Page 21 of A Figure of Love

The massive dressing room had an adjacent bathing chamber, as did hers, but the floor was a black marble shot through with striking bolts of white, the tub a dull gray metal in front of a fireplace whose mantelpiece matched the bold, stark lines of the rest of the room. The walls were hung with the same pale, patternless silk as the rest of the chamber, their pristine surface not disturbed by art of any kind.

There was another door off the other side of the main chamber which Serena assumed would be a sitting room. But she opened the door to find the strangest room she had ever seen. There were no pieces of furniture—at least not of a sort she recognized. Instead there were leather and canvas bags hanging from different heights, a few vertical circular wooden bars, perhaps the diameter of a handrail, and thick padding covering all about the perimeter of the room’s floor. Serena went to one of the bags, this one slightly above the level of her head, pear-shaped and made from leather. When she tapped it, it swung back and forth. The other bag was far larger, perhaps the size of a human torso.

Ah, so that’s what it was: this was a room to train for pugilism, a violent, ugly pastime which men of all ages and classes seemed to adore. She pushed the big bag and it swung pendulously, hard to the touch, as if filled with sand.

So, Mr. Lockheart had at least one pastime besides reading obscure mathematical texts and making money. Such exercise would account for his trim physique.

On her way back into the main chamber she stopped to examine the contents of the dressing table: a brush and a comb.

On each side of the bed were heavy, squat nightstands that matched the design of the dark bed. Each had two drawers, all four were empty of even a stray hair.

Serena stood in the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. This was undoubtedly Mr. Lockheart’s room. She knew she should feel a twinge of shame for prying, but what had she seen? Nothing. Although perhaps the stark nature of his living quarters told her more than a peek into a journal. She told herself he spent so little time here it was unlikely he would have many possessions. Yet something told her she would find the same arrangement in any place he inhabited. He was a solitary man, a man who appeared to enjoy his own thoughts and company better than any other. He was, she believed, the most self-contained person she had ever met.

It was a good thing he would not be here often. Such a man was exactly the kind of puzzling enigma Serena was drawn to—a man with secrets.

Chapter Six

Serena’s mind was still on the work at the dam when she came around the corner into the stable block and almost collided with a stranger on a horse. A rather magnificent horse, she noticed right away, not to mention its rider, who was quite magnificent in his own way.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am!” The man said, deftly sidling his mount out of her way and touching his whip to his hat, which sat at a jaunty angle on his vivid auburn curls. He looked her up and down in a manner that made her face heat, his expression of surprise quickly shifting into a grin. “You must be Mrs. Lombard,” he said in a voice that had more than a trace of an Irish burr.

Serena couldn’t help smiling back at him. “And you must be Mr. McElroy.”

He feigned a look of surprise. “And how did you guess that I wonder?”

Serena ignored his question and guided her job horse toward the stables. The Irishman fell in beside her.

“That’s a rather nice hack you’ve got, Mr. McElroy.”

He glanced down, as if surprised to find himself mounted. “Is it?”

Serena laughed and gave her reins to the groom before dismounting. “Mad for horses, are you?”

He slid from his horse and handed the groom his reins as well.

Serena raised her eyebrows. “I thought you were heading out for a ride?”

He fell into step beside her, his broad, heavily muscled shoulders only a few inches above her own. “I was going down to the lake site, but it was you I was in a fever to see, Mrs. Lombard, not a load of sweaty blokes shoveling dirt.”

“Me? Whyever would you be in a,” she hesitated, “fever to see me.”

“’Cause Lockheart hasn’t stopped talking about ye these past five weeks.”

Serena stopped and turned to him. His eyes sparkled as they looked down into hers.

“Mr. McElroy, I find that very difficult to believe. Would you perhaps be spreading a bit of the, er, blarney?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Ach, ye caught me all right.”

She shook her head and resumed walking. “Tell me why you’ve really come all this way, Mr. McElroy.”

“We’ve come to bring you some decent horseflesh, since Jessup complained you’d hired a horse fit for the knackers.” His Irish accent had miraculously departed. “Lockheart himself picked out old Kestrel.” He jerked his chin back toward the stables.

“Jessup misspoke. I am quite satisfied with Honey. I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for naught.”

He reached in front of her to open the door to the sunroom, which was the most convenient entrance to the house when coming from the stables.

“Oh, we’ve come to look at a brewery down south of here.”