He vaguely heard Dec’s questions and her answers. His friend would be curious about Gareth’s proximity to the woman. He knew his preference for space between himself and others, his dislike of being touched by strangers, which, for him, meant almost everyone.

She smelled of the outdoors, with a hint of whatever female soap it was she used. He detected the not unpleasant odor of leather and horse mingled with a more feminine scent. Her hands were what one would expect from a woman who did manual labor. The backs of them were square and broader than the rather delicate bone structure of her face would have suggested, the skin a bit chapped, callouses evident on her thumbs, a writing bump on her right middle finger that mirrored the one on Gareth’s left hand. They were not pretty, dainty hands, but he found them mesmerizing.

The last time he had been this near a woman was with Venetia, a woman who could not have been more different.

“And here you see how the lake will follow the contours of the gentle hillside.” Gareth looked at the picture she was referring to, the geometry of her drawing the first thing he noticed.

“Where is the berm you are constructing?”

He felt her jolt beside him.

“It is here,” she traced her thumb nail over a line. “But you can see it better in this drawing.” She flipped the page. “Here.”

Gareth looked at the orientation of the berm and turned back the page, and then looked at the berm again.

“What is it?”

Gareth could hear the anxiety in her voice.

“If the degree of elevation is as you have indicated in this drawing, you will need to shift your berm perhaps fifteen degrees to get the support necessary.” He looked up and found her face only inches from his, a deep notch between her green-gold eyes. This close, he saw fine lines around her eyes, perhaps from squinting, and parentheses around her plump, coral-pink lips. The texture of her skin was quite fascinating. She was golden brown—unfashionably so, he knew—a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her straight, small nose. Her lips were small but shapely, the corners of them invariably curled up in a smile. But not now. Now they were moving, and Gareth had not been paying attention. Instead he’d been imagining his own lips on hers, his tongue delving between them.

“Mr. Lockheart?”

He blinked. “Mrs. Lombard?”

She gave him an uncertain smile. “Will you come down with me tomorrow?” She looked at the watch pinned to the left side of her bodice. “It is too late now, but perhaps we might go in the morning, before they commence work and you could look for yourself?”

Gareth supposed he should. After all, he had never even seen this part of his property before.

“We can leave our trip to the brewery for the day after, Gare.”

Gareth looked up at the sound of Dec’s voice. The Irishman was no longer smiling, which was almost more frightening. He’d known Dec since they were boys—far longer than anyone else in his life—but Declan was an amazingly complex human being and Gareth still could not read or interpret all the other man’s expressions. Except to know he was scheming or planning some sort of mischief.