Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

by Deb Marlowe

  Perhaps some of her resentment had escaped only to find a home with Signor Pisano. Her old friend was favouring the marquess with a hard look. ‘It will only be a matter of time before you find yourself slit from stem to stern with one of your own blades, my lord, should I ever see you touch Chloe in that manner again.’

  ‘Signor!’ Chloe gasped. ‘Please!’ The shock of his temper was what she needed. She had changed her behaviour, indeed, her entire approach to life. She had already made the decision not to be ruled by fear—she could not go back now.

  Reaching for him, she left her retreat near the window and crossed to her old friend. ‘It was a simple kiss, nothing more. A ruse, concocted to protect you and your reputation, you must remember. Of course it will not happen again.’

  ‘Simple? Bah! It looked quite complicated from where I was standing.’

  ‘Well, it was not,’ she insisted. ‘It is not. I have left the marquess’s employ, do you not recall? Once we have obtained the Spear our association will end and we will be going our separate ways.’ She ignored the stab of pain the words brought on. She’d already conquered this hurt once. She could do it again. She need only be sure there was no repeat of today’s performance to knock her from her path.

  ‘From the looks of things, that day cannot come quickly enough,’ the signor grumbled.

  ‘It is entirely in your power to speed it along,’ the marquess spoke up.

  ‘Almost, you convince me not to counsel you as I should.’ He grimaced and gave way, moving to take a seat at the worktable. ‘But I am duty-bound to ask you again if you won’t give up this quest?’ He shivered. ‘I have the strongest feeling that you should not pursue this.’

  Lord Marland shook his head. Chloe merely gave a quick shrug.

  The signor gave a heavy sigh. ‘Very well.’ He fiddled disconsolately with one of the small portraits.

  They waited. The silence stretched out. At last, Chloe spoke up. ‘Signor, what can you tell us?’

  He gave her a bleak look. ‘It is not much.’

  ‘Is Skanda’s Spear in London?’ Lord Marland asked. ‘Can you confirm that much, at least?’

  The signor nodded.

  ‘Have you seen it for yourself?’ the marquess quickly continued.

  ‘No.’ The older man met Lord Marland’s gaze. ‘But I know someone who has.’

  ‘Who is it, signor?’ Chloe asked gently.

  He straightened. ‘Now there is someone I should like to introduce you to, cara. Arthur Claibourne, the Earl of Conover. A young man, but quite knowledgeable.’ He grinned. ‘Famously good-looking—and reputed to be the biggest catch on the marriage mart.’

  ‘He might be an Adonis walking among us,’ the marquess said sourly. ‘But what matters is if he is trustworthy—and if he knows enough to be of any use. Can you depend on his word?’

  The signor nodded. ‘We have worked together in the past, authenticating certain pieces. The Saxons are his area of particular interest and expertise, but the Society of Antiquaries has tapped him to handle a very delicate matter regarding the Spear.’

  ‘The Society has?’ the marquess said with surprise. ‘But what have they to do with it?’

  ‘Wait a moment.’ The older man rose from his stool and shuffled over to a bookcase standing on the other side of the window. He withdrew a battered tome and retrieved something from inside. Crossing slowly back, he stopped at Chloe’s seat and handed her two thick sheets of heavy vellum.

  ‘But what is it?’ she asked.

  ‘The tickets you will need if you truly wish to enter this game.’ He tapped them. ‘Oh, it’s bad enough now. But this is where the real mayhem will begin.’ He shook his head in disapproval.

  Chloe scanned the top-most sheet. ‘Invitations?’

  ‘The Society is hosting a lecture on legendary ancient weapons. Skanda’s Spear is to be one of the pieces featured. The event is open only by invitation—and everyone invited has shown an interest in obtaining that Spear.’ He patted her hand. ‘I asked the Earl of Conover specifically to tender you an invitation.’ He sent a sour glance in Lord Marland’s direction. ‘I suppose that you can have mine.’

  Chloe watched for his reaction, but the marquess only bowed his thanks. ‘When is it to be held?’ he asked.

  ‘In four days’ time,’ the signor answered. ‘There might be some posturing and jockeying for position in the meantime, but the race for the Spear will really begin at that lecture.’

  Chloe jumped as he suddenly gripped her forearm tightly. ‘You must be careful, my dear. There is an air of something…desperation, perhaps, surrounding this object. I do not understand it.’ He gestured toward the door. ‘Laxton was merely rude. Others will likely be worse.’ His dearly familiar face had gone anxious and sad. ‘Promise me that you will take care.’

  ‘I do promise,’ she said, gripping his arm in return.

  ‘And you, my lord,’ the signor said to the marquess. ‘You must vow to protect her.’

  Together they turned to regard her with solemn gazes.

  ‘I promise it.’ Lord Marland spoke to her friend, but his eyes were locked on hers as he spoke. ‘I will keep her safe from harm.’

  Again, she was forced to bite back a laugh. The greatest danger to her well-being stood right before her, in shining Hessian boots. She suffered the most incredible urge to say it out loud.

  But she did not. She dropped her gaze instead. This was all turning out to be so much more difficult than she had expected. Somewhere lay a path between paralysing fear and unacceptable risk. All she had to do was to find it.

  Chapter Nine

  T ighten. Release. Tighten. Release.

  Braedon’s right hand flexed continuously until he stretched his fingers wide to put an end to it. He ached for a blade, could not wait to get to the practice area he had set up in the gallery at Marland House. His gut roiled with irritation and longing, anger and want. Too many conflicting emotions. He needed to purge them with lunges and stabs, with a pounding heart and sweating pores.

  Instead, he struggled to keep his step light and his pace steady as they made their way towards Mayfair. Even more difficult was the effort to keep his eyes from straying to the woman at his side.

  It felt like an impossibility—that he’d actually kissed Hardwick. Yet it had been a logical course of action, considering the circumstances, Signor Pisano’s fears and his own reluctance to tip his hand to Laxton.

  Improbable, then—not impossible. And even more unlikely had been his incredible enjoyment of the thing. By all the saints in heaven, he’d been enticed, entranced and more than ready to take down her bodice, tuck up her skirts and immerse them both in a rising swell of pleasure.

  She’d been ready, too. So sweetly she’d melted into him. Years he’d spent erecting the armour about him, and in a moment’s time, she’d moulded all of her soft curves against him, found every nick and chink, and started to erode it all away.

  And now he had to work out just what the hell to do with her. That had not been his Hardwick, thrusting her tongue against his. He could not take home to Denning the girl who’d settled herself so snugly against his engorged manhood.

  God help him, but he wanted to. He did not want to go back to a home without her quiet presence, her steady, managing ways or her unfailing support. He was going to have to find a way to persuade her back into her buttoned-up persona—or he was going to have to give her up.

  The very thought called up another desperate swirl of emotion in his gut.

  ‘Four days,’ he said abruptly, just to chase those desolate thoughts away. ‘We’ve started behind the game in this chase for the Spear—and now we must wait four days to catch up? Surely th
ere is something we can do. More we can learn.’

  ‘I’ll make a few enquiries,’ Hardwick answered. ‘But I confess, I’ll be glad of the delay. I will use the time to get a good deal accomplished for your sister.’

  He took her elbow as they crossed the intersection at Coventry Street. ‘A little over a week away, is it not? Mairi said that Ashton is pushing to make it back in time.’ He grimaced. ‘Good Lord, but the man had best make it. I don’t wish to even contemplate the furor that would ensue, did he not.’

  ‘Oh, he will make it.’ Nimbly, she stepped out of the way of a footman carting a pile of bandboxes into a house. ‘He’ll arrive in time to see and appreciate the incredible amount of care and thought that the countess has put into this event.’ She gave a self-conscious little laugh. ‘I believe your sister means to bare her heart—and then, of course, they will live happily ever after.’

  Braedon fervently hoped she was right. ‘And what of you, then, Hardwick? What will you do when Mairi’s event is over? She will be wrapped up in her husband. You will have no more planning or errands or many little details to keep on top of.’

  ‘I will be all right,’ she answered without looking at him.

  ‘How? Why? You say you won’t come back to Denning. Then just what is next for you?’

  She held her silence as they continued to walk.

  Her stubbornness combined with every other emotion surging inside of him and prodded forth a rush of anger. ‘Come now, Hardwick,’ he insisted. ‘Tell me. What will you do?’

  ‘Why?’ She whirled on him. ‘Why should I tell you? You, who shares nothing? What gives you the right to demand answers of me?’

  Stunned, he could not answer. Likely because a good answer didn’t exist.

  ‘For the life of me, I cannot understand why you would care, in any case,’ she fumed. But then her eyes widened and her mouth dropped and she rounded on him. ‘Unless you fear I mean to take advantage of your sister? Is that what you think, Lord Marland?’

  ‘What? No, of course not.’

  ‘What is it, then?’ She shot him a look of scorn. ‘Are you afraid I’ll go husband hunting among Lady Ashton’s male acquaintances?’

  The thought almost physically repulsed him. ‘Is that what you are after, then?’ he asked, biting back bile. ‘A husband?’

  Her entire face pinched inwards with fury. ‘Oh, I did play my role well, did I not, Lord Marland? Why is it so preposterous to you that I should dream of such things—marriage and children? Someone of my own?’

  Now he was the one to hold silent, because, again, there was no answer to such a question.

  Abruptly all the anger drained from her. Only sadness remained. ‘It is the sort of life most women expect, is it not?’

  ‘Is it what you wish for yourself?’ he asked roughly. He watched her closely, not sure what he hoped her response would be.

  It was only because he was paying such close attention that he saw it—something dark moving behind her eyes. Something more bleak and obscure than the fury that had lived there moments before. But her tone gave him no clue as to what it might be.

  ‘I…I don’t know,’ she answered, sounding only wistful. ‘Sometimes I think that it is all that I wish for, and yet…I cannot quite see it.’ She sighed and glanced askance at him. She was hugging the low iron fence set before the buildings on this block with each step, as if it gave her a sense of security. ‘I know I am not a choice for the men who live in your sister’s world.’

  In his world. The words resonated between them, for all that they had been left unsaid.

  ‘Yet, I don’t know the sort of man that I would choose,’ she continued. ‘Largely because I’m not quite sure where it is that I belong.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘And so, when your sister’s ball is over…I shall keep looking, I suppose.’

  Braedon shook his head. Here it was. Exactly the sort of conversation that he wished never to have. Far from light and superficial, it was everything that he knew to be dangerous. Too personal, too intimate, too much of everything. He should cut it off, push her away. She’d already made one assault on his line of defences. He needed to repulse her before she succeeded in weakening them further.

  It was common sense. Basic strategy. He knew the truth of it—and yet he turned his head sharply towards her. ‘Looking for what, exactly?’

  She shrugged. ‘For myself.’

  She was maddening. Infinitely appealing, mysterious, vulnerable and utterly maddening. And he was a colossal fool. She had him confused and conflicted, and in his state of complete exasperation, he rounded on her. ‘I confess, I can perfectly understand your confusion. For over a year you lived under my roof, the ideal assistant, the very picture of efficiency and reliability. Yet in the past two days I’ve seen you adopt the role of a baker’s kitchen assistant, my sister’s extremely competent secretary, and now…’ he gestured ‘…this.’

  A lovely young woman. Warm. And, oh, so eminently kissable.

  He pushed the traitorous thoughts away. ‘Which of them is the real you?’

  She increased her pace. ‘Perhaps all of them,’ she said defensively. ‘Do you not understand?’ Coming to a sudden halt, she turned to him. ‘You are the Marquess of Marland. The infamous Marauding Marquess! Does that mean that you are the master of Castle Denning, its land and people—and nothing else?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Of course not. You are many things. A peer of the realm, with political reach and influence. A diplomat, who has worked with kings and ministers and leaders of governments. You are a war hero. A warrior. A man with a passion for the past and for the tools used before you, by men like you.’ She crossed her arms and raised a brow. ‘An experienced and accomplished lover, as well, if rumour is to be believed.’

  My God, she had him blushing like a schoolgirl. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Exactly!’ she exclaimed. She started walking again, and her words tumbled from her nearly as fast as her feet carried her. ‘You don’t think. You know who you are. You have been given many chances to explore all the many different facets that make you the man you are. It has been different for me. The image is unfinished, the puzzle incomplete.’ She sighed. ‘My role was cast at Denning. I wasn’t going to learn anything more. I agreed to come to London with your sister because I was hoping for the opportunity—for numerous opportunities—to find pieces of me.’

  Her words rang true; the pictures she painted loomed clear and vivid. But he did not want to accept them, for they meant that he had no chance of recovering his Hardwick—the one he was coming to realise that he so desperately wanted back.

  ‘Do you know what I believe?’ he demanded, speeding up to catch her. ‘I think that my Hardwick is the woman you truly are. How else could you live the role and perform so well, were it not so? You do know who you are. I know it, too, but for some reason I cannot understand, you are afraid to admit it.’

  She increased the distance between them, stepping closer to the busy traffic travelling up and down King Street. ‘I would only be afraid, my lord, if I thought you were correct.’

  ‘Come, Hardwick,’ he chided. ‘Listen to reason—’

  ‘No! It is your turn to listen.’ Anguish twisted her expression. ‘Do you think that I was born that way? That I was a cold, sober child who suppressed her needs, her wants, her every emotion? Who turned it all into fuel so that she could work and work and work to fulfil someone else’s dream?’

  His heart
gave a great thump, then stilled along with the rest of him.

  She stopped, too. ‘Do you think that I sprang from the womb hiding behind a row of military-precise buttons and yards of bombazine?’

  He swallowed. ‘Of course not.’

  She walked on. ‘How do you suppose that I came to have so much knowledge about history? Did you not think it odd that I so quickly came to understand all that I needed to know about a collection like yours?’

  ‘I assumed that your father taught you,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘You are partly right,’ she nodded. ‘My father—my real father—was a curator at the British museum. He loved history and his work. He would take me there at times, to show me treasures and tell many wonderful tales. I listened and I enjoyed his attention, of course, but history was his passion.’

  They had reached Princes Street. Ahead, a narrow lane lay tucked between the houses. Hardwick paused at the mouth of it. ‘Come,’ she beckoned. ‘There is privacy here and this time it is I who would prefer no

  audience for what I mean to say.’

  A warning prickle ran up his spine. With a final cautionary throb it reached his neck, raising all the fine hairs there. Braedon cast a quick glance north towards Cavendish Square and considered leaving Hardwick where she was. It wasn’t far to Mairi’s house now. And he greatly feared that the woman he’d hoped to bring back home was already past his reach. Disappointment swamped him, but dread surged even higher. They had shared enough confidences for the day—or for a lifetime.

  For long seconds he wavered. Hardwick waited a moment, limned beautifully in the afternoon sun, before, without warning, she reached up and removed her confection of a bonnet. Before the light could gather itself to do battle with the inky darkness of her hair, she turned and disappeared.

  It was a foregone conclusion, then. Without further hesitation he admitted defeat and followed her until the lane opened into a small, cobbled yard.