Once he’d submerged himself, he lay back and relaxed. On the outside. On the inside, his usually organized mind was like a ship that had been seized by mutinous sailors.
He should have told her nothing was wrong and sent her away. He should have told her he’d never intended for their interactions to go beyond a business relationship. Instead, he’d acted out a sexual fantasy.
At the thought of said fantasy he began to stiffen again. Venetia had engaged in anything Gareth had dreamt up, and a lot more that he hadn’t. It hadn’t surprised him that he enjoyed restraining his lovers. He knew enough about himself to know he valued control above all else: control over events, his person, his surroundings—over anything that mattered. Controlling his lover’s pleasure had been the logical next step.
He’d always enjoyed his nights with Venetia, but these two explosive incidents with Mrs. Lombard? Gareth shook his head; he had no words for what he was feeling right now.
The women themselves were very different, of course, but it wasn’t just that. With Venetia, he’d bedded her and left her, forgetting about her until the next time he needed sexual release.
Right now he was further away from forgetting Serena Lombard than he’d been before he’d sated himself. As far as he could discern, each encounter with her seemed to leave a deeper imprint on his brain and diminish his ability to control his thoughts, which was something he usually did with merciless rigidity.
And speaking of rigidity, never had his body been so demanding and insatiable in the past. He’d spent himself less than an hour ago, and he wanted her again. And again.
He shook his head and applied himself to the business of washing his body, ignoring his insistent erection the way he ignored any other time-wasting diversion. By the time he’d finished with his bath he’d taken the reins and steered his brain in a different direction.
Declan.
It was getting on for four in the morning. It would be light soon, at least light enough to ride.
He was shaved and dressed for riding at half-past. When he went into his bedroom, he saw she was still asleep, but had turned. She’d exposed one delicious breast in the process, her hair streaming across the pillow, half up, half down.
He could crawl right into bed with her. Fasten his mouth on her rosy nipple and explore her in the comfort of his own chambers, horizontal. Not on a rocky river’s edge or showing off his strength for her against a wall, but in comfort.
He was fully hard and halfway to the bed, his hand on his cravat, when he recalled another man who’d swaggered because of this woman barely a day before. Something ferocious and cold twisted in his gut and Gareth put his hand to his midriff, feeling as if he’d been knifed. But there was no puncture, no gash, no blood. No wound at all, in fact—at least no injury the human eye could see.
***
Serena was having the most delicious dream. She was with Gareth, and he was making love to her, holding her tight in his arms. So tight she could not move. Too tight, in fact. She cracked an eyelid and felt a moment of terror when she did not recognize her surroundings.
And then it all came back, like a deluge from a rainspout. She pushed herself up clumsily, hampered by bedding, which seemed to have coiled and twisted around her body from neck to toe.
The first thing she noticed is that she was alone. Candles burned in the wall sconces and the room next door—the room where they’d—
She looked away from the doorframe, blushing hotly even though there was nobody to see.
He had seen.
She covered her burning face with a cool hand. Lord. He had seen everything. Certainly more of her body than Serena herself had ever seen.
She pushed back the bedding and heard something crackle. A piece of paper, her name—Mrs. Lombard—written on the front in writing so perfect it looked like the printing in a book.
When she unfolded the missive a second sheet of paper fell out: it was a bank draft, but for the remainder of her work rather than the agreed upon quarter.
She opened the letter with shaking hands.
“Mrs. Lombard:
Enclosed is the agreed upon payment for the entirety of the work. I have paid you the remainder rather than a quarter as I do not anticipate returning to Rushton Park for some time.”
Serena’s hand shook so badly she could not read the small, neat writing. She swallowed, and then spread the letter out on the bed.
“Please send any questions or requests for funds through my factor in London. I took the liberty of entering your chambers only to select an undamaged nightgown and dressing gown. Both are on the bench at the foot of the bed. The servants have been instructed that you are not feeling well and to avoid both the family and guest wing until later in the day.
Your servant,
Gareth Lockheart”
Serena stared at the letter as if it were a live asp; how dare he treat her this way—like some kind of prostitute? She grabbed the piece of paper and tore it to shreds. “You—you—fiend. You heartless snake! No, snake is too good for you; a snake has a heart.” Or at least Serena thought they did. She shoved the pointless thought away and grabbed the pieces of paper and ripped them into even smaller pieces. “You cad! You-you poltroon! You automaton!” This last bit she yelled in English.
She launched herself out of bed and snatched the—neatly folded, of course—nightgown from the bench and threw it over her head, her eyes sweeping the unhealthily tidy, sparse room with a scathing glare. She yanked on her robe and stormed from the room, making no effort at stealth.
She told herself she was glad he had sneaked off like a coward, slinking away in the dark of night like a cur with its tail between its legs. She’d had lovers, he was just another. Albeit a lover unlike any other. Serena uprooted that thought—and any other positive ones that might have sprung up—like noxious weeds.
When she got to her room she washed her face with freezing cold water, raked her hair back into a bun so tight her head hurt, and donned her work clothes. The only thing to do in a mood like this was work with unbreakable items like shovels and dirt.
She went first to the schoolroom, dreading what she would have to say to Oliver. But when she arrived, it was to find him happily completing the mathematics homework she had assigned him the day before the festivities.
“Hello, Mama! Guess what Mr. Lockheart left me?”
Serena bit her tongue.
“Look.” He held up a handful of metal bits. “They are the parts he had made according to my schematic.” Oliver rose and went to his worktable, which was arranged in neat piles, each one marked clearly and beside clearly drawn mechanical drafts. He stopped in front of the project on the far end. But when Serena tried to look at it, he shook his head. “It is a surprise, Mama. You cannot see it yet.”
“What if I sneak in here and peek while you’re sleeping?”
He laughed and shook his head. “You wouldn’t do that.” His forehead furrowed.
“Would you?”
It was her turn to laugh. “Come here and give your mother a hug.”
He complied and she closed her eyes while she pulled him tight. “You are getting taller,” she accused the top of his head. He nodded and pulled away, too old to submit to hugging and cuddling without a struggle.
“Nounou made only a tiny mark on the door frame. I have grown almost a quarter of an inch since coming here.”
Serena wondered if she would ever be able to look at a door frame again without getting a rush of heat between her thighs.
“I am almost done with my math work and then I will work on my story.” He did not sound nearly so enthusiastic about his English and French studies as he did math and history.
“When you are done come down to the parterre garden and you can help me. I will even pay you for your work.”
“You will?”
Serena felt terrible at his excitement. She gave him so little money, even pennies for sweets were hard won
. Thanks to Etienne. Recalling the thieving pig made her remember Dover. She closed her eyes for a moment. Well, at least she would not have to explain her journey to her employer, would she?
***
Biddenden was the name of the town Declan had chosen for his rustication and the Biddenden Twins was the name of the inn where he was ensconced.
Gareth had taken his time, having to force himself to do so. Why rush? After all, what awaited him would be anything but pleasant. Even though he had made several stops and gentled his mount, Thunder—a ridiculous name Oliver had given the horse when he’d learned Gareth had failed to do so—was tired and so was he when they rode into the small agricultural town.
The first person Gareth saw when he entered the courtyard was the postilion who’d brought the message.
The small man darted forward to take Gareth’s mount. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lockheart.”
Gareth nodded, pulling off his gloves while looking around the neat and tidy courtyard with approval. At least it did not appear to be the type of place to have damp sheets and bugs.
“Ah! Welcome, welcome—Mr. Lockheart, I presume?” A stout man wearing an apron was barreling toward him, his blinding smile proof that the extra money had been well-conceived.
“You are Mr. Trencher?”
“Aye sir, at your service. Willie, take Mr. Lockheart’s bag and have it brought up to his rooms.” He turned to Gareth. “I’ve put you right beside Mr. McElroy, thinking that would be the way you’d want it.”
Gareth thanked him for the dubious honor and followed his bustling person into the inn.
“Is Mr. McElroy out?” He peered around the darkened interior of the taproom, thinking this is was probably the most likely place to find him. But only two farmers sat in the cool near darkness.
Trencher motioned for Gareth to follow him out into the hall, where he stopped, and glanced up at him with a flushed, uncomfortable look.
Gareth sighed. “I will have the words with the bark still on them, Mr. Trencher.”
“Ah, yes, as to that. Well, Mr. McElroy has not left his room in some time. We’ve given up sending girls to clean—they are my daughters, you see, and—”
“Yes, yes of course. I understand keeping any females away from him well enough. Is he ill?”
“Oh, no, nothing serious. Just a bit too much elbow bending, if you take my meaning.”
Gareth frowned. It was as he thought: drunk.
“How has he been getting his spirits?”
He could see the question surprised the innkeeper. “Why, we deliver ’em, sir.”
“You shall cease that immediately. When he rings, bring him ale, and nothing stronger.” He paused, considering the next few days and how unpleasant they would likely be. “You said you put me in the rooms adjacent. Are there other rooms?”
“Oh, aye, two more there and another two in the garret.”
“And are they occupied?”
“Which, sir?”
“All of them.”
He scratched his forehead, clearly confused by the direction and pace of the conversation. “Not as yet, sir. It is a slow time, the spring being—”
“I wish to engage them.”
Trencher squinted up at him. “I beg your pardon? Did you say—”
Gareth was aware of a great tiredness rising in him. This kind of transaction or discussion, where so many more words were expended other than what was necessary, made him wish to crawl into bed and hide.
“Yes, I will pay for every room here. Do not rent to anyone else.”
“Uh—”
Gareth tossed his gloves in his hat and handed the innkeeper both, along with his crop. “My man will not be joining me. Do you have somebody to see to my needs?”
“Ah, yes sir. My daughter’s husband is—”
“Please send the gentleman up with my things and direct me to Mr. McElroy’s room.”
Declan’s room was at the end of the hall, which was dark and narrow and poorly lighted. Gareth made a mental note to order more candles. He rapped on the door and waited. When no sound issued from within, he rapped again, harder.
“What the devil do you want?” a recognizable voice roared.
Gareth opened the door and had to duck as a boot sailed past his head and landed in the hall.
Declan lay on the bed, the sheets tangled around him, empty bottles on the floor, and the foul stench of body odor and vomit hanging over the room like a cloud.
Declan had leaned down to scour the floor by the bed for more projectiles. He came up with an empty bottle in his hand and froze in the act of throwing it.
His shoulders slumped. “Oh, it’s you.”
Gareth breathed through his mouth. “Did you expect somebody else?”
Dec tossed the bottle onto the bed beside him, where it clinked against something. “I knew there would be no money without a lecture.”
Gareth shut the door and picked his way across to the window, which he opened, filling his lungs with air that did not smell like a sewer.
He turned and propped himself up on the sill, not wishing to get too far from the source of air. “If I recall correctly, it was you who was lecturing me the last time we spoke.”
Declan didn’t answer. He looked worse than Gareth had ever seen him; gaunt, unshaven, skin yellow and unhealthy.
Gareth looked at his best friend in the world. The only person who knew everything about him, and still stood by him.
“I don’t want to lecture you. I want to help you.”
The Irishman turned on him like a rabid cur that had been kicked. “Well you can’t help me, Gareth! I am beyond it.”
“Nobody is beyond it. What happened?”
“What the bleeding, fucking hell do you think happened?”
“You lost a packet in some hell?”
“I lost it all in some hell.”
Something cold crawled down his spine. “All? What do you mean, all?”
“You’re the goddamned genius, you figure it out.” He shot him a poisonous glare. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch anything belonging to you or the company. Everything I lost belonged to me.”
Gareth hadn’t even considered the possibility that Declan could have gambled away everything he had. But it was true, the other man had signing rights on all Gareth’s accounts. Still, the amount of money Dec had gambled away must have been in the hundreds of thousands. Half of everything they had ever made, in point of fact. How long had this been going on? How could Gareth have been blind to it?
He rubbed his temple, which had been dully throbbing for a good part of the day; the ache had suddenly turned sharp.
“So, it’s not all gone.”
“Your half is yours. I won’t take your bloody handouts.”
“I couldn’t spend all the money I have in a hundred years, and there is more coming in every day. According to my calculations, our new pottery may be our most successful venture yet. With the contracts Mister—”
“I don’t care.”
“Declan, you have always been the one who understands other people, their foibles, nuances, expressions, wants, desires, machinations. It is a great weakness in me that I cannot see to the heart of any problem that involves people.” Serena’s face flashed into his mind and he ruthlessly banished it. “Even you, the one person who knows me, a person closer than a brother, I do not truly know. I look at you and am mystified by what drives you, what interests you, what would make you happy. I trust you with my life, with everything I have, and I would give my life to save yours.” He shook his head, his fear deeper and more chilling than any he could recall since they were both boys. Since that night when everything had changed. “I know you feel the same. I know it. As surely as I know the Fibonacci Sequence or the Pythagorean Theorem.”
He looked up from his clenched hands to find his friend staring, his eyes blank and dead.
“Let me help you Declan, please. Because if
you die, you will be killing both of us.”
They sat in silence for so long Gareth thought he would never answer.
“I don’t know what ails me, Gare. I don’t,” he said, as if Gareth had argued. “I could not believe it the first time we bought a company, turned it on its end, and made money.” He shook his head as he stared into the past, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I felt rich—so rich.” He looked up. “But the hole inside me—you know?”
Gareth did know.
“The money didn’t fill it. It just seemed to make it bigger.”
Gareth nodded. He had no better words for what Declan was describing, but he knew the feeling as surely as he knew his reflection in a mirror. He’d quickly figured out money wouldn’t fix the problem. For him it had been the quest for knowledge that had filled the void—at least as long as he stayed buried inside the quest. Any time he ventured into the wider world—any occasion without a book or formula or journal—he would look down to find the hole had advanced, that he was standing on the edge looking down into something worse than the dark.
“I had to do it, didn’t I?” It was a question Declan hadn’t asked him for nineteen years.
Gareth nodded. “It was me or him, Dec. And after me, he would have come for you. You defended us—you saved my life.”
“I know, I know,” the words came out on a moan. “I’ve told it to myself a thousand times. But a murderer is a murderer.”
Gareth did not believe that, but his friend needed something more. “I don’t think the hole can be filled with money, or drink, or gambling, or an endless string of women.” Dec opened his mouth but Gareth raised his hand. “Let me finish. I’m not lecturing you; I’m saying something out loud that is true about both of us. I don’t gamble or drink, but I bury myself in numbers and the clarity and numbness they give me. When I can’t, I am . . . well, you have seen what I am. I could not function in society; I cannot talk to the people with whom we are partners or investors.” He shook his head, “I cannot go to a country dance without making an ass of myself. But recently I’ve noticed times when I do not feel this ache. When I help the boy, when I try to do something for somebody else, I am somehow—” He shrugged, frustrated with his inability to describe the contents of his own head. “I don’t know. It is just—better.”
A Figure of Love Page 22
