Page 49 of A Figure of Love

Foolishly, Serena had stopped worrying and thinking and dreading Etienne Bardot, so when he arrived—unannounced and unexpected—it was a nasty surprise, not unlike finding a fly floating in one’s tea after one had already taken a sip.

He showed up two days after the horrific rains ceased, when the roads were still boggy with mud but no longer impassible for a carriage. He came when she was finally beginning to make some progress on the sculpture.

The muse had slipped in the door not long after Declan McElroy went away.

Something must have happened between the two men the night they’d all played cards, because McElroy was gone the following morning. He’d left on horseback, taking one of the hacks Mr. Lockheart—or Gareth as she’d been calling him, at least in her mind—had brought to Rushton Park. His journey must have been hellish indeed and Serena wondered at his sudden haste. Naturally she did not ask Gareth and he did not volunteer anything. Not that he had appeared any different than usual. At least not during the day. But at night—every night since his friend had left—he went into his odd room and punched his bag until his lean, muscular body ran with sweat.

She did not know if he made any late-night forays to the kitchen because she avoided that part of the house after dark, no matter how strong the pull to venture out and see him. Oh, yes, she wanted more. More of what they’d done all too briefly that night.

Serena was not blind, she knew Gareth Lockheart was intrigued by her. She knew he would consider her an appropriate candidate for a wife, her connections to the Duke of Remington as prestigious and well-regarded as any. She also knew his friend would do everything in his power to stop such a union from happening—not that it ever could. Even if McElroy left the issue alone, she could just imagine the glint in Etienne’s eyes upon discovering he could extort money from one of the wealthiest men in the country. No, she could not immerse Gareth Lockheart in such a dangerous web of lies. He’d been too kind to her, to Oliver. His friend was right about one thing, at least: Gareth Lockheart was a kind, caring man, even if he concealed his true nature behind an impenetrable mask. She would simply need to manage her unfortunate physical reaction to his handsome and intriguing person.

It was to avoid those thoughts and sensations that she’d returned to work. Until the ground dried out, they could not extract the rock and complete the berm. It behooved her to keep on task—or at least to keep busy. She changed into her working clothes and went to the stables. Nobody was around when she made her way to the stall at the rear of the building, but she could hear male voices and the sound of metal being pounded and guessed the men were in the forge.

The stall she was using was the largest in the stables and the one kept for foaling. It had been constructed with huge double doors that opened out into a small enclosure. With the doors open the light was perfect; the doorway was also large enough that there had been no problem bringing in the stone, which meant—in theory, at least—taking the statue out would be equally simple. Not that transporting a block of stone and finished sculpture were anything the same. She would not finish it completely but would leave in a few sections of rock that supported the more delicate parts of the statue.

This was her most ambitious project to date. While she’d worked on statues of this dimension and complexity for Monsieur Favel, she’d not designed one from its inception. But she was a skilled sculptor and knew this was not beyond her ability.

She’d made several wax figures, not stopping until she’d produced exactly what she wanted. Her samples were perhaps a foot and a half high, just large enough to provide her with a ready reference while she worked. Because she could not use a pointing machine, which she had used often for Favel when he wished to make multiple copies of a popular statute, she had divided the block of marble into a grid. She’d also copied grids onto paper, and from each angle, and had reduced the sculpture to one-eighth its size. These were not methods Favel had used but she’d seen other sculptors employ a variety of tricks to work on projects that were larger than life.

She’d been teasing Mr. McElroy about the classical theme she’d chosen to carve. She was not sculpting Judith and her notorious trophy—not that the notion had no appeal. Instead, she’d chosen something that would suit the parterre, in which the statute was destined to be on display. She’d thought about Mr. Lockheart and his unusual house, about the man himself, and what it was he represented. She’d chosen, after much consideration, the under-represented Greek Titan Coeus, a son of Uranus and Gaia, one of the four pillars that held Earth separate from the heavens. Coeus was often associated with inquisitive minds and intellect.

Among the Titans he was best remembered for having been banished to the underworld, breaking his chains, but remaining in Hades as the eternal companion of Cerebus. Serena had decided to represent him in his “pre-fall” state.

She’d spread out her drawings and was examining the placement of his right foot when a loathsome voice penetrated her concentration.

“Ah, here you are, sweet cousin!”

Serena swung around, even though she knew who the voice belonged to.

Etienne Bardot stepped out of the shadowy corridor into the big stall, his eyes darting about her person. “What is that? Are you going to hit me and dump my body down a hole?”

Serena glanced down, surprised to see her hand has seized the bigger of her mallets from the table.

“I must admit your idea is not without a certain appeal.” She spoke to him in French, as she always did. It was the only thing she could do to protect herself from eavesdropping servants, not that it would protect her from members of her husband’s family, who all spoke French. Serena tossed the heavy hide mallet onto the workbench where it landed with a dull clatter. “What do you want?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. So rude. I’ve been looking for you for weeks, my dearest Serena.”

“For what, Etienne? I told you I would receive my pay at the end of the quarter. I have nothing now.” She held out her empty hands, hatred that threatened to choke her pulsing through her body.

“You would reduce our relationship to nothing but pounds and pence?”

“I would rather reduce it to nothing at all,” she shot back.

He merely laughed at her heated words and hate-filled glare. “We are bound by ties that are much stronger than money. I have come to see how my son goes on.”

Serena let out a string of curses in three languages.

He came toward her, his fashionable Hessians and expensive, but somehow tawdry, clothing enflaming her even more.

“Don’t act like you care about him.” She raked him with a look that held every ounce of loathing she felt. “If you did, you would not be dressed like a peacock while your own flesh and blood wears patched and too-small rags.”

He reached out a hand to caress her chin and she jerked back. His mouth hardened and he moved with the lightning speed she recalled from all those years ago, knocking her against the workbench and pinning her against the wall.

“You’ve forgotten who holds the whip hand, Serena. Do you need me to remind you?” He lowered his mouth over hers, stabbing into her cruelly and repeatedly. She did what she’d always done and remained still and limp.

He pulled away and grabbed her jaw in a crippling grip. “Serena the Statue, eh?” He squeezed her until her eyes watered, but she refused to make even a whimper. His dark gray-blue eyes, so like Oliver’s, glared down at her. He wanted to hit her, but love of his own hide and comfort held him back. After all, how could she go about fashionable society and get the work she needed to pay his crushing blackmail if she looked like a battered serving wench?

“Bah!” He shoved her away, slamming the back of her head against the wall and leaving her ears ringing. “I want nothing from you—you are old and haggard.” He spat, but she could not see where it landed as her vision danced with black spots. “Women love me here. All kinds, rich, poor, beautiful . . .”