we might go in the morning, before they commence work and you could look for yourself?”

Gareth supposed he should. After all, he had never even seen this part of his property before.

“We can leave our trip to the brewery for the day after, Gare.”

Gareth looked up at the sound of Dec’s voice. The Irishman was no longer smiling, which was almost more frightening. He’d known Dec since they were boys—far longer than anyone else in his life—but Declan was an amazingly complex human being and Gareth still could not read or interpret all the other man’s expressions. Except to know he was scheming or planning some sort of mischief.

Gareth knew he had dug a hole for himself, so to speak, and now he would need to see the site. “I will send a message to Mr. Fowler and reschedule our tour of the brewery.” He turned back to the woman, who was waiting for his answer with obvious interest. “We can walk the area and see if the berm will need to be moved.” He already knew it would, but he guessed it would not be politic to declare such an opinion so baldly in the face of her mistake. Her smile told him he had guessed correctly for a change.

They looked at the rest of the drawings without incident.

Chapter Seven

The only meal Serena could recall being odder than the one she’d had tonight was her last dinner at Rushton Park. Oh, the food and service were impeccable, as usual. But Lockheart and McElroy were not the most restful of dinner companions. The Irishman seemed to delight in prodding and poking not only his friend, but Serena, and—she suspected—anyone else who had the misfortune to enter his orbit. He was a sharp man with a rather thin, brittle façade of charm and she did not trust for a moment.

Mr. Lockheart remained as mysterious as ever. Although he rarely spoke, he seemed articulate and comfortable when he did. Which made her wonder what it was he enjoyed inside his own head enough to ignore the discussions and people around him the rest of the time.

By the time the sumptuous dessert course had been cleared from the table Serena had endured quite enough prodding by McElroy and Lockheart’s quiet, measured looks.

“I will leave you gentleman to your port. I’m afraid I’ve had rather a long day and will turn in unfashionably early.” She stood and they with her.

“Good night, Mrs. Lombard.” McElroy said bowing. “I’m afraid I’m something of a late riser, so I’ll leave matters of earth moving and dams to you and Gareth.”

Lockheart met Serena at the door, even though a footman hovered nearby to open it.

“Will six be too early, Mr. Lockheart? It is when I usually breakfast and then head to the site.” She had hoped to see him recoil or at least wince at the early hour, but he merely nodded.

“At six, madam.” He bowed and opened the door. “Good night.”

Serena breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. She would have liked to be a fly on the wall in the dining room—especially to see how the two men interacted while on their own. Over the course of dinner McElroy had shared the general details of their history. Two boys dropped at the same orphanage. McElroy was older than his friend, although he behaved in a far younger and more carefree fashion. In any event, she was glad he was staying away in the morning. She wanted to speak with Mr. Lockheart without wading through witticisms and double entendres.

She went up to Oliver’s room, which was on the third floor of the family wing. There was a light beneath Nounou’s door so she tapped softly.

“Entre!”

The older woman was in bed reading. She raised her eyes when she saw who it was and lowered her book.

“So,” she asked in her native language, “How was a dinner with those two?” She used a word for “men” that had untranslatable connotations in English.

Serena smiled. “Much as you would expect. They will be staying for at least one more day. Mr. Lockheart believes there is some problem at the dam.”

Nounou’s dry smile showed what she thought about that.

“Is Oliver asleep?”

She made a sound that was entirely Gallic. “That boy! He will burn us in our beds. I have decided it is safer to let him read all night if he wishes. He will be sandy-eyed and sleepy, but that is the only way to learn. He is like his mother that way—a head like a stone.”

Serena chuckled. “It won’t hurt him, Nounou.” She stood. “I will go and see if he is awake. Either way, I will extinguish the light, so you may go to sleep without worry of immolation.” She bent over the bed and kissed her on the cheek. “Good night.”

Her son was indeed still awake and reading, not one book, but two spread across his lap while a single candle burned in a holder on his nightstand.