Page 39 of A Figure of Love

“I have been sensing it for some time. It is seven years we have been lovers, Gareth.”

He nodded. It was a long time, yet that first night was as fresh in his mind as if it had been yesterday. He felt an ache of something—regret? Sadness?—as he looked in her blue eyes. Eyes that shielded their contents from the world as skillfully as his. They were two of a kind, able to give affection but not love.

“Her name is Serena Lombard.”

As usual, Venetia knew everything. “Ah, the sculptor.”

“You have seen her work?”

“Not only that, I have commissioned her work, not that she knows where it went.” Venetia gestured to a sculpture that was perhaps three feet tall. He had noticed it before, but never looked closely. He stood and went to it.

It was a woman, the stone grainy, rather than smooth, the eyes heavy lidded and long; she wore an odd headdress with a serpent crown.

“It is Seshat, the Egyptian scribe of the gods.”

Gareth saw a sticklike item clenched in one hand. “What is she holding?”

“A palm-leaf rib, which the ancients were said to use as quills.”

He brushed the back of his knuckles across the statue’s shoulder. “Limestone?”

“Yes.”

The statue was alien and had an odd kind of potency that drew one’s eyes. It took some effort to pull his gaze away and resume his seat.

“Why did you engage her?”

“Need you ask? A woman sculptor? Naturally I had to champion her cause. Why did you hire her?”

He shrugged. “Featherstone or Beech chose her; I do not know which. I have engaged her to design the pleasure gardens around Rushton Park.”

“I knew she occasionally designed small town gardens but nothing so vast as a country estate.”

“She initially resisted, saying the project was too large. But something must have changed her mind.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Indeed.”

Gareth frowned. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Do you really not know, Gareth?”

“I can only assume—based on your sly expression—you believe her decision has something to do with me.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“She is the daughter-in-law of a duke, and an accomplished and attractive woman.” She cocked her head and Gareth sighed. “I can see you are intent on teaching me a lesson, Venetia, and employing the Socratic Method to do so. Why not just spell it out for me, I am a simple man.”

“Oh, bosh! Shame on you for trying to sham me, Gareth.”

He shrugged and took a sip, too unsettled to play games with her. Games she was far better at playing in any case.

“She is an exceptionally vibrant woman, and . . . demonstrative and loving—at least with her son.” He gave her a pointed look. “You know how it is with me—you are the same. I cannot give her those things, nor can I be a proper father to her son.”

“You are a wealthy, powerful, and attractive man, Gareth. You are also loyal and caring, as much as you deny it. That is an assessment from a woman who knows men. Perhaps I am jaded, but I do not think much of romantic love. Love is selfish and, unlike passion, has expectations beyond the moment. I know you are a good friend, and friendship—in my opinion—is far more valuable than what you think of as love.”

Gareth wanted to believe her, but it was not his way to accept any conclusion without proof. But Venetia had an answer for that, as well, as if she knew his mind. Which he thought she might, at least better than anyone he’d ever met, and that included Declan.

“Even if you reject that argument, there are others that are equally, if not more, persuasive. She is a widow who I believe supports herself and her son without the assistance of her husband’s family. It is not inconceivable she would like a husband to share her burdens—or remove them entirely. She would give you the connections to society you have long wanted and you clearly find her attractive. What is the problem?”