Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

by Deb Marlowe

  Lord Marland hesitated.

  ‘It won’t do you any good to tip your hand too early, either,’ the older man said crossly. ‘There is a great deal of talk about your collection and even more bitterness over some of your triumphant acquisitions.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest of them are likely to close ranks against you, but if you are willing to take the chance…’

  The marquess stared at her. Chloe lifted a shoulder. ‘Can we not go along with it?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘He’s likely right about building resentment. And while he may be old and eccentric, he’s also our best chance for obtaining solid information on the status of the Spear.’

  After a long moment of scrutiny, he nodded. ‘If we are to keep this meeting clandestine,’ Lord Marland called to the signor, ‘then leaving my phaeton to wait outside is counterproductive. I’ll send my groom on.’ He looked to Chloe again. ‘If you will not mind the walk back.’

  ‘Of course not.’ She nodded and raised her voice. ‘The signor is right and we must do what we can to protect his peace of mind.’

  It took but a moment for the marquess to speak to his man. He re-entered the shop to the tinkling accompaniment of the bells and made his way to the back.

  ‘Dio mio,’ the signor groaned as Lord Marland slid into the dark corner. ‘Even this is not enough to disguise your bulk.’ He reached out and pinched the marquess on the arm. ‘What do they feed the boys in the north?’

  ‘Why do we not just retire to the back room, signor?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘No, no,’ he grumped in answer. ‘There is a window on to the alley. It is one of the reasons I took these rooms—for the light. So many delicate pieces—I must have light to work. And these foolish treasure seekers grow desperate. The shop is closed and they sneak around to the back and pound upon the glass. The shop is open and they sneak around, hoping to find something that I do not have. It is a misery, I tell you.’

  ‘I have no wish to inconvenience you. Nor do I have time to waste. Perhaps we had best go then, if you have nothing to say about the Spear. Hardwick?’ The marquess gestured towards the door. ‘Traffic is growing thick outside. We might still catch my groom.’

  ‘I did not say I had nothing to say!’ The old man rolled his eyes. ‘I said I had nothing to say to them.’

  Chloe bit back a grin. Lord Marland merely crossed his arms and waited.

  ‘The first thing I must tell you is that your wisest course would be to abandon your quest right now.’

  Signor Pisano gave a shudder. ‘For many years I have heard tales of this Spear. Quiet rumblings and rumours, mostly. In all that time I have only heard of despair coming to those that possess it.’

  ‘Is it the curse that you speak of?’ Chloe asked. ‘I confess, I do not know the details, but I am surprised that you would lend it credence.’

  The old man nodded. ‘Anyone with experience will tell you that most of these tales—curses or hauntings or ill omens—are nonsense, often invented to drive up the value of a piece.’

  ‘Most?’ Lord Marland prodded.

  ‘Si.’ The signor drew a deep breath. ‘I have met every sort of character in my long years in this field. Now I speak of one man in particular. He was not a good man,’ he said bleakly. For a moment he held silent. ‘He came from the East. He knew the value of fear. He inspired it often and easily—and he never failed to make a profit from it.’ He raised his gaze and met her own. ‘And yet, the only thing I ever knew him to be afraid of was Skanda’s Spear.’

  Silence hung heavy after his pronouncement, but Signor Pisano was speaking volumes with his gaze. Chloe started when the shop bell rang out again, sharp and impatient.

  ‘Pisano!’ a new voice called. ‘Come out here at once! I would speak with you!’

  The signor shot Lord Marland a look of accusation and disgust, then his visage wiped clean, he stepped around the opened wardrobe door and turned to greet his customer. ‘Ah, Mr Laxton, such a surprise, to see you again so soon. I shall be pleased to help you, just as soon as I have finished with this lovely couple.’

  Laxton! Chloe took a step deeper into the shadows, closer to the marquess. She lifted a finger to her lips and Lord Marland, understanding, nodded. Laxton was another collector, rich as Croesus, due to his father’s luck with diamonds in South Africa, and ruthless in his pursuit of a piece. He and Hardwick had clashed several times in the past, and he was still smarting furiously over her victory in obtaining the Japanese pole arm for the marquess.

  ‘I won’t be put off, Pisano,’ Laxton snarled. ‘Word is racing through the streets that Marland was seen entering your shop this morning. I hope you have not forgotten who your best customer might be. I’ve dropped a damned good amount of money here. You had better not be holding out on me, in favour of him.’

  Chloe bit her lip. The man could not see her or the marquess, she was certain, due to the wardrobe door and the dim light, but she turned and began to examine the stacked paintings leaning against the wall. If she needed to, she could lift one to cover her face, or Lord Marland’s.

  ‘You wound me, sir, believing sordid rumour over my own word. I told you, I know nothing of Skanda’s Spear. And so I should tell the Marauding Marquess, should he ever grace my humble establishment with his patronage. Now, if you will excuse me, this young lady and her husband are searching for some artwork for their new home.’ The signor turned his back on the man. He waggled his eyebrows dramatically in Chloe’s direction and pointed towards the curtain leading to the back.

  ‘They can damned well look over your stacks of musty paintings on their own,’ Laxton demanded. ‘I want you to go over this list with me. It is a reckoning of all the previous owners of the Spear that I have been able to track down. See if you can add to the tally.’

  Signor Pisano sighed. ‘Do forgive me, my fine lady,’ he said turning to face Chloe. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I see to Mr Laxton. I believe he will not be staying long.’ He started to turn away, but then stopped, his face brightening. ‘Ah, but I have been struck with an idea. It grieves me that you have found nothing to please you, but I have been assembling a collection that might interest you. I have been working on them in the back room, preparing them for display, but I would not mind if you stepped back there to have a look. Yes—right through that curtain. First door on the right.’ In front of him, where Laxton could not see, he made shooing motions with his hands.

  Chloe looked to Lord Marland. A storm brewed over his brow. His fists were clenched and he looked in no way inclined to go along with the signor’s ruse. She bit her lip. She’d seen a boxing match once, at the village fair. And right now the marquess resembled nothing so much as a pugilist ready to step from his corner and pummel his opponent.

  She scowled and shook her head at him. Greatly daring, she reached out and put her hand on his arm. She murmured a faint assent to Signor Pisano and tugged the marquess through the curtain.

  His coat was of the softest superfine, but the arm beneath was rock-hard and radiating tension. He yanked away from her as they stepped along a narrow corridor and into the more brightly lit workroom.

  Chloe closed the door and pressed her ear to it. Only the faintest murmur of the men’s voices was audible from here. Inside, the marquess began to pace with the restless grace of a caged tiger. She leaned against the door for a moment, waiting for the strength of the hard wood beneath her fingers to replace the echoing feel of his flesh.

  At last she turned to him. ‘Shall we go out the back, do you think?’

  Chapter Eight

  Braedon was feeling neither calm nor aloof. Laxton’s effrontery had got his blood up, triggering his competitive spirit and stirring up a maddening surge of anger at the thought of the man getting his hands on the Spear that was meant for him.

  He deliberately embraced the turbulent emotions. They made such a welcome distraction from his unn
erving reaction to Hardwick. A blushing Hardwick, who had gone nearly the same charming shade of pink as her gown when Signor Pisano urged her to leave him behind for a husband and babies.

  Babies. Hardwick. The mind boggled.

  Though his mind—and various other parts of him as well—could readily imagine the process of getting children on her. Especially in her latest incarnation. Those softly abundant curves, that falling twist of ebony hair. This was what she’d hidden from him all of these months, damn her. The thought pricked like needles of frustration under his skin and sent him pacing around the surprisingly spacious workroom.

  ‘Shall we go out the back, do you think?’ she asked from the door.

  The question brought him back, forced him to focus on their predicament. He spun about. ‘I was under the impression that the signor had more to tell us about the Spear, before we were interrupted.’ He frowned. ‘But you know him best. Did you come away with the same idea?’

  Silent, she nodded.

  ‘Then we stay.’ He allowed all the turmoil inside of him to be expressed as harsh severity. ‘I have no wish to bring trouble to your friend, but we cannot fail at this, Hardwick. I don’t care if Laxton and a hundred others are after the Spear. I have to have it.’

  She breathed deeply. ‘Why?’

  Braedon’s breath began to come faster. The question flummoxed him—and he was damned well getting tired of being flummoxed by Hardwick. ‘Because it belongs in the collection.’

  Her gaze remained steady. ‘Yes, so you’ve said. But why?’

  His fists tightened. His torso began to vibrate with the force of his irritation. He wished, suddenly and intently, for the feel of a blade in his hand. For a skilled opponent and the chance to spend his frustration in blood and sweat and the clash of steel. ‘I would vastly prefer not to discuss the reasons why. It is a family matter.’

  ‘I see.’ She nodded and moved away from the door. A long worktable occupied the centre of the room. She paused in front of it and kept her gaze fixed on the items scattered across it. ‘Families can be so polarising, can they not? You and I are perfect examples of both ends of the spectrum. My family is gone now, but I spent my life trying to stay close to them. Yours is gone, too, but even still you try to push them away.’

  Braedon gaped at her. This was it. Exactly what he’d feared when he’d been forced to ask for her help rather than command it. Prying questions. Conjectures. The fact that hers were remarkably accurate conjectures only made everything worse.

  She stilled, her fingers gripping the table before her. He thought at first that the objects in front of her had captured her attention. He moved closer. Spread over the table lay a collection of Lover’s Eye’s—those miniature portraits of just the eye of a loved one that had been so popular at the end of the last century.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  She made a cutting gesture with her hand. ‘Listen,’ she breathed.

  He lifted his chin. There. Male voices approaching the door, one of them unmistakably Signor Pisano’s, raised in protest.

  Braedon did not hesitate. A low, plush seat occupied the corner next to the fire. He gripped Hardwick’s hand and dragged her bodily over to it. He seated himself and positioned her standing before the chair, facing him and blocking his view of the door.

  She went willingly. Her head was cocked, her attention focused on the signor’s suddenly audible words. He must be right outside.

  ‘Your paranoia is getting the better of you, Mr Laxton,’ the old man complained. ‘That is a perfectly ordinary couple in there. Valued customers. I won’t have you disturbing them.’

  ‘And I won’t have you deceiving me. I don’t know what prompted me to remember that Marland’s much-vaunted assistant is a woman, but if I find you’ve concealed the pair of them I will ruin you, Pisano. I’ll blacken your name so thoroughly that collectors will dig through rubbish heaps themselves before buying anything from you.’ The door rattled. ‘Now move out of my way, old man, before you are hurt.’

  Hardwick, panic in her eyes, began to step away.

  Braedon grasped her, held her in place. ‘Bend down,’ he ordered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bend. Down. Now.’ He tugged on her arm until she was forced to move closer and her knees touched his. He kept pulling until she was bent over at the waist, forced to brace her hands on either side of the chair. Her face was positioned mere inches from his.

  Behind them, the door opened.

  ‘Of course I wish you to be happy, dear heart.’ Braedon stared into Hardwick’s dark eyes and pitched his voice seductive and low. ‘But why on earth should I pay for a pretty portrait of some stranger’s eye when my wife has such a lovely pair of her own?’ He ran his hand slowly up the length of her arm. Lightly, he circled her shoulder before spreading his hand across the top of her back. ‘Instead, if you are fond of the notion, why do we not hire someone to paint me your beautiful eye as a keepsake?’

  Comprehension dawned on Hardwick’s face. Only silence echoed in the room behind her.

  He couldn’t see Laxton, but Braedon guessed that the man was indulging in a prime view of Hardwick’s behind. Let him. It couldn’t compare to his own vantage, so close to her flushed expression—or the peek at her lush bosom afforded by her gaping bodice.

  ‘Or better yet,’ he purred, ‘we might commission a portrait of a more…interesting portion of your

  anatomy?’

  She had the heart for it. She tried to play along. But her colour was high and her pupils had gone wide and dark with excitement, nerves…and something that looked alarmingly like yearning. She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged but a breathless sound of agreement.

  He felt breathless himself. But he forged on and did what he’d spent weeks trying not to envision, what he’d been lying to himself about, what he’d wanted to do since she first waltzed down his stairs in a shifting gown of green-blue. He reached up, wound his other arm around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss—long, demanding and deep.

  For just a moment, she forgot herself, forgot their audience and stiffened in shock. He didn’t let up. He tugged her again, urged her to settle astride his lap and enfolded her in his arms.

  Abruptly, she thawed. Her small hands left his shoulders to curl around his neck. She settled herself more thoroughly against his pounding groin and opened her mouth before the onslaught of his.

  What utter madness. This was Hardwick hovering over him, trapped in the weight of his embrace, capturing him with her irresistible mix of innocence and devastating sensuality. His brain scrambled to get the message through, but it seemed the rest of him refused to listen.

  Contained? Aloof? Surely Braedon had never heard of such concepts. He was thoroughly anchored in this moment, on fire, alight with passion and with the need to burrow closer, feel more. He deepened the kiss, sent his tongue seeking hers. She made a sound at the back of her throat, a low growl of surprise and approval. And then she responded. Willingly, she entwined her tongue with his. Her fingers trailed up the front of him until she cupped his jaw with her dainty hand. The lightest touch, the most innocent caress, yet a slow twist began inside him, a tangle of something deep and insistent.

  Something treacherous. Something completely unwise and even more dangerous. And yet he was helpless against it.

  A throat cleared behind her. ‘As you see, Mr Laxton, there is no conspiracy. Merely a young and happy newlywed couple.’

  Laxton grumbled his answer, but the door closed.

  They were left alone once more. With an extreme force of will, Braedon broke the kiss.

  Hardwick blinked down at him, unfocused. Her gaze fixed on his lips. He returned the favour; she looked mussed and adorable—and terrifyingly—like she wanted more.

  ‘Well, then,’ she said shakily, ‘I think we showed Mr Laxton.
’

  He grimaced. ‘Not yet.’ He gripped her arms, lifted and set her back on unsteady feet. ‘But we will. It is only a matter of time.’

  * * *

  ‘It is only a matter of time,’ Signor Pisano said on a sigh, easing the door closed behind him again, ‘before they all discover that you are here and that you are also after the Spear.’

  Chloe, huddling across the room at the window, held silent. Let the marquess answer. He’d done something to her with that kiss, broken her like Pandora’s box. She was occupied enough trying to piece herself back together. Refocusing on the reasons why they were here was beyond her—as was stuffing a torrent of dangerous emotions back under lock and key.

  ‘True, of course,’ the marquess admitted. ‘But it would be to our advantage if we could delay their discovery.’ He pushed away from the far edge of the mantel, where he had retreated—and stayed—after their…encounter.

  She gripped the windowsill and frantically held back a peal of ironic, slightly unhinged laughter. He had no difficulty moving past that kiss, while she still shook with the aftermath of so much blazing passion. She had lost herself completely to it. But for him it had been no more than a means to an end.

  That wasn’t the worst of it. She’d come apart, and heady and addictive—if unrequited—desire was not the only evil to be released through the cracks in her soul. Shards of her new-found confidence lay scattered at her feet. The fear that she’d tried so hard to subdue swelled suddenly with new life.

  She pressed her lips together. How arrogant she had been, hoping to change his behaviour. How blind she had been to consequences of changing hers. She’d convinced herself to embrace opportunity—even persuaded herself that it might exist between the two of them. Yet foolishly, only now did she consider another possibility: that Lord Marland could hurt her. Terribly. If she allowed it.