Page 69 of A Figure of Love

“What?”

“Sore ankle,” she said, hiding her words with a cough.

“Mr. Lockheart, I would like to introduce you to my cousin Ephraim Plunkett’s oldest daughter, Lily.”

Gareth acquitted himself with an elegant bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Plunkett.”

Mrs. Pillsbury seemed to have something stuck in her eye, or perhaps a tic. Either way, she never stopped fluttering her eyelashes. She nudged the beautiful young girl closer to Gareth, taking a step nearer herself, her elbow accidentally jabbing Serena in the process.

“Oh, Mrs. Lombard.” The older woman looked at her as if she’d only that moment noticed her standing there. “I did not see you there.”

Her unlikely admission caused the object of her interest to glance sharply from Serena to Pillsbury to the young girl. She waited for comprehension to dawn, but she was to wait in vain.

Serena had not encountered Mrs. Pillsbury in town before, but she’d heard her mentioned as the area’s leading light. What had not been mentioned was Mrs. Pillsbury’s militant desire to see her younger female relation engage in the most felicitous of matrimonial connections. She remained undaunted in her task, even in the face of Gareth Lockheart’s obvious indifference to the lovely young woman standing mere inches away.

Although she’d come to introduce her niece, and no doubt secure at least a set for her, Mrs. Pillsbury’s voice droned non-stop on a variety of subjects.

Gareth first stared at her, and then began to shuffle and shift, and finally turned his back on her and stared at Serena.

Mrs. Pillsbury’s voice ground to a grudging halt at his unprecedented display of disinterest.

“I’ve given some thought to the trees you recommended for the drive, Mrs. Lombard.”

A disgruntled clucking sound came from Mrs. Pillsbury’s direction, but Gareth appeared not to notice, his gaze fixed, his beautiful—and she knew, soft and skilled—lips compressed into a severe line that made her think he was not talking about trees, at all.

∞∞∞

The Pillsbury woman was like some kind of large burr. That talked. And could move.

Just when Gareth had managed to block her incessant voice from his head and concentrate on something of worth—like that woman—Mrs. Pillsbury came up with yet another scheme.

“I’m afraid Lily has a rather delicate constitution, Mr. Lockheart. Perhaps you might escort her someplace where she might rest and fetch her a glass of lemonade?” The diabolical woman placed a hand on her niece’s shoulder and gave her a push in his direction.

Gareth glanced at Serena, who was looking up at him with a slight smile, her expression expectant and curious. Almost as if she were enjoying his persecution.

“It would be my pleasure, eh, Mrs. Pillsbury.” He’d forgotten the girl’s name. That never happened. He could not recall ever forgetting anything before in his life. He shoved aside the worrisome thought and led the girl toward a vacant chair, her aunt chattering non-stop in their wake. After depositing them both and seeing to their comfort he ventured toward the refreshments table, which was on the opposite side of the room from that woman, who, in any case, had rejoined her admiring horde and appeared to have forgotten all about him.

Gareth had just taken a glass of lemonade from the flunky dispensing it when he felt somebody beside him. He turned to find Edward Poundsworth, a fellow member of the London Mathematical Society, grinning up at him.

Gareth gaped at the unexpected sight; it was like finding one’s dentist plowing a field, or one’s tailor shoeing a horse.

“Poundsworth,” he said stupidly.

“Fancy seeing you here, Lockheart!” Poundsworth clapped him on the back and Gareth caught his wince before it slipped out. He’d been manhandled so much this evening he was all but numb.

“What are you doing here?” he asked rudely.

“Visitin’ my uncle, Sir Richard.” Poundsworth removed his glasses and began polishing them on the cuff of his ill-fitting coat. He was always doing this, yet his spectacles—the thickest Gareth had ever seen—never looked anything but thumb-printed and smudged.

“You’re one of Squire Nelby’s relatives,” was all Gareth could think to say, only aware of how ill-mannered his question sounded after the words were out.

But Poundsworth, a jovial sort, just laughed. “Yes, one of his many nieces and nephews. Here to do the once-a-year pretty, although I missed it the last few years.” He replaced his spectacles and Gareth tried not to grimace as he peered up at him through glasses that looked as if they’d been licked by a cow. “I understand you’ve bought all the old gent’s property.” Gareth must have made some expression without being aware of it. “Oh, I say, don’t chaff yourself, old man.” Poundsworth raised a hand to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder but seemed to recall Gareth’s dislike of being touched at the last minute. “I missed the rock-moving today, which was a great disappointment. Heard it was a jolly good time. By the way, did you go to the last meeting?”

There was only one meeting he could mean: the monthly London Mathematical Society meeting.

Gareth had not gone, but he’d read of the discussion in the minutes that were printed and disseminated after each meeting.

“Have you seen what Congreave proposed for the Bexam Equation?”