by Deb Marlowe
‘Yes,’ he said shortly, still trying to work out what had gone wrong. ‘Keller and the workmen all send you their best.’
‘How kind of them!’ Her face lit up. ‘I hope you will do me the favour of sending my fondest regards when you return.’
He grunted. He was damned well going to return her to Denning and she could tell them herself.
Silence descended again and Braedon grappled with the awkward feel of it. Good God, but he’d felt more at home in the midst of fields of Frenchmen intent on skewering him. He’d moved more comfortably through the conniving machinations of Europe’s heads of state. But he’d be damned before he allowed one changeable chit to unsettle him or to distract him from his objective.
An intuitive chit, too, he suspected. He had to wonder if she suspected his motives, for as they reached the quieter streets of Mayfair she began to pick up her pace. By the time they turned off Oxford Street onto Princes Street she was nearly trotting.
She wouldn’t get away that easily. He cleared his throat.
But she’d caught sight of Ashton House ahead and put on a spurt of speed. She raced for the steps of the house like a thoroughbred heading for the finish.
‘Thank you so much for the escort, my lord.’ Breathless, she refused to meet his eye. ‘How late it has grown. I must hurry up to change. Will you be joining us for dinner, then?’ she asked, taking the first step.
‘No.’
She murmured a platitude and turned to go. Cursing under his breath, Braedon reached out and grasped her arm.
And nearly had his fingers singed off for his
temerity—by a jolt that hit him right through his glove and her sleeve. A jolt that travelled in jagged sparks from his fingertips and along his arm. It took a detour through his chest for the purpose of stealing his breath before striking straight down to set his nether regions to twitching. He snatched his hand back.
Hell and damnation, had he never touched Hardwick before? In all the time they had spent together? He couldn’t recall, but worse was the uncertainty that it might not have mattered—before.
‘Listen, Hardwick. I think perhaps you have an inkling of why I have come.’ He ignored the aftershocks coursing through him and the strain on her face and ploughed ahead. ‘I want you to come back to Denning.’ He tucked both hands behind his back and rocked back on his boot heels. ‘Come back and take up your position again. You were comfortable there, were you not? And damned good at it, too. Come back—and help me finish what we started.’
* * *
Chloe heaved a sigh and ducked her head, unable to meet Lord Marland’s expectant gaze. She shouldn’t have tried to outrun his request. She’d known it was coming, almost as soon as she’d turned to find him glowering at her over Madame Hobert’s kitchen door, but she’d been too distracted to come up with a polite response.
They’d all been distracted, she rather thought, by the startling contrast he made, looming darkly against the delicate pastel background of the shop. Good heavens, but she’d only been gone a few weeks and already she’d forgotten his utter masculinity, the sheer height and breathtaking width of him. Even dressed more formally than she was used to—in Town, she supposed, he could not get away with leaving a trail of neckcloths and waistcoats behind him—he took her breath away. A hundred other gentlemen might be wandering the streets of London this moment in buff breeches, black superfine and shining Hessians, but none of them made fashion so superfluous, or made a woman look past it to the powerfully elegant form beneath.
None of them moved in quite the same way he did, either. Not a wolf set among the sheep of the city’s populace, but something more primitive and sleek. A jungle cat, perhaps, prowling toward the West End. Walking at his side, she’d felt at once supremely protected and in undeniable peril.
He shifted and she realised that he waited, still, for her answer. And grew more impatient by the second. She recalled her wandering thoughts and looked him in the eye. ‘I thank you for the compliments, my lord, and for the offer, but I am afraid that I cannot agree to it.’ Turning, she made to enter the house.
‘Wait.’
She glanced back to find his expression fixed. ‘If the issue is how you have…changed…’ he waved a hand ‘…then of course you may continue to please yourself.’
The set of his jaw told her that pleasing herself in this case would be akin to punishing him. The realisation helped to harden her resolve.
‘I’m afraid you have it backwards, Lord Marland,’ she said quietly. ‘It is because of all the ways that I have not changed that I must decline.’
She glanced away. At all costs, she had to keep him from realising the terrible truth of that statement. For parts of her were rising in rebellion, urging her to give in, to make him happy and go back to the security of Denning and her role as Hardwick.
She shook her head. Watching him closely, she took a step up. Away. She could not go back. Would not.
He let out a huff of irritation. ‘Fine. But plague take you, Hardwick. I wish you would stop looking at me like that.’
She frowned. ‘Like what?’
‘Like I’m about to devour you. Like you are afraid of me,’ he said roughly. ‘All I am asking for is a conversation.’ He placed his fingers to his temple and pressed. ‘I don’t suppose it will kill either one of us.’
She swallowed. Now he wished to talk to her? The irony was painful, but she supposed it was the least she could do. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Not in there.’ He scowled at the house. ‘I don’t want Mairi sticking her nose in again.’
Chloe bit back a laugh. ‘Where, then? And when?’
‘Now.’ He cast a despairing look up and down the wide street, but brightened as a lady opened the gate from within the circular garden in the middle of the square.
‘Just a moment,’ he called to her as she struggled with her easel and canvas. ‘Allow me to assist you.’ He left Chloe and rushed to hold the gate wide and help the lady balance her load. Brushing off her thanks, he cast a cheeky grin in Chloe’s direction and swept a bow to indicate she join him.
She went and, nodding her head, took the arm he offered.
‘Come along, deeper in,’ he urged. ‘I don’t want my sister catching sight of us and interfering.’ He cast a disparaging eye upon her new bonnet. ‘And she’ll know those feathers and furbelows at once.’
Chloe tugged her arm away and glanced around. The evening light was fading and shadows deepened the gloom here beneath the trees. ‘I hope you are not bringing me in here merely to malign my millinery choices, my lord.’
‘What? Lord, no.’ He gave her hat another dubious glance. ‘As far as I’m concerned you are free to don breeches and boots and masquerade as a Bond Street Beau, should you wish.’
‘Thank you, no. I don’t wish.’ She’d had enough of masquerades, though she didn’t know how to make him understand it.
‘Ah, this should do.’ They’d reached the centre and the equestrian statue of the Duke of Cumberland. Several stone steps surrounded the plinth. Lord Marland stood on the first one and tucked his chin into his chest. Chloe watched, fascinated, as he began to squirm. A minute of struggle and a few gratifying flexes of his broad chest and he had wiggled out of his coat, unaided. ‘For you,’ he said, flourishing the garment and spreading it over the middle step. ‘Please, have a seat.’
His scent drifted over her as he repeated his earlier sweeping gesture of invitation. They struck her hard, those hints of bay and citrus and something vaguely alcoholic. She shivered even as his grin lit up the dusky clearing.
‘Good God, but it feels good to be rid of that thing.’
She laughed at his fervent tone and sat. Her heart pounded, sounding loud in her ears as she watched him settle next to her. Was this not exactly what she’d wished for a thousand times, during those months at Denning?
The chance to talk—to really talk to Lord Marland?
She raised her gaze to his. His colour was high, his expression…wary?
A nearby rustle of skirts snapped their spines straight, their eyes apart. A young lady strode by, her maid trotting behind. The girl cast a mildly curious glance over them, but didn’t alter her pace or pause.
The pair passed on towards the north gate, their voices fading. The marquess relaxed, leaning his elbows onto the step behind him. The vivid colours of the garden were fading with the light, leaving a singular sense of intimacy. Glad for the respite, Chloe drank in the isolation, allowed the birds’ sleepy chirps to ease her nerves. Gradually the familiar, companionable silence that she was used to sharing with the marquess drifted over them.
‘Ah, there it is,’ Lord Marland said on a long exhale.
She tilted her head, questioning.
He shook his head, closed his eyes. He began to breathe deeply, as if he could take in the peace of the scene with his every breath.
Chloe, on the other hand, only wished to observe him. Absorb him, like water through thirsty pores. She was terribly aware of the size of him, sitting so close. His scent made a haven as it stole over and around her.
She’d seen him like this before, she realised. Still and at peace with his surroundings. Always in the evening. Outside or at a window. And always alone.
‘You enjoy the sunset,’ she observed abruptly. ‘Does it hold a special meaning for you?’
She’d shattered the spell—and his peace. He opened one eye and frowned at her—a serious look of displeasure. If she had still been his Hardwick, she had no doubt that he would have reprimanded her.
She thought he meant to ignore her instead. Avoid the question. But he sighed with resignation and closed his eyes again. ‘I like to take a moment in the evening,’ he said. ‘To pause and reflect. To revel in the victory of making it through another day.’
His answer only raised more questions. He did not mean to give her the chance to ask them, though. He opened his eyes and sat up, dispersing any remaining tranquillity of the moment with a sharp frown.
‘The new wing has slipped woefully behind schedule,’ he pronounced.
‘What, already?’ Surprise made her ignore his accusatory tone.
He nodded. ‘The porcelain work on the cabinet for the Japanese pole arm is still not complete. The workroom is a chaotic mess and progress on the gallery has ground to a halt.’
Chloe blinked. ‘What’s happened in the gallery?’ she asked, unable to deal with more than one of these complaints at a time.
‘The craftsmen bicker like children!’ he huffed. ‘I don’t know how you got a day’s work out of them. Your Italian stuccatore has quarrelled with one of the carpenters and neither will finish the job!’
‘Which carpenter?’
He merely blinked.
She sighed. ‘It will be Mr Forrest, most likely. Listen,’ she urged, ‘it is simple enough. You must take
Signor D’Alesio aside and assure him that, despite his personal shortcomings, Mr Forrest is the only artisan capable of work that will compliment his own genius. Then you must take the carpenter aside and give him the same assurances. You must encourage them to co-operate for the sake of their work.’
‘That’s how you convinced them to get along?’
Chloe rolled her eyes. ‘These men are artists, my lord, and can have the temperaments that go along with it. They require these little comforts.’ She bit back a smile. ‘What did you do? Take up a broadsword and threaten to skewer them?’
‘I considered it,’ he answered. In all seriousness, it appeared. He fixed her with a steady look. ‘I won’t lie, Hardwick. It’s all falling apart without you. Are you sure you won’t consider returning?’
Why did this question not get easier each time it came? She wished he hadn’t asked it. The marquess
exerted a nearly irresistible pull. His even gaze spoke to her of contentment and security. She wanted to enjoy the gentle, tidal tug of excitement that he stirred within her—without the struggle of internal debate. But he was asking—and he was asking Hardwick. And, perhaps because she was being forced to make her decision yet again, she was realising that Hardwick was truly behind her.
She sat a little straighter. It was true. Hardwick was gone and in her place was…who? She didn’t quite know. A fledgling, perhaps. A young woman who had discovered in the last weeks that she loved a ride in a fast phaeton and that she hated stewed herring. Who had found only today that she enjoyed baking—when it was confined to an afternoon’s activity.
Lord Marland didn’t know this girl—and Chloe wasn’t at all sure that she wished for him to do so. Having just discovered her, she was feeling rather protective.
She looked up at the marquess and suddenly it was easier to give him her answer. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I will not.’
‘It is a matter of money, then?’ he growled. ‘A problem easily solved, then. Consider your salary doubled.’
She felt her face colour furiously. ‘It is not a financial matter.’
‘Then what?’ he demanded.
She cut her glance away for an instant. ‘I fear that is my business, sir.’
Frowning, he slumped backwards. Several conflicting emotions showed on his face before he settled on one of contrition. ‘I suppose I should beg your forgiveness.’ She jumped as he suddenly pounded his fist on the stone. ‘Damnation, you must know I hated to ask!’
She considered. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’ She’d never known him to ask for help—or anything else—from anyone. Denning must indeed be in disorder for him to take such a step. The image in her head gave her pause for a moment, before she pushed it away.
‘Yet I had to try. The situation demanded it.’
Her own patience began to wear thin. ‘Lord Marland, are you attempting to convince me to apologise? Because I assure you, I shall not. I have every right to leave a situation I am no longer comfortable in—even yours. And I beg you not to ask again, for I have no intention of going backwards.’
She skidded back in alarm as he suddenly launched himself from the pedestal. In a blur of strong, smooth motion he went from reclining beside her to towering above. Chloe stared in astonishment as he began to pace in ever-lengthening strides before her.
She couldn’t help but flinch when he halted abruptly and pierced her with his fierce gaze. ‘Very well, then. Enough about Denning. But you must brace yourself, or prepare to forgive me. For I’m determined to importune you about another matter.’
He stepped forwards and crouched down. He was so close—enough so that she could feel the heat emanating from him and see the need conflicting with pride in his expression. He reached for her hands and clutched them tightly together in his.
She made a sound, of shock perhaps, and he dropped them immediately. They fell to her lap and he leaned in further, bracing himself on the stone on either side of her.
‘It’s the Spear, Hardwick. Skanda’s Spear. It’s here. In London.’
That caught her attention. ‘You’ve had it confirmed?’
His eyes shifted. ‘Nearly.’
‘More whispers,’ she said, suddenly impatient.
‘The whispers have turned to shouts. I had several letters of elation and jubilation. Everyone interested in antiquities was abuzz with the news. And then—silence. My further inquiries have gone unanswered or ignored.’
Chloe understood. ‘It will be a race, then. They will all be after it.’
‘Yet I mean to have it.’ His voice had grown rough. ‘There are no words to explain how much I need to have that spear for my collection.’
She stared in wonder. She’d never seen him like this, so open and raw. She felt trapped by his arms and the urgency of his emotions, yet she felt no urge to escape.
&nbs
p; ‘It won’t be easy,’ she whispered.
‘That’s why I need your help. You have amassed a web of connections that would put a spider to shame. I know I’ve no right to do this. And you have no inclination to listen, perhaps. But I’m asking for your assistance anyway.’
And she discovered with some surprise that she wished to give it.
He’d always been so far away when she had been Hardwick. The distance between them had come by unspoken, but mutual agreement. She’d broken that silent pact when she had destroyed the barrier that was her stark persona. She’d done it even knowing that the consequence would be the loss of Denning, of their working relationship.
Now she saw that he had lowered his own blockade, if only a little. This was a rare glimpse of the man behind the remote and forbidding Marauding Marquess.
She found that she wanted to see more.
And yet…she forced herself pause. What of her own mission?
It took but a moment for her to know one thing with certainty. Chloe did have something in common with Hardwick: she wanted to know Lord Marland nearly as intensely as she wanted to know herself.
She straightened—and blushed when she came within inches of his encompassing, waiting form.
‘I will make a vow, should you require it, right here and now.’ He pitched his tone low and earnest. ‘I will not allow the search to hinder the help that you are giving to Mairi.’ The look he ran down the front of her made her feel restless and hotly aware. ‘And though I cannot begin to understand it, I promise that I will not interfere with your…transformation.’
Grateful, she nodded.
He drew breath. ‘I—’
She placed her fingers against his mouth. His lips were soft. Like silk. Warm, living silk. His breath stopped—and she found herself pleased. ‘Yes.’ The rest of her words had disappeared.
‘Truly?’
The one-word question emerged on a searing breath. The sensitive pads of her fingers picked up the heat and sent it winging along the roadmap of her nerves, awakening every cell within her. She’d never been so aware of every part of herself—or of the nearly painful sting of connection between them. ‘I’ll help you find the Spear.’