“Damnation.”
“Sir?”
Gareth looked up. He’d forgotten Jessup was waiting. The imperturbable butler looked surprised and Gareth realized he’d probably never spoken an angry word in the man’s hearing before.
“Shall I tell the messenger to wait?”
“Yes. Put him in the kitchen and feed him. By the time he’s done I’ll have what is needed ready to go.”
“Very good, sir. And Mrs. Lombard?”
“Mrs. Lombard?”
“You are escorting her to the King’s Head in six minutes.”
Oh, that.
He reached up to scrub a hand through his hair and saw Jessup wince. He lowered the hand and left his hair untouched. “Have the carriage take her. Please tell her I shall be along shortly.”
The butler bowed and left.
Gareth’s mind bounced between Declan’s condition and Mrs. Lombard. He would go to this town, wherever the hell it was, and fetch the idiot home. But he did not think he need do so in the middle of the night. He would go to the dance and leave at first light. Leaving tomorrow had been part of his plan, in any case. He would simply be going to a different destination.
He wrote a brief message and included a draft for an amount well in excess of the standing bill, indicating he would consider it payment toward adequate discretion. Although he doubted there was a person between Rushton and Bicklesfield or Bigglesworth, or whatever the hell it was called, who wasn’t aware of Dec’s debauch.
Gareth went to the kitchen himself, his appearance causing the skeleton staff to leap to their feet and fidget. He’d given all his employees the evening off to go to the dance and most had taken him up on the offer. The only ones who remained were Cook, Horrocks, one of the gardeners whose name he’d never heard, two scullery maids who could not have been older than ten, and a wiry man with the look and build of a postillion.
“You are waiting for a message?”
“Aye, sir, Mr. Lockheart.” The man pulled his forelock and dropped a clumsy bow.
“Sit and finish your meal,” Gareth instructed. He tossed the sealed missive on the table when the man had complied. “I’ve written a letter for your master and included a draft. See to it that it ends up in the correct hands.”
The postilion half rose, recalled himself, and then sat, nodding. “Aye, sir. I’ll be off in a tick.”
Gareth paused on his way to the kitchen door. “Not on the same beast, I presume?”
“Oh, no sir, I changed in town ’afore coming here.”
Gareth passed Jessup in the corridor and ordered the curricle brought round. He’d have rather walked but wouldn’t make it a mile in the ridiculous dancing slippers Chalmers had insisted he wear. He suspected his black pantaloons, tailcoat, and whites would make him vastly overdressed, but could not be bothered to argue with his valet, whom he had never disputed before. He wondered at this sudden concern for appearances. Surely it was not some foolish worry about what that woman would think? He’d schooled himself to think of her only as that woman—not Mrs. Lombard and certainly not Serena—in the privacy of his own mind.
Gareth had decided to avoid her company as much as possible tonight. That decision was sorely tested half an hour later when he found himself cheek by jowl with every person in the county, watching that woman dance with a strapping young farmer and give every appearance of having the time of her life.
The de facto head of the town, in the squire’s absence, was a Mr. Pillsbury, a farmer of some importance, whose land ran continuous with Gareth’s on the western side, not that the man knew it, of course. Mr. Pillsbury and his wife, a woman a head taller and half the girth of her rotund spouse, had trapped Gareth beside the punch bowl, making it impossible for him to get out and dance with that woman. Not that he wished to, of course.
“And will you be having entertainments up at Rushton Park this year, Mr. Lockheart?” Mrs. Pillsbury asked, fluttering her eyelashes in a way that was distracting, but not in the way she probably intended.
Gareth realized he’d been staring. “Entertainments?” he parroted the only word he could recall hearing. It was bloody hot in here and there was not a window in sight.
“Yes, balls, dinner parties, and so forth.”
“I had not planned on it.” His words were met by a sighing sound, making Gareth notice they’d been surrounded by townsfolk—primarily women—without him being aware of it. Frowning female townsfolk.
“Er, that might change if the gardens are completed on time,” he lied.
A sigh of relief swept through the room, the ripple of air cooling his neck. Mrs. Lombard was now chatting with the bull-necked farmer, while a group of other, equally healthy-looking men hung back a respectful distance, like supplicants awaiting their turn at a shrine.
Gareth put his untouched cup of whatever on the table. “If you would excuse me,” he murmured, not realizing Mr. Pillsbury had been speaking until he stuttered to a halt.
“Oh, of course, sir.”
Gareth wove his way through the bodies, his eyes flickering between her laughing face and plunging neckline, both of which seemed to beckon him like a false lighthouse beacon luring a ship toward hidden rocks. He vaguely recalled his intention of ignoring her but could no longer recall why he’d thought that was such an excellent idea.
Well, there was no shame in adjusting one’s plan, not that he’d ever done such a radical thing before.
She looked up just as he eased past a clutch of young girls dressed in pastel shades and resembling a cluster of flowers.
“Mr. Lockheart.”
A half dozen male heads swung toward him at her words. Gareth nodded vaguely, without making eye contact with any but her. He positively despised meeting people in clumps.
“Good evening Mrs. Lombard. I would like to apologize for abandoning you to a solitary carriage ride.”
Her smile was as carefree as ever. “No harm done. I hope everything is all right?”
“Oh yes.”
She waited with an expectant look, as if he might say more. As if it were his practice to broadcast his personal business like a town crier.
She gestured to the man nearest him, the strapping man without a neck. “I’m sure you recall Mr. Paget.”
He looked at the neckless stranger, who smiled broadly, and then back at her. Was she being sarcastic? Laying a trap? Gareth had never seen this man in his life.
“No doubt you’ve seen the lovely walkway he’s been laying out for the past week.” She paused and then added helpfully, “In the east courtyard. At Rushton Park.” Her carefree smile had become strained.
Gareth had never seen the man, of that he was certain. Yet there was nothing to be gained by belaboring the point.
“I was very impressed with the walkway,” he told Mr. Paget, who beamed at him. He turned back to the woman. “Would you like to dance, Mrs. Lombard?”
She looked behind him. “Oh, the next set, you mean?”
Gareth glanced over his shoulder and realized all those females he’d pushed past were engaged in a dance and not just milling about.
He turned around and caught her biting her lip, her eyes once again sparkling.
“Yes, perhaps the next set would be best.”
***
Serena hadn’t realized how socially awkward Gareth was until tonight, which was the first time she’d seen him interact with strangers. After all, a dinner with her and his best friend hardly qualified as a social event.
He gave her the same fixed, discomfiting stare in a crowded room that he gave her at home. They might as well be alone for all the notice he took of the hundred or so people milling about, most of them staring at him, waiting to be noticed, wanting to be introduced.
And his blank reaction to Mr. Paget? The man had been working at his house for weeks. His obvious lack of recognition had been mortifying. Serena suddenly recalled a comment—one of thousands—Mr. McElroy had made durin
g his stay: “Gareth is not like regular men.”
She’d thought he might have meant his looks, which were certainly well above the herd. Or perhaps his intellect, which was keener than any she’d ever encountered. Now she realized McElroy had meant this. This . . . imperviousness.
The way he was standing beside her, for example, staring at the dancers in rapt fascination and ignoring the conversation. Why, he was looking at them as if he’d never even seen a dancefloor before.
A horrifying thought struck her. She leaned closer to him. “Mr. Lockheart?”
“Hmm?” He could not seem to pull his gaze from the dancers.
“I do not wish to be impertinent, but have you ever danced before?”
That got his attention. He arched his brows in a manner that made him appear lordly and haughty. “Not as such.”
“Not as such?” she hissed between smiling lips. “What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been watching them. It doesn’t look difficult.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “It is unfortunate that the next one will be quite different.”
“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Lockheart!” Coming toward them, and trilling her fingers, was Mrs. Pillsbury.
Serena laughed at his horrified expression and he cut her a wounded glare.
“Tell her you have a sore ankle,” Serena said out of the corner of her mouth.
“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?”
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.
A Figure of Love Page 20
