Page 75 of A Figure of Love

“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?”