Page 12 of A Figure of Love

Mr. Lockheart stood when she entered the delightful, sunny room, his tall, well-proportioned person attired in fawn pantaloons, Hessians, and a navy coat that made his gray eyes more blue than gray. He was quite devastatingly handsome in the stark light of morning, his dark brown hair and pale skin striking against his crisp white linen. Beside his half-eaten plate of food were several large books, open. It pleased her to know his fancy library was not merely for show.

“Ah, Mrs. Lombard. You are an early riser?”

“I usually wake even earlier than this but the bed in my room is the most comfortable I have ever slept on.”

“I am pleased to hear it. The mattresses are made in a small manufactory just outside Manchester.”

“A pot of tea, please,” Serena said to the footman, her eyes flickering to the vast number of dishes arrayed for only two people.

“Please, help yourself to breakfast, Mrs. Lombard.”

“Thank you. Don’t let your meal get cold, Mr. Lockheart, it may take me a few moments to make my selection.”

He resumed his seat. “Jessup insists that serving oneself is done in all the best houses, but only for breakfast.”

Serena smiled at his naïve comment as she studied the selection of meats, egg dishes, and pastries spread over the massive sideboard. It was unlike anything she had seen in a long time—since her childhood at Monsieur Favel’s, where food had been a religion. Serena and Lady Winifred usually had simple breakfasts of porridge and the duke and duchess lacked a chef of Lockheart’s caliber. Breakfast had been her favorite meal as a child and she heaped food onto a plate in a manner that should have left her ashamed, but did not.

She took the seat across from him and buttered one of the warm croissants—a rare treat. “You have a French cook, Mr. Lockheart?”

He glanced up from his food, which he seemed to be eating according to food group, much the way her son liked to do. “So Jessup tells me. He is new to Rushton Park. Do you approve of his cooking?”

Since he asked the question while Serena had her mouth full of flaky, buttery pastry so light it might float away, she could only nod and hope her eyes hadn’t crossed with bliss. She decided to try one of the four jams arrayed on the table next.

“Have you given our discussion any further thought, Mrs. Lombard?” Serena looked up from her feast and he lifted a hand. “I know it is not done to discuss business matters at the breakfast table but I’m afraid I will be leaving later today. I will be away from Rushton for some weeks and hoped to leave any necessary instructions with my man in London before I depart.”

Serena ate a bite of eggs coddled with heavy cream and chunks of ham and wanted to weep. Breakfasts like this were almost enough to make her jump at his offer. She swallowed and wiped her mouth with an exquisitely embroidered napkin. The door opened and the footman deposited her tea.

“May I have a week to consider your offer and draw up a complete proposal?”

“That sounds reasonable. If you accept the work, when would you anticipate beginning?”

“I would move myself and my son here by the end of the month.” That would give her three weeks to make her arrangements.

Lockheart nodded. “I will be in Leeds a week from tomorrow. If you have any questions you may give them to my man of business in London and he will forward them.”

“Excellent. One way or another, you will receive something from me by the end of next week.” Serena looked at the books beside him. “What were you reading when I came in and disturbed you?”

There was a hitch in his expression as he accommodated her change of subject. She had noticed that in their discussion last night. His concentration, when he focused, was total.

He turned the open book around and slid it across the table.

Serena looked down on a two pages filled with utterly incomprehensible mathematical problems. Symbols and formulas of a type she had not imagined could exist. She looked up.

“What is this?”

“These are calculus problems which are published in a journal four times a year. I have them bound into books and study them when I have the time. This is from 1812.”

Serena shook her head, her gaze moving from his face to the numbers, both of them oddly similar in their inscrutability. “You . . . read these journals?”

“Yes.”

She gestured to the pages and then pushed the book back toward him. “Will you tell me what these pages say?”

“Say?”

“Yes, what information do these numbers and symbols communicate to you?”

He took the book and turned it right-side up and gazed down at the page, his eyes flickering rapidly beneath his lowered lids as he surveyed the enigmatic contents.