Serena opened the sketchbook she was never without. It contained both the sketches she had made of Rushton Park as well as, for some reason, one she had made of its odd owner. It was Gareth Lockheart as he had looked that morning at breakfast—when he had described the appeal of numbers and symbols. In her sketch his hair was wilder, his cravat untied and his coat loose and flapping, as if he were in a cyclone. The drawing made her smile and she shook her head. Oh, she was such a predictable female, attracted to his handsome face and body and intrigued by his remote, untouchable manner. In her saner moments she told herself numbers were the only thing that would bring such a cold man to life. But in the night, when she was alone and remembering the hours they had spent together planning and creating beauty for the grounds around his house, she pictured herself as the key that would unlock him. Like a princess kissing a frozen prince.

She closed the book and her eyes with it, laying her head back against the plush upholstery. She would not have believed such romance remained in her after so many years alone. When was the last time she had looked at a man as a man? Her friend Miles’s face flickered into her mind. It was true Serena could hardly look at anything else when her handsome friend was in the same room, but that was true for most women. But Serena’s initial infatuation with the beautiful man had quickly grown into warm, sisterly affection. It was lucky for Serena that Miles was not the type of man to excite her romantic interest. Oh, he had his share of deep, dark secrets, but he was—by and large—open, social, and sunny. For whatever reason—most likely just sheer stubbornness—Serena had always gravitated toward the shy, inscrutable, or wounded men. Freddie said it was a strong mothering instinct.

“You are the type of woman who should have many children, Serena.” Freddie had told her on more than one occasion, most often when Serena was offering excuses or coming to the rescue of some student who had neither the ability nor enthusiasm to complete a project.

That might be true, but Gareth Lockheart was not a child, and she was not being paid to rescue or save him.

***

It was near dusk when their coach rolled down the long drive that led to Rushton Park.

Oliver had woken up a short time earlier and they’d been staring out the window together. He’d been properly impressed by the mansion.

“Il n'est pas si vieux que la maison du grand-père?”

“No, this is a far newer house than your grandfather’s.” Serena glanced from Nounou to her son. “I think it would be best if you spoke English with me while we are here, Oliver. You may continue to speak French with Nounou when you are in private. However, it is quite rude to speak a language those around you do not speak.”