Page 7 of A Figure of Love

And I’m a woman, or don’t you care? Or haven’t you noticed. Good Lord! Design an entire estate’s grounds? Why, that would be—

“Do you think you could accomplish what you described, ma’am?”

Serena felt a flutter of anticipation at the thought of being paid to experiment with such interesting concepts at someone else’s expense. It would be a creative endeavor that would be beyond her dreams—and also one that would be a glorious fit with her talents. She could design a garden to showcase her work, rather than the other way around.

She looked up at his impassive face. “Yes, Mr. Lockheart, I believe I could.”

∞∞∞

Gareth could hardly believe his good luck. He could dispense with Beech’s irritating presence and deal only with the woman. True, he thought, spooning soup into his mouth and casting a glance across at her, she was rather odd. Oh, she was not odd looking. Indeed, she was attractive, if one discounted her wild mass of hair which seemed in danger of escaping its moorings and her worn, unflattering green gown. But it was not her appearance so much as the entirety of . . . well, her. She belonged to a type of person who had always mystified him: good-humored, quick to smile, laughing easily, but obviously not unintelligent for all her humor and easy ways.

And then there was the fact she was a woman who worked with not only plants, but stone. Gareth did not know of any other woman who did such a thing. Of course he did not know any other sculptors. He had, however, met more than a few stone-cutters in the course of his business dealings, and none of those were women.

She appeared to have no trouble readjusting her expectations according to a change in circumstance. In Gareth’s experience such boldness—such fearless independence and fluidity of thinking—was not common in his dealings with women. Although Gareth would be the first to admit his dealings with women had been shockingly few during a life that spanned three and half decades.

Lastly, and this was something that he was realizing over the course of the meal, she was rather . . . opinionated. Right now she was bickering with his factor-cum-secretary as vigorously as any man in a pub, and on a subject usually considered a male purview: horses.

Featherstone was quite heated and his face had turned a dull crimson at something she just said. “You are hardly an expert on such matters, Serena, for all that you are willing to share your opinions so freely. Well here is my opinion: Leeland is one of the best breeders in Yorkshire.”

Mrs. Lombard gave an unladylike snort and took another mouthful of soup before deigning to answer. “No doubt. But we are speaking of his horses, not the man himself.”

Gareth froze, his spoon a few inches above his soup. Had she just said what he thought she said? He looked across at her. She met his stunned gaze, a tiny smirk curving her lips before she took another mouthful of food.

Even Featherstone couldn’t help laughing, a braying sound as irritating as his voice. “You haven’t changed a whit, Serena. You still have no governor on what comes out of your mouth.”

She shrugged, unperturbed by what was obviously meant to be insulting.

Gareth looked from one guest to another, something occurring to him which should have occurred much earlier—if he paid attention to such things. He lowered his spoon. “You two have a prior acquaintance?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lombard and I are cousins.” Featherstone punctuated this statement with a slurp of wine and a footman stepped forward to replenish his glass. Gareth had never noticed before what a prodigious drinker the man was.

“My husband was his cousin, twice removed,” the woman corrected in her low, accented voice, daubing her wryly smiling lips with her napkin.

“You do not agree that Mr. Featherstone’s cousin’s horses are of good quality, Mrs. Lombard.”

She turned away from Featherstone, who was openly glaring at her now. “Mr. Featherstone is correct, Mr. Lockheart—I am not an expert on horses of any sort. I should not speak so forthrightly of Leeland Bowles. I have not seen him for quite a few years and I have never visited his stud farm in Yorkshire.”

“Where would you purchase horses?”

The woman slid an uneasy gaze toward Featherstone. Gareth looked at his factotum and noticed there was an uncharacteristic tightness around his eyes. This time there was no mistaking the look of hostility he shot the woman.

A suspicion was beginning to form in Gareth’s mind, but he placed it to one side for examination later. He looked from his red-faced secretary to the woman and deliberately changed the subject.

“Tell me, Mrs. Lombard, how is it that you came to become a sculptor in addition to landscape gardening?” Even Gareth, with his woeful ability to read the expressions of others, could see the relief on her face.

“I was trained as a sculptor in France. My father, Peter Veryan, was an Englishman. He went to France before the troubles to work under a well-known French sculptor, Jean Favel. My mother was Henriette Favel, his daughter. My mother died giving birth to me, so I was raised in a rather unconventional household—two artists who saw no harm in teaching me their craft.”

“And the landscape gardening? Did you learn that in France?”

She laughed. “No, I’m afraid neither my father or grandfather knew anything about plants or gardens. I first discovered my interest in gardening when I was living with my mother- and father-in-law. They wished to make changes and I happened to be living in their home at the time. They wanted a sculpture from me, and I was allowed to design the setting, as well. I worked with the man they employed, who said I had an aptitude for such work. When I moved to London, I took care of the neglected garden in the house where I still live.” She shrugged and gave him a smile that made his stomach clench for some odd reason. “Next I helped a friend, and then their friends saw what I had done. Within a few years people seemed to find me and ask me to design their gardens. I’m sure you know how it is?”

Gareth had no idea how it was. Nobody had ever asked him to design a garden for them. But he thought he knew what she meant. She had slowly worked her way into her current position. A difficult thing to do for anyone, and probably doubly difficult for a woman.

Featherstone came out of his sulk and took charge of the conversation. For once, Gareth was glad of the garrulous man’s empty natterings. He was content to look at the woman and consider the interesting tale she had told him.

Chapter Three

It had been an exhausting night, but Serena could hardly recall a more interesting one. The three of them had retired to the library after dinner, Lockheart apparently having no idea of the impropriety of skipping after dinner port.