Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

by Deb Marlowe

  How often she’d imagined him as a warrior of old. He looked every inch of one now, staring so intently down at her in the disappearing light. He reached out for her again—and she gasped at the heat ignited inside her when he grasped her by the waist and lifted her to her feet as easily as if she were a child.

  Somehow her hands had come up. They rested lightly against the thin linen of his shirt. Beneath her fingers she could feel his heartbeat. Her own filled her ears, drowning the comforting lullaby of sleepy bird sound.

  ‘Thank you.’ His simple words vibrated against her fingers, as well as in her ears. They started a chain reaction. She was trembling in the deeper shadow cast by his large form—and then she was caught unaware by something entirely new.

  He smiled.

  A hundred times she’d dreamed of this moment—the instant that he looked at her with more than an ancient weapon on his mind and polite expectation on his face. Now it was here, and it was—shockingly, impossibly—far more thrilling than she had dreamt.

  Never would she have considered that the rarity of his smile might be a good thing, but the thought crossed her mind now. It transformed him completely and captivated her utterly. She was caught. Not frozen. Warmed, rather, by the sunlight that was his pleasure, approval and regard. It stunned her, that smile, and brought to life every fantasy she had ever indulged in. Knights and Vikings paraded behind her eyes, followed quickly by stolen kisses and impassioned embraces. Heat rose to the surface of her skin and she lost herself in the promise and potential and possibility that lived in the creased corner of his eye and the turned-up edge of his mouth.

  Possibility. The word struck a chord inside her that released her from his spell. Her mind began to spin and tumble. She stepped back, smoothed her skirts to hide her confusion, ducked her head to keep from revealing the revolutionary notions erupting inside her.

  ‘Come.’ He gathered up his coat and slung it over his arm. ‘Let’s get you back before Mairi begins to worry.’

  Chloe nodded. The garden was small, not many steps and only a few moments until she could retreat to the privacy of her room.

  ‘How shall we start?’ he asked.

  She barely registered the question, so thick was the congestion of her thoughts and emotions. She drew a deep, steadying breath. Forced herself to focus. ‘I’ve had several notes and cards from various connections in antiquities since I came to Town. I told them all I was only here for a short time and on other business. Except one.’

  He waited.

  ‘An old acquaintance that I must see.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘As luck would have it, he’ll also be the one we should start with.’

  ‘When?’ He was all impatience.

  She understood. They had reached Ashton House again and she felt a similar need for peace and the time to reflect on all that she had just got herself into—and everything further that she had yet to consider.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she answered. ‘Your sister will be at home to visitors in the afternoon. Call then and we will begin.’ She started up towards the door, but paused, suddenly struck by inspiration. ‘Lord Marland,’ she called as she turned back. ‘Do you, by chance, own a phaeton?’

  He frowned. ‘I do.’

  ‘Then please do drive it tomorrow when you come to fetch me.’ She smiled confidingly at him. ‘I do love a fast phaeton.’

  Chapter Six

  Striding away from Cavendish Square, Braedon reached for a fleeting sense of anticipation, lost hold of contentment, failed to keep a grip on even a feeling of satisfaction at eliciting Hardwick’s promise of assistance.

  It made no sense. He’d just greatly increased his chances at obtaining Skanda’s Spear, and although she’d declined to come back to Denning, he’d just assumed that he’d have time and opportunity to convince her otherwise. He should be elated. Or pleased, at least.

  And he would be, if it were not for the near certainty that he might have traded it all for the chance to touch her. His hands flexed again, remembering the slight span of her waist and the urge to slide higher, to explore lush curves and anchor in her mussed hair.

  Hell and damnation. He’d struggled with feelings of betrayal and now they intensified a hundredfold. His old Hardwick had fit so smoothly, easing all the facets of his life. This Hardwick was a danger to his every long-held conviction. She tempted him with soft words and blue eyes shot with gold, until he forgot distance and thought only nearer. Until he forgot to be watchful and instead only watched her—and the sweet turn of her smile and the sway of her hips as she walked.

  And so every positive feeling faded with each step he took away from her and from Ashton House. They stood on uncharted and uneven ground now. No longer the employer, he was no longer in control.

  Oh, he in no way suspected her of angling to compromise him or any such thing. This was Hardwick he was dealing with and she had too much integrity for him to even entertain such a thought. But she was human—and female. It was conceivable—probable—that she might come to expect something in return for her assistance. Something universally mundane, but singularly unsafe, such as conversation. His fists curled. The chance to ask questions.

  He abhorred questions. Hated to be poked at or prodded. For such a thing as a truly innocent question did not exist, did it? Like her seemingly innocuous query about sunsets. There was no answer that did not reveal some ugliness, dredge up a memory that he’d laboured to bury deep. Was he supposed to tell her that he met the sunset with a ritual that had begun as a boy? That he marked the moment as a victory that he’d survived another day—not always intact, but eager for the respite of a few hours when his brother and father would be occupied with food and drink and women?

  Denial and frustration roiled in his gut. He glanced about, eager for an excuse to release it. He’d reached Piccadilly and its more raucous evening crowds, but his size had always decreased the chances of being accosted, even in London’s most dismal neighbourhoods. Tonight, though—he shook out his arms and stamped his foot to feel the reassuring press of the blade hidden in his boot—tonight he would welcome the chance to take his frustrations out on a few unsuspecting thugs.

  He continued, heading east. The fog had thickened here, closer to the river. Images shifted in the mists, seemingly as real as the night-time revellers winking in and out of the vapour. He saw the surprise in Hardwick’s wide eyes when she’d first glimpsed him, the rapid flutter of her pulse, visible in the soft curve of her neck when he’d lifted her from the ground.

  Damn it all to hell and back. Braedon stopped short. A diversion, that was what he needed. And if one wouldn’t present itself, then he would seek it out. He stopped at the next street to gain his bearings—and smiled. A minute’s quick walk and he slipped down a darkened side street, before ducking into a thoroughly disreputable hole aptly named the Tangled Arms.

  The place retained all the gloom, smoke and low-ceilinged glory that he recalled, but the inhabitants proved disappointingly lacklustre. He did his best. He stomped in, snarled his order and cleared a booth of a couple of rough dockworkers with only a look.

  An hour’s worth of glaring challenges had yielded only wary glances, a tired offer from the barmaid and a start of a raging headache. Disgusted, he gave it up as a bad job and headed for home, his priorities shifting to a good brandy capable of wiping away the taste of homebrewed rotgut and the oblivion of sleep.

  * * *

  It was not to be. He’d barely dragged himself into the little-used town house in Bury Street when Dobbs, his creaky London butler, stepped forwards into the dimly lit entry hall.

  ‘There’s been a…delivery, of sorts.’ The old man sketched a short bow and managed to catch the hat that Braedon tossed in his direction.

  ‘It can’t pertain to me,’ he answered on his way to the stairs. ‘Nobody even knows I’m in Town and, frankly, I prefe
r to keep it that way.’ He waved a hand. ‘Just handle things as you normally would. I won’t be here long enough to disrupt your routine.’

  ‘A moment, sir. Perhaps I should rephrase.’ Dobbs cleared his throat. ‘You have visitors, my lord.’

  ‘Visitors?’ Braedon stopped with his foot on the first stair and glanced towards the darkened transom window. ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Well, and it wasn’t this late hour when first we arrived, was it?’ The gravelled voice emerged from a small antechamber, a stout form accompanying it. ‘And a long wait it’s been, too, hasn’t it, with naught but a couple o’ straight-backed chairs and a pot o’ tea?’

  He raised a brow in Dobbs’s direction.

  The butler looked as discomfited as he’d ever seen him. ‘Forgive me, my lord.’ He shifted his stance and stole a glance toward the figure planted on the other side of the hall. ‘I wasn’t sure how you… That is, what I should do.’

  Figures, Braedon corrected himself. The short, comfortably round woman who had addressed him had not come alone. She had a child pressed to her hip. He lolled against her, his face turned into her skirts as if he were asleep on his feet.

  ‘I won’t be leavin’ either, until I’ve had my say,’ she warned.

  She gulped as Braedon approached her, running a nervous eye up the length of him.

  ‘What can I do for you, madam?’

  She clutched the boy with both hands. ‘Are ye the marquess, then?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Ah, good.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I’m Essie Nichols. I’ve brought ye your nevvie.’

  Having no idea what a nevvie might be, Braedon glanced over his shoulder at Dobbs. The butler remained supremely unhelpful, however. He had fixed unblinking eyes on the child.

  He turned back. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Nichols, but I do not understand.’

  ‘Your nevvie,’ she said firmly. ‘And I can’t be taking no for an answer, either.’

  ‘Dobbs?’ He shot the butler a searing demand for translation.

  ‘Sir. I believe the lady means to say…your nephew.’

  The truth didn’t register at first. Braedon frowned and rotated again, ready to inform the woman that she had clearly entrenched herself in the house of the wrong marquess. But she was patting the lad on the back, jostling him awake and urging him to stand straight and greet his uncle.

  A massive yawn emerged from folds of her skirt. Time slowed as the boy turned his head to stare at Braedon out of sleepy eyes.

  Connor’s eyes. And Connor’s nose, slightly elongated. And unmistakably, Connor’s square, solid jaw.

  Nausea and a horrid, instant revulsion nearly staggered him. It took an extreme force of will to hold his position. His instinctive reaction was to step backwards, away from that all-too-familiar regard.

  The woman appeared oblivious. ‘I’ve kept him these two years, lettin’ him do odd jobs about the inn, just as Maggie asked, afore she died.’ She flushed. ‘But business has been off. We missed one too many mortgage payments. The place belongs to the bank now.’

  Braedon tore his gaze from the boy. He had a horrid suspicion where this was leading. He shook his head. ‘Mrs Nichols—’

  ‘We board ship tomorrow evenin’, bound for America,’ she interrupted. ‘My man, my youngest and me. My oldest got herself betrothed and means to stay.’ She gave the boy a nudge. ‘There’s no money for his passage, my lord. Ye’ll have to take him now. It’s time he was back with family.’

  ‘No.’ Braedon did step back now. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, and who else is to take him, then?’ She stuck her hands on her hips. ‘Yer his only kin. Ye can’t think to be denyin’ that, will ye?’

  He stared again at the boy. It was like looking through a window into his past.

  ‘He’s the very picture of yer brother. Anybody that ever met him would say the same.’ She glared. ‘And any number of folk knows about the time he spent with Maggie. Yer brother hisself claimed the boy and dandled him on his knee, right there in the taproom.’

  ‘Wait.’ The boy spoke for the first time, his voice heavy with fatigue, but eager none the less. ‘I’ve something…’ He fished about in his pocket, withdrew his fist and thrust it at Braedon. ‘I’m to show you this. My da gave it to me when I was but small. He always said I was to show it to you, should I meet you and you doubt me.’

  All three adults held their breath as the grubby hand opened. It held a small, carved dog.

  The pain was intense, made worse by the unexpected nature of it. Braedon closed his eyes. How very like Connor to choose an object that would awaken the

  cruellest memories.

  ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’ The boy sounded awake now.

  Braedon fervently wished that he was not awake, that this was all a gin-induced nightmare. ‘It was, once.’

  ‘Well, then, my lord?’ The woman’s voice was laced with expectation.

  He opened his eyes to meet hers. ‘Of course he must be Connor’s son. But he cannot stay. I don’t even live here.’ He gestured at the dimly lit hall, at the parlour adjacent with the covers still over the furniture. ‘The house is half-closed up. It’s no place for a child.’

  ‘It’s a better place than the streets. Better than the poorhouse back home or what passes for an orphanage here in Town, too. In any case, he’s yours now, to do with as you please.’ Mrs Nichols belied the casual

  cruelty of her words as she stepped up beside the boy. She straightened his jacket and gave him an awkward smile. ‘Remember the manners ye been taught. Be a help to his lordship as ye were to us and don’t give him no trouble.’

  His face pinched, the boy nodded.

  With a last squeeze of his thin shoulders, the woman stepped away. She nodded to Braedon and headed for the door.

  ‘My lord?’ Dobbs’s eyes showed nearly white with dread.

  Braedon was in complete sympathy with him. His gaze was locked with the boy’s now. The lad’s remained steady, neither sliding away nor narrowing with threat—so completely unlike his father’s. Still, unwelcome memories flooded him. But so, too, did old knowledge and habits grown rusty. Very deliberately, he drew a breath, closed a door on his feelings of alarm and let familiar numbness creep in.

  ‘Dobbs, get the address of Mrs Nichols’s lodgings, please,’ he ordered woodenly. ‘I’ll arrange for something to be sent for your trouble, ma’am.’

  ‘I do thank ye,’ she said with some relief. ‘We could use it.’

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked the boy.

  ‘Rob.’

  ‘To the kitchens with you, then, Rob. I expect you are hungry. Dobbs will take you.’

  ‘And then?’ The lad raised a belligerent chin. Now that was pure Connor.

  ‘And then I will make arrangements for you. You will stay here until then.’

  Braedon turned away. Turmoil died away as he mounted the steps, roiling emotion calmed. He’d forgotten the relief that came of embracing the numbness. He did more than that now. He opened himself wide and welcomed it, sucked it in with each deeply drawn breath. It was only a matter of time, he knew, before its work would be done and he’d find himself as dead and hollow on the inside as the ring of his boots on the stairs.

  He could scarcely wait.

  Chapter Seven

  He was being watched. Braedon felt it the next afternoon, as he pulled on his driving coat and accepted his gloves. There. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the small form huddled at the base of the rail two storeys up. He didn’t acknowledge the child’s steady regard, but neither did he mind it. Sometime during the long night he had come to realise that the boy’s arrival was serendipitous—and not the disaster he had first feared.

  He had been unbalanced of late, off-kilter, and it had begun the moment he
’d first glimpsed Hardwick in a gown of ocean-blue. At last he’d realised how ridiculous—insupportable, really—it was to allow the shock of her transformation to affect him. And it must have been the shock. For in the end, what had truly changed? So Hardwick was now a pretty girl. Well, he was a marquess with a great deal of experience with pretty girls—and with keeping his balance. All he needed to do was accept her help and hold her at a distance. He’d done it for months at Denning. This need be no different.

  Yes, the boy’s arrival—indeed, the discovery of his existence—was just the shock he’d needed to restore his equilibrium. It had shaken him awake and reminded him who he really was.

  ‘Check the post carefully, Dobbs,’ he instructed now, taking up his hat. ‘Watch for any missives from my stewards and set them aside. We have, what, six estates attached to the marquisate?’

  ‘Seven, if you include the hunting box, my lord.’

  ‘As you say. Surely one of them will have a nice couple or comfortable family willing to take on our unexpected guest.’ He darted his eyes upwards. The slight figure promptly disappeared.

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ Dobbs brightened at the mere mention of the boy’s imminent departure.

  The observation gave Braedon pause. ‘And instruct Mrs Grady to take him shopping. Did he arrive with any clothes other than those on his back?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the butler replied. ‘But there is no need. Mrs Grady and the maids have already raided the attics for a suitable wardrobe.’

  ‘Excellent. Well, then. Order up something special for him, will you? Some tin soldiers, perhaps? Don’t lads enjoy that sort of thing?’ He had no idea. He wondered if he’d ever been a lad at all.

  ‘Of course, sir. I’ll see to it.’

  Braedon took his leave then, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. He went so far as to whistle his way across Mayfair, causing his team’s ears to twitch back at him, and managed to hold on to his good humour even when he saw that Mairi’s parlour was full of chattering women.