She cursed him in the silence of her mind, watching until he entered his room and closed the door before closing hers and then collapsing against it.
Would it never end?
***
Gareth was tired of waiting. And what was the point, anyhow? For whatever reason, he felt sure she was awake and wishing to speak with him, perhaps even as badly as he wished to speak with her.
He pushed back the bedding and donned his robe and slippers, his body already responding to thoughts of finding her in the kitchen, alone.
He smiled to himself as he left his room, not realizing he’d forgotten to bring a candle in his haste to see her. His smiled widened—perhaps he was overcoming his fear of the dark at the same time he was overcoming his fear of women?
He turned the corner that led to the long hall and froze in his tracks. It was Bardot, and he was leaving Serena’s room, dressed in his banyan and slippers, his hair standing out in all directions. He took a step toward his door and then turned back, as if beckoned. He smiled and leaned into the doorway just enough to take hold of Serena and deposit a smacking kiss. Chuckling in a way that made Gareth want to smash his skull, he turned and swaggered across the hall to his room and went inside. Not until his door was closed did Gareth hear her door click shut, as if she’d not been able to tear her eyes away from him until the very end.
Gareth could not have said how long he stood rooted to the plush carpet as his mind, like a well-oiled piece of machinery, ran through the possibilities. It was always ill-advised to jump to conclusions. Perhaps Bardot had suffered a headache and had gone to his cousin for a powder? But a man would not intrude on a woman—even a relation—at such an hour. Bardot would have rung for a servant. Gareth knew his valet, Chalmers, kept every remedy known to man at hand. That was the duty of a personal servant.
Besides, it was impossible to deny that he’d not come from her room like a man with an aching head; he’d looked like a man who’d come from his lover’s bed, mussed and wearing a dressing gown.
And then there was that kiss, and that swagger.
When one removed the improbable, one was left with the most likely answer.
The unease he’d felt from the moment he’d met Bardot began to shift and take a different form. Gareth might go through life missing out on its subtleties, but if there was one thing he knew about, it was men who made their livelihoods by manipulating and cheating others. After all, such men had taken his youth and innocence and made him what he was today.
So, Dec had been right. She was not at all what she seemed: the eccentric widow of a duke’s son. No, she was a woman forced to make her way using her talents and wits. Her acknowledgement of Featherstone first—a shyster, albeit a clumsy one—and now Bardot, a slightly less obvious criminal—was no coincidence. She was involved with these men and he could only guess that plucking him was at the heart of it.
It took him a moment to recognize the alien emotion that seized him. His breathing—regular only an instant before—grew rough and rapid, as if he’d been running. His heart pounded percussively in his chest, which suddenly felt very hollow. And a hard, cold ball of something formed in the pit of his stomach.
Gareth was angry. No, this was cold, murderous fury—an emotion he’d not felt since the night he and Dec had escaped from the home. The thought momentarily diverted him from the rage blooming inside him. Nineteen years ago his rage had been as sharp and as deadly as an arrow, directed at the man who’d used and exploited and terrorized him for years.
But tonight?
Her face rose up in his mind with the clarity of an oil portrait. He saw her as she’d been this afternoon, when she’d taken him inside her body not once, but twice. She’d smiled at him as if . . . as if it had been him, Gareth Lockheart, that she’d wanted, not his money. Him.
And tonight she had taken another man—her real lover—into her room, into her body.
Gareth hated Etienne Bardot for having what he’d hoped to make his. And he hated Serena Lombard—a woman who’d toyed with him as easily and heartlessly as a cat played with a mouse. And she had done so with a deceptive sweetness that made him want to smash every stick of furniture in the entire house.
But the white, hot core of his hatred? That he saved for himself, for the fool who’d convinced himself that people were not all the same. He hated the idiotically optimistic voice in his head that had caused him to strike his best friend when the man had only been trying to save him from humiliation, pain, and disappointment.
Gareth’s first impulse was to march down the hallway, fling her door open, and discharge her this very night.
But then he remembered the boy.
She might be a virtuosa manipulator and fraud, but there was no ten-year-old boy in existence who could behave with as much innocence and sweetness as Oliver.
Gareth swallowed his hot rage, unwilling to stoop to her level and inflict pain on somebody who’d done nothing to deserve it.
His forte had always been patience, inhuman concentration, and a relentless drive to solve any problem that faced him. He would plot, plan, and wait until he had a punishment that would fit the crime. And then he would exact his revenge.
Chapter Sixteen
Gareth had already gone to the work site when Serena woke the next morning. When she asked a servant about Etienne, she learned her ‘cousin’ had left at first light.
She’d not really expected him to comply without a struggle, but no doubt he’d been eager to take the necklace to whomever he used to fence his stolen goods. Serena had picked at her breakfast, her mind sifting through the issue of the Dover trip until she thought she’d go mad. There was no way around it—nobody she could send in her stead. Oh, it was not her responsibility, except it was, if she could do anything that would stop it. Every step the authorities took toward Etienne was a step toward her, too. She’d bluffed him when she told him she would confess the truth. No, her plan was different. At the end of the month she would receive her first quarter payment. It would be enough to get her, Oliver, and Nounou to Paris. Once there, she could look for commissions. There were people who would remember Favel and her father and they would give her work. It would be little things at first, but she would be able to keep them fed and housed with the money from this job.
She gave up trying to eat and went to find Oliver. They were to walk over together, since Nounou had no interest in gathering for what she called “foolishness.”
Oliver was practically leaping out of his skin and didn’t complain even when she told him he could not take the dogs with him.
“I believe there will be a lot of people and they will end up underfoot. Besides, you don’t want to have to look after them and miss all the excitement?”
“Mr. Lockheart says this might be how the great statues on Salisbury Plain were moved. Mama, did you know that?”
She did, only because he had told her at least six times. “Is that so?” she asked, glad to listen to his excited chatter rather than her own thoughts.
It occurred to her, unhappily, that Oliver had become quite attached to Gareth Lockheart in the weeks he’d been at Rushton Park. It was good he was leaving tomorrow. Already it would be heart-breaking to pull Oliver away from a place he was beginning to think of as home.
She’d been a fool to take this job and believe they could live a normal life. With Etienne always nearby they could never live normally. His constant blackmailing would ensure they never had enough money to live anything other than a hand-to-mouth existence. And while killing him had more than a little appeal, she’d known—once her temper cooled—that she could never kill another human being. Not even one who deserved it.
Although they were early, there were already a surprising number of people milling around, admiring the dimensions of the rock, looking at Gareth’s simple mechanism for moving it, and generally enjoying the holiday-atmosphere of the sunny, warm day.
Gareth was standing with Mr. F
lowers and the two men were looking out over the area that would soon be covered with water.
Oliver took her hand. “Mama, there are Robbie and Tom.” He pointed to the two young boys she knew to be Cook’s nephews.
“Go ahead and play. Just make sure you stay well away from the workers once the work begins.”
He was gone, the other two boys already running to meet him.
“Mrs. Lombard?”
Serena turned to find Mrs. Cooper, the owner of the little shop of all needs in town. She smiled. “Hello, ma’am. Have you run away and left Mr. Cooper in charge today?”
The older woman chuckled. “Oh no. ’Tis a holiday for him as well. Besides, there is nobody in town to buy anything today. ’Tis like a ghost town.” She stepped a little closer. “I hope it’s not forward of me, but I’ve brought some lemonade and a cask of ale. The other ladies have brought a few things as well.” Her round cheeks flushed. “We don’t often have a day like this, all together, and we thought to make a small picnic.”
“What a wonderful idea, Mrs. Cooper.” Serena noticed that blankets were being laid and the beds of the few sturdy wagons to have made their way from Rushton Park’s drive were serving as impromptu buffet tables. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that and we might have had a tent and tables.”
Mrs. Cooper waved her hand. “You’ve had enough to do what with organizing tonight’s dance, as well.”
Serena laughed. “Now that I cannot take credit for. Mr. Jessup, who is a wizard when it comes to such things, made all the arrangements for this evening’s festivities.”
Another lady, this one a stranger, approached, and soon Serena was surrounded by happy, chattering townsfolk.
***
Gareth felt her before he saw her. He was not a mystical person—quite the opposite, but he knew, without a doubt, when she arrived. The fine hairs on the back of his neck lifted and his skin prickled with awareness. And then Mr. Flowers had looked over his shoulder, smiled, and said, “Ah, there is Mrs. Lombard.”
Rather than feeling gratified at being correct, Gareth was unnerved at his body’s response. He was in control of himself, not his flesh. Or was he? Yesterday flashed through his mind and he frowned. Thinking of the scene at the river made him cringe; she’d manipulated him as skillfully as she’d sketched him.
Fortunately for his sanity, his anger had cooled during the night and the result was a more stable emotion, like ore that had been forged in fire, impurities burnt away until only cold, hard iron remained.
Gareth would not discharge her; why should he? She meant nothing to him. Just a temporary disarrangement of his thoughts. Nor would he waste any time plotting some elaborate revenge. He would simply ignore her, which would probably do enough to hurt her pride.
Satisfied with his decision, he tucked the unproductive thoughts away and turned his attention to the task at hand.
Gareth’s pulley, net, and log system ended up moving the big rock up the hill in almost half the time he had planned for it. He believed the entire village and more than a few farmers had taken the day as a holiday and come to watch the event. Women had brought food, children ran wild, dogs barked, and the sun shone its benevolent rays over all of it.
Had he not felt so . . . muffled, he would have enjoyed immensely the sight of the big rock rolling out of its hole as if it had wanted to move all along. The pulley had shifted it with admirable smoothness, the uniform logs he’d chosen rolling as surely as the finest crafted carriage wheels. When the rock reached the summit of the small hill a cheer went up. Mr. Flowers clapped him on the shoulder and then realized what he’d done when Gareth flinched.
“Ah, beggin’ your pardon, sir, Mr. Lockheart.”
Before Gareth could respond, another hand touched his other shoulder and gave a light squeeze.
“Congratulations, Mr. Lockheart!”
He turned at the sound of her voice, his face schooled into the same expression he always wore: an expression that gave nothing of his thoughts away.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lombard. It went far more smoothly than I anticipated.” Because he was watching her with the intensity of a scientist monitoring an experiment, he saw how his cool, civil response surprised her, and not pleasantly.
Her smile dimmed a little and she took an almost imperceptible step back. “Our neighbors have provided food and drinks for the festivities.” She gestured toward the wagons and blankets on the opposite side of what would soon be the lake. “Would you care to join me?”
He looked down into her hazel eyes, searching for some sign of her duplicitous nature, but they were clear and bright, although the slight dent between them spoke of her nervousness at his distant behavior.
He offered her his arm. “It would be my pleasure.”
***
Serena took a last look in the mirror. Because it was a country dance, she was wearing the simplest evening gown she possessed. All four of the dresses she’d brought with her from London were gifts from the duke and duchess. Because they were kind and thoughtful, they’d always given her the garments on her birthdays, so that it would not appear to be charity.
Serena knew they believed her to be foolishly proud for refusing the portion they’d reserved for their youngest son, but she felt guilty enough for the deception she perpetrated each time she brought Oliver to see them. She could not bear to take their dead son’s inheritance on top of everything else.
The gown she wore was a glorious teal silk that gave her plain brown hair a burnished glow and made her eyes look green, rather than hazel. It was low cut—perhaps scandalously low for the country—but it suited her lush figure and the gauzy fabric of the skirt clung to her, even though she had added a second petticoat to the scant one that had come with the gown.
Around her neck she wore a simple chain and cross. It had no sentimental value but was something she’d purchased so that her neck did not appear naked at the grand functions she attended whenever she visited Keeting Hall. She’d once had a pretty cross of her mother’s but like everything else of value—including Robert’s letter—it had been left behind when she’d been forced to flee the Continent.
The young maid who often waited on Serena had dressed her hair high with loose curls, a style that flattered her face and made it seem less round and cherubic. She decided to wear her heavy velvet cloak as the nights could be cool. She knew nobody in London would be caught dead in such a practical wrap, but this was the country and she’d always valued comfort over fashion, in any case.
She was to ride with Gareth in his carriage; her body had hummed with excitement all day at the thought. They would finally have a chance to talk, alone. Perhaps they could get past the awkwardness that seemed to exist between them today.
But when she arrived in the great hall, she found only Jessup.
“Good evening, Mrs. Lombard.”
“Hello, Jessup.”
“Mr. Lockheart has been detained, ma’am. He asked me to tell you that he would join you later at the King’s Head.” He gestured to the door. “The carriage is waiting for you.”
Serena felt as though all the light had gone out of the room. She opened her mouth to ask just what could be detaining him but wisely caught herself. It would be impertinent to ask another employee such a question about their employer. And that’s what she was: Mr. Lockheart’s employee.
She thanked Jessup and the footman who handed her into the luxurious carriage. Once inside, she slumped against the soft leather seat, her mind churning and her eyes sheening with sudden tears. She blinked hard, stunned by her body’s response. Why was she acting like such an emotional fool? How mortifying to show up in front of the entire town without Mr. Lockheart, red-eyed and crying?
In the ten minutes it took to get to town she relived yesterday afternoon a hundred times, sifting every conversation and every look for hidden meaning. But the truth was, he’d behaved much the way he usually did—except for proposing she take he
r clothes off, of course. But even that had been done in his serious, businesslike fashion.
But his lovemaking? Serena shivered as she recalled his skill with her body and the tender but confident way he’d touched her. He’d been a generous lover who’d made certain she experienced fulfillment before he’d taken his own pleasure. But did it follow that he had any deep feelings for her simply because he was a thoughtful lover?
Serena had very little experience with men. There’d been Etienne, of course, but that had been against her will. She’d taken a few lovers in her early years in England, mainly in the hope she could wipe the vile stain of Etienne from her mind.
The first one had been a fellow sculptor, a selfish, competitive man both in bed and out.
The second had been a sweet, impressionable architect, a man younger than herself who’d quickly become infatuated. That had ended badly and she’d been convinced lovers were just not worth the risk. Indeed, those two experiences had made her wonder what the fuss was all about. The only good thing she had taken from the affairs was that Etienne had not ruined her for physical love.
And now, here she was with this mess. In love—or at least infatuated—with her employer, a reclusive, private man who was notorious for avoiding women—or at least she had never heard of any liaisons while he’d lived in London. And she was certain he’d entertained no women while in the country these past weeks. Well, other than her.
The carriage rolled to a smooth stop and she sighed. It was time to go and be social, an activity she usually found pleasurable. But tonight, she only wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Or him.
***
Gareth was both pleased and annoyed by the message. Pleased because it proved Dec was still alive, annoyed because of the reason for the note.
The message was from an inn perhaps one hundred miles from Rushton Park. The note was written by an innkeeper named Trencher, of all things. It appeared Declan had rented a room and enjoyed the ‘appurtenant benefits’—Gareth was pretty sure he knew what that meant—but had run out of the means to pay for any of it. Gareth read between the lines for the rest of it. Dec had emerged from his stupor long enough to argue but finally capitulated after negotiating a stay of ejection, giving Gareth’s well-known name as a guarantee of payment.
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