Page 70 of A Figure of Love

Gareth set the lemonade down on the refreshment table. “Did he make some recommendation?” He frowned. “It was not in the minutes.”

“No, he proposed this just last week at an impromptu meeting at Sheffles.” Sheffles was one of the few remaining coffeehouses in London. It was a ratty looking hole in a dangerous part of town; the sort of place whose owner didn’t seem to mind members of the LMS commandeering tables and arguing mathematics all day.

Poundsworth grinned up at Gareth. “Let me show you what the fool proposed.”

An indeterminate amount of time later, Gareth and Poundsworth were crouched over a corner of the refreshments table they’d cleared off. The shorter man had brought a small notepad with him because his valet would not sigh and cast his eyes skyward because such a thing would distort the fine line of his coat. He’d also had the presence of mind to bring a graphite stick, which Gareth was currently using to debunk Congreave’s latest quack theory.

“See here, Poundsworth . . .” but when his companion did not comment on his formula, Gareth looked up.

Serena Lombard smiled down at him.

Gareth stood.

“I thought you should know that it is time for supper.”

Poundsworth blinked owlishly through glasses now smeared with graphite powder.

Gareth glanced around and realized that, indeed, the dancing had ceased.

Poundsworth was the first to recover. “I say,” he laughed, his round cheeks bright red. “We’re in the doghouse now, old chap.”

Gareth shook himself. “Mrs. Lombard, this is Edward Poundsworth.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Poundsworth.” She gestured to a table across the now empty dancefloor, where Mr. and Mrs. Pillsbury and their niece sat glaring in their direction.

Gareth looked down at the empty glass on the table; he must have drunk the lemonade during their heated discussion.

“I’m afraid you will have to make up to Mrs. Pillsbury for your neglect, Mr. Lockheart.”

Gareth heard the amusement in her voice, confirming his suspicion that she had been taking pleasure in his discomfort, and was continuing to do so.

Chapter Seventeen

The short ride back to Rushton Park was largely silent. Gareth seemed to be focused on some internal matter—no doubt the mathematical problem she had caught him and his friend Poundsworth debating in the middle of the dance.

Serena smiled as she recalled their expressions. She’d felt as if she’d disturbed two boys robbing birds’ nests or filching sweets from the kitchen. Gareth’s face had been lively and flushed, his usually perfect hair in rows and peaks, as if a very small farmer had plowed some of it and made hay-cocks with the rest.

She studied his face in the lamplight that illuminated the carriage. He was staring out the window, or at his reflection in the glass, his strong, angular profile toward her. A flash of memory from yesterday swept over her: Gareth with his eyes burning into hers, his jaws tight and nostrils flared as he held her body against his, stroking into her with deep, controlled thrusts.

She swallowed and looked down at her lap. Why wasn’t he speaking to her? She’d just determined to say something to him when the sound of cobbles beneath their wheels told her they were already home.

Gareth opened the door before the carriage had even come to a stop, flipping down the steps and handing her out. They gave their things to a waiting footman and walked in silence to the foot of the stairs. She was about to ask him if he cared for tea when he turned to her.

“Thank you for a pleasurable evening, Mrs. Lombard.”

Before she’d even opened her mouth, he strode down the hall in the direction of the library.

Even for Gareth Lockheart, this was strange behavior.

Serena continued to contemplate his odd actions as she undressed herself and changed into her nightgown and dressing gown.

She was still mulling it sometime later when she heard someone talking in the hall. When she peeked out the door, she saw the backs of Gareth and his valet just turning the corner.

She closed the door and looked at the clock: it was after one. Country entertainments ended early and they’d left the King’s Head before midnight. She’d been pacing and dithering for almost an hour. Already she knew she would not sleep.

She should go to him, ask him directly what was wrong. He was the sort of man who appreciated directness, she’d noticed that almost immediately.

Serena groaned. Respectable women did not approach men in their chambers at one o’clock in the morning. Respectable women did not approach men in their chambers at any time of the day or night. Respectable women did not strip naked in front of men in the middle of the day, either.