Page 41 of A Figure of Love

“Mr. Lockheart and I are taking them apart so that we might study them.”

Serena risked a look at her employer, who was regarding her with the cool look she now knew could hide any number of things.

“Look, Mama,” Oliver grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the table, interrupting the awkward tableau. “See, this one uses a different type of spring, and this one—”

She’d spent a bewildering hour being lectured about the internal workings of toys. Since then, she’d seen him every evening, as he came to supervise Oliver’s work as it progressed.

And of course she saw him at dinner, where McElroy dominated the conversation and made sure Serena was aware of his continued observation and investigation into her background.

Mr. Lockheart also came out to the work site every day, looking and observing, but rarely making any comments. And once, he’d wandered into the stall she used in the stables, and then quickly excused himself when he’s seen she was working. Naturally that had been the end of her efforts for that day.

She stopped not far from the breakfast room to check her hastily dressed hair in a large hallway mirror. Strands had escaped and were curling in the extreme humidity, but it was not an embarrassing wreck. Yet. She straightened the lace fichu she wore tucked into her old green morning dress and smoothed down her skirt. She would do.

Mr. Lockheart rose when she entered the room. “Good morning, Mrs. Lombard.”

“Good morning, Mr. Lockheart.” She smiled at Raymond, who was already heading toward the door in anticipation of her order. “Jessup is bringing me coffee, Raymond.” She turned back to the other man. “Please, do keep eating.”

Serena absently piled food on her plate, imagining his eyes burning into her back. But when she turned, he was looking at a newspaper laid out beside his plate.

When she sat, he folded the sheet and pushed it aside.

“Thank you for having the foresight to spread the tarps.”

“I wish I had thought of it last night.”

Serena buttered a hot roll. “I didn’t realize it was raining until three or four o’clock.” She heaped preserves onto her bread, marveling at the insipid conversation when all she could think about was how luscious his body had felt. She swallowed, alarmed by the way she was salivating, like a jungle predator eyeing a tasty morsel. Oh, she was revolting.

“This is showing no signs of letting up,” he said, clearly unaware of the turmoil taking place inside her.

“No, it is a dark sky. I daresay it will be some days before it dries out enough. Obviously the moving of the rock will need to be postponed. Will you stay?” She couldn’t decide what she wanted his answer to be. Her body rejoiced when he was near but her mind—as willful as it was—alternated between celebration and terror.

“There will be no traveling in this weather, at least none that I care to do.” He nodded to Jessup, who’d entered with a fresh pot of coffee. “I have plenty to occupy me indoors.”

So did Serena. She’d run behind on her current sculpture, too distracted by her brief clutch with her employer to risk working on expensive marble. Instead, she’d studied the submissions she’d solicited for the other four sculptures. While she would have liked to provide all the work, she knew it was not only unrealistic and unwise—variety in art was always to be desired—it would also be selfish. She’d sent her ideas to the Royal Academy, as well as to several of her fellow sculptors. It was good to spread the wealth.

“And will you sculpt, Mrs. Lombard?”

This unprecedented display of curiosity from the normally uninterested man surprised her. “I may, it depends if the muse cooperates.” She could see her words intrigued him and she explained. “It is best not to work unless I am able to give all my attention to the piece at hand. Anything less than total concentration is a recipe for disaster, and lots of ruined, expensive materials.”

“I have recently seen one of your pieces.”

“Oh?”

“An Egyptian piece.”

“You saw Seshat?”

He nodded.

Serena could hardly believe it. “That was an anonymous commission. I was paid in advance,” she gave him a wry smile, “which is very unusual in the art world.” She bit her tongue, dying to ask him where he’d seen it.

“I found the piece to be. . . mesmerizing.”

Again he had surprised her—and pleased her. Her cheeks burned as she looked up, shy at his praise. “Thank you. It was a difficult commission because I never knew how the owner felt about the piece.” It was as much fishing as she felt comfortable doing.

“I do not think she would mind me telling you that she treasures it.”

She? Twin flares of pleasure and jealousy burnt inside her. Was it his lover? And why would a person wish for such anonymity? How was it that everything about this man seemed to be shrouded in mystery?