Page 34 of A Figure of Love

“I couldn’t sleep and came down to make a pot of tea, which I often do. Would you like some tea?”

He shook his head. She gave him an embarrassed smile and went about the business of brewing tea.

Gareth drank the water and the beer and was considering getting up to get more when she put another full glass of water on the table and removed the two empties.

“Thank you.” The words came out a ragged croak.

Because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he ate the remainder of the bread and meat on his plate. He was feeling back to normal by the time she returned to the table bearing a plate filled with biscuits and more of the cream cakes she seemed to favor.

“Fairy cake?” she offered.

For a change, Gareth took one. The cool cream felt good on his raw throat.

They ate in companionable silence. When she’d finished her cake and had a sip of tea she looked up at him.

“I often cannot sleep. I believe Jessup knows that and makes sure there are tasty tidbits waiting.”

“Jessup knows everything.”

She laughed even though Gareth had not been jesting, a not unusual occurrence for him. The butler was considered the best of his breed. Gareth had overheard some toff discussing him as a nonpareil and lamenting his inability to poach him from Remington. So Gareth had poached him instead.

“How did you find the brewery?”

Now that he was not occupied with struggling for breath he noticed she was wearing a dressing gown, her masses of curly hair tucked beneath one of the improbable bonnets some women insisted on wearing even when they slept. Gareth could not abide wearing a head covering to bed.

Her raised eyebrows and enquiring look told him she was waiting for a response.

“It is in need of a good deal of money and work.”

“Is that what you hoped for?”

“I believe it will suit our needs admirably. Mr. McElroy thinks otherwise.”

She rested her chin on her hand, her brow furrowed. “And why is that?”

“He believes the structure is past the point of retrieval.” Dec’s exact words had been that the old brewery, “had gone to shite” but even Gareth knew that was unacceptable language in front of ladies.

“What will you do?”

“We have purchased the operation.”

Her eyebrows jumped up. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Gareth could have told her more—how the owner’s son, a well-regarded brewer whose livelihood had been all but decimated by his father’s gambling, had wept openly at learning they would keep both he and his employees on—but he was finding the subject of the brewery slippery and elusive, like a piece of silk that kept sliding from his hands. He usually had the ability to concentrate with a fixity that made him deaf and blind to anything else. But right now he noticed her nightgown. It was buttoned up to her neck and was a gauzy white fabric that looked soft, fine, and was probably almost translucent. The dressing gown over it, which buttoned only slightly less high, was a practical garment of some fabric that looked rough enough to chafe if worn against skin. Gareth had a weak spot when it came to fine, luxurious materials; he was far more interested in the composition of his clothing than the cut. The fabric of her robe offended his sensibilities. It looked neither comfortable nor sumptuous. His hand, which lay on his thigh, twitched and he was contemplating leaning forward to test the texture with his thumb and forefinger when her voice brought him back to the present.

“Mr. Lockheart? Do you feel well?” She leaned closer, bringing both her person and the unpleasant robe nearer. He caught a whiff of her: a clean soap smell with only a hint of the fresh grass smell he had noticed before. She must have bathed but not washed her hair. The faint salty tang of female sweat sent a jolt up his spine and an undeniable message to his brain: he wanted her.

It was time for him to leave.

Gareth cleared his throat and looked away from her distracting person. “Did you have enough to eat and drink?”

She sat back a little at his cool tone but gave him a smile he was beginning to crave. “More than enough, thank you.” She stood and made as if to clear their dishes.

“It is late, Mrs. Lombard, the servants can see to this in the morning.”

She nodded. “You are correct, of course. No doubt they would prefer a mess to me mucking about with their system.” She preceded him from the room and he carried the candle he’d brought with him. She had come without one as there were so many in the halls.