“It sounds perfect.” He turned to Sandy, who again had his glass raised to his lips. “Will you recall everything Mrs. Lombard said, Mr. Featherstone?”

Sandy gulped down a mouthful of brandy, coughed, and set down his glass. His eyes slid in Serena’s direction and then snapped back to his employer. “If I do not, I’m sure Mrs. Lombard will be able to tell me in greater detail.”

Mr. Lockheart turned back to her. “You have several ideas I approve of, ma’am. Would you be able to implement such plans without further consultation with Mr. Beech?”

Serena’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you asking me to design your gardens and park, Mr. Lockheart?”

“Yes.”

“But haven’t you an agreement with Mr. Beech?” Serena would hate to gain a reputation for poaching commissions.

He continued to regard her with his flat, disorienting gaze. “I have not engaged Mr. Beech, but asked for his bid. He would not go uncompensated for the work he has done. Is Mr. Beech your only objection to accepting such work?”

“I have no experience with anything this large.”

Still he did not speak.

And I’m a woman, or don’t you care? Or haven’t you noticed. Good Lord! Design an entire estate’s grounds? Why, that would be—

“Do you think you could accomplish what you described, ma’am?”

Serena felt a flutter of anticipation at the thought of being paid to experiment with such interesting concepts at someone else’s expense. It would be a creative endeavor that would be beyond her dreams—and also one that would be a glorious fit with her talents. She could design a garden to showcase her work, rather than the other way around.

She looked up at his impassive face. “Yes, Mr. Lockheart, I believe I could.”

***

Gareth could hardly believe his good luck. He could dispense with Beech’s irritating presence and deal only with the woman. True, he thought, spooning soup into his mouth and casting a glance across at her, she was rather odd. Oh, she was not odd looking. Indeed, she was attractive, if one discounted her wild mass of hair which seemed in danger of escaping its moorings and her worn, unflattering green gown. But it was not her appearance so much as the entirety of . . . well, her. She belonged to a type of person who had always mystified him: good-humored, quick to smile, laughing easily, but obviously not unintelligent for all her humor and easy ways.

And then there was the fact she was a woman who worked with not only plants, but stone. Gareth did not know of any other woman who did such a thing. Of course he did not know any other sculptors. He had, however, met more than a few stone-cutters in the course of his business dealings, and none of those were women.

She appeared to have no trouble readjusting her expectations according to a change in circumstance. In Gareth’s experience such boldness—such fearless independence and fluidity of thinking—was not common in his dealings with women. Although Gareth would be the first to admit his dealings with women had been shockingly few during a life that spanned three and half decades.