Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

by Deb Marlowe

‘My father died,’ Hardwick continued as if there had been no interlude. The bonnet swung from her hand. She didn’t turn to face him as she stepped into the yard. ‘Just as autumn was turning to winter he caught a fever. He lingered nearly until Christmas.’

  Because the sun had begun its travels west, only one wall of the courtyard was still bright and warm. Hardwick moved to the bench placed against the brick and sat.

  ‘Things were…difficult for my mother and me after that. The situation had become dire when she unexpectedly encountered George Hardwick. He had been a friend to my father and seemed overjoyed to see her. A quick courtship, then they were married.’

  Braedon did not join her on the bench. The intimacies she communicated were risk enough for him. He kept to his feet, leaned against the sun-drenched warmth of the wall and listened.

  ‘She didn’t love him,’ Hardwick whispered. ‘I could see it. But she tried her best to make him happy. She never smiled, during all those months when we were alone. But for him…’ She swallowed the rest of the sentence. ‘She was never very strong, but she cooked his favourite meals, tried to brighten his rooms and listened as he recounted his frustration with the political aspects of his work.’ For a long moment she sat quietly, her head resting against the back of the bench.

  ‘But he must have spoken of his work to you as well?’ Braedon asked.

  She nodded. ‘I watched her—and I learned.’ She shivered despite the heat baking into the wall behind her. ‘Those long, difficult months that Mama and I were alone… The cold and the hunger, they were bad. Losing our little house was horribly difficult. But the fear…’

  She carried a voluminous Indian shawl of many

  colours, each rich shade complementary to the delicate pink of her gown. Draped artfully at her elbows before, now she shook it out and wrapped it tight around her. He might have told her from experience that nothing so external could protect her from the seeping cold of difficult memories, but he merely watched and waited for her to continue.

  ‘The constant uncertainty was the worst. Never knowing when our next meal would come, if we would scrape together enough funds for rent or be forced to move on to a new set of cramped and dirty rooms.’ She drew a deep, restoring breath. ‘And the loneliness. For my mama was never the same after his death. She just…disappeared into herself. There were days on end when I could not coax her out of bed.’ Her voice had dipped lower as she spoke, but now she looked up to meet Braedon’s gaze directly. ‘I did not want to go back to that, you see. I would have done anything to keep us from going back.

  ‘So I did as she did. More than anything, I wished to keep George Hardwick happy. I was the most amiable child the world had ever seen. I was quiet and polite. I showed an interest in his work, began to ask him questions about the artefacts he obtained, asked him to describe his projects and his displays.’ She straightened. ‘As a strategy, it proved highly successful. I quickly learned to share his interests. We became close. His approval and friendship and regard were so important to me—after that long difficult spell, they meant as much as the warm home and full larder he provided.’

  He frowned. ‘But Hardwick was in Europe when I met him.’

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘Despite her inability to match his level of regard, he really did love my mother. Three years they were married and he treated her so gently, as if she was made of spun sugar. He would do anything to make her laugh. It became a game. He loved to bring her little treats to make her smile. We were mostly happy, the three of us together.’ She blinked back tears. ‘But there came one of those springs in which you barely see the sun for all of the continuous rain. Mama caught a chill and declined to linger like my father. One day she began to cough and within a week she was gone. George was devastated.’

  ‘He left you at school,’ Braedon said. ‘He mentioned it when I met him in Brussels. We were both hoping to purchase the same Roman legionary’s dagger.’

  ‘Yes. He couldn’t bear to stay at home with the memories of my mother.’ Her eyes closed. ‘I suppose I was the worst reminder.’ She sighed. ‘So he assured me that he loved me. He asked me to take his name, before he left, as the situation abroad was still unsettled. And he made me officially his heir.’ She paused, and grief nearly emanated from her pores. ‘And then he, too, was gone.’

  He’d lost control, allowed the conversation to slip into territory more dangerous than any he’d faced in the wars. Braedon drew a deep breath and reached out to pull them both back from the brink. ‘But the buttons and the bombazine? Where did that come in?’ He straightened. ‘Surely you did not concoct that get-up for my sake?’

  She shook her head to answer his question. ‘No. It came about at school. It was such a misery. I was the pupil with no parents to come along on visits, no family to go home to on holidays. It made me the nuisance that someone had to stay back and be responsible for when the rest of the school had gone home. I was an easy target, for other students and for discontented teachers. I had hopes, but it didn’t get any better after I finished and took a position as a teacher.’

  Appalled, he protested, ‘But why do such a thing? Stay where you were unhappy?’

  ‘I was young. Alone. I had nowhere else to go,’ she said simply. ‘Father wouldn’t hear of me joining him on his travels. They were more restricted and grew more dangerous as the wars progressed.’

  Braedon felt like a fool—a guilty, culpable fool—because by that time he had surely hired away her stepfather and made him his factor.

  ‘I was the youngest teacher and already unpopular, but I grew tired of being the scapegoat for the entire school. So I decided to repeat the lesson I had learned after my mother’s second marriage. I watched the headmistress of the school, asked questions and listened to her likes and complaints. She had been educated in a convent herself and bemoaned the fact that English parents would not consider nuns as instructors. She longed for the structure and order of her youth. She despaired of teachers more interested in dresses and beaus than their students. She tired of dismissing them for flirting with the dancing master or losing them to marriage.’

  He gave a horrified laugh. ‘So you thought to fit them up in a modified nun’s costume?’

  She bit back a laugh. ‘Well, yes. Sifting through all of her complaints, it seemed a good idea.’

  ‘To the headmistress, perhaps. I cannot imagine the rest of them were happy with your ideas—or your sense of fashion.’

  ‘And that’s exactly why it worked. The teachers who cared for such things rebelled—and eventually left.’

  ‘And you became the headmistress’s pet?’ he asked with sarcasm.

  ‘No, even better, I became invisible. I blended right in with those who couldn’t have cared less about the uniform. I kept quiet and became anonymous. I was more function—arithmetic and elocution for the youngest pupils—than a person. It was bliss. I wasn’t a target any longer. I felt swaddled behind my row of buttons and yards of fabric. Safe.’

  Braedon stared at her. He understood. And he was at once imagining her donning her clothes like her own armour and watching the sunlight disappear into the ebony of her hair, when the realisation hit him. No glancing blow, either. It thumped him with the force of a cannon, scattering fury and shock like so much shrapnel.

  ‘Damn it all to hell and back,’ he said in a voice throbbing with anger. ‘You did it again at Denning, didn’t you? You watched me with the same purpose, studied my ways and adjusted your behaviour, your
very self—to become what I needed most?’

  She didn’t answer, only stubbornly met his gaze. But he already knew the truth. Rage boiled in his belly and constricted his airways. His fists clenched impotently at his sides.

  Until he took in her apprehension, felt the unease she tried to wring away with twisting hands. He reached for calm. Breathed deep. ‘Well, it was asinine behaviour, without a doubt.’ He managed to maintain a tone of civil disdain. ‘And it’s landed you in the predicament you find yourself in now.’ He nodded. ‘But it certainly made you one damned fine assistant.’

  She straightened. ‘Then you are not angry?’

  ‘I’m angry as hell. And I’m disgusted with you, with myself and with nearly everyone else in your misbegotten life.’ He pushed away from the wall and began to pace in the enclosed space, from one unremarkable brick wall to the next. ‘You do know that your stepfather truly cared for you? He spoke of you often.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, startled. ‘As I did for him.’

  ‘I can’t help but feel that there are other observations that you have failed to make—and that they leave more than one hole in your theories.’

  Polite disbelief coloured her cool glance.

  ‘It’s true. I still do not believe that it is possible for anyone—even you—to live a lie or play a part for twenty-four hours a day. Do you think that it was all part of the charade, that you never incorporated anything personal or true into your role?’

  Still she didn’t answer, though she glanced his way and then quickly ducked her head.

  He regarded her a moment in silence before he understood. ‘Ah, now I can see the wheels turning in your mind. You think even if you had let something slip in, that I would not have noticed.’

  She pressed her lips together. ‘I think that if I had revealed something, you would not have noticed even if I had given it to you in a song and dance.’

  ‘How do I take my coffee?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘With one sugar only,’ she replied easily. Her brow rose. ‘How do I take mine?’

  He regarded her with disdain. ‘I am not so easily fooled. I’ve never seen you take coffee, only tea. Plain tea.’ He thought a moment. ‘Although I can recall you adding a bit of honey in the winter months.’

  She looked reluctantly impressed.

  ‘We were colleagues,’ he said. ‘We worked together for months. I would be the worst sort of cad if I did not know a bit about you.’

  ‘Yes, well I dare say even Mrs Goodmond might recall how I take my tea.’

  ‘How painful it is to discover what a villain you find me. Well, you are wrong and I can prove it. For I recall one incident, not so far past either, when you let your guard down a bit. I vividly remember when you mentioned that you enjoy the seashore.’

  Both eyebrows rose. ‘I believe what I said was that I would some day like to live at the seashore.’

  ‘There. You see. I was paying attention.’

  She smiled at his jest, but it was a look of condescension. As if his inadequacy merely proved her point. And abruptly the smouldering embers of his rage roared back to life. He closed his eyes against that look and the echoes of ancient fury that it summoned. But it was no good. The memories were there, awake in his head and sending anger flickering along his veins. How many times had he seen such a smile—full of pity and disappointed resignation—on his father’s face? How many countless more instances had his brother’s face echoed that expression, just before it melted into the crafty promise of malevolence?

  This. This was exactly why he disdained this sort of personal alliance. Why it was safer to stick to clearly defined roles: master and servant, employer and employee. Why emotional distance and armour and even symbolic rows of buttons were such utterly brilliant ideas.

  But the buttons were gone and his insulating armour showed signs of the battering she’d given it. He had to put a stop to it before the cracks grew any wider. So he snapped open his eyes and let loose with a torrent of angry words.

  ‘Damn it, Hardwick! Don’t look at me in that way. I am not a monster, nor did I ever act as one. And you were never the saint in this cautionary tale either—so pray do not fault me for failing to discover that which you were trying so hard to keep hidden.’

  The offensive smile faded. Stricken, she took a step back. But this was Hardwick, so it was merely a matter of seconds before her chin lifted. ‘Very well, my lord. I do apologise. It was not my intention to find fault, but merely to explain why I must follow a path that you so obviously disapprove.’

  She turned away, her lips pressed tight, and Braedon cursed to see her bravado fail. Her shoulders drooping, she stepped towards the narrow alley.

  He let her go. Cursing inwardly, he watched her pause in the last bit of shadow before the mouth of the narrow lane. Breathing deeply, she straightened her spine and stepped into the sun.

  ‘Hardwick.’

  He was a fool. Why stop her? She was firm in her purpose, which meant that he must be firm in his. She would move on—and he must allow it.

  ‘It can’t have been easy for you, catering to my every whim for so long. I am a harsh taskmaster. A difficult man. Everything in my life has conspired to mould me into a cold and remote form.’ For once, as a gift to her, he allowed true remorse to enter his tone. ‘I do not pine over it. In fact, I nearly always appreciate the benefits of my nature, but if it has in some way harmed you, then I do apologise.’ He gestured toward the street. ‘Why do you not go on alone? The garden is visible from here. You are nearly home. It should be perfectly safe.’ He gave her a nod and turned back, allowing the cool darkness of the alley to soothe his inflamed nerves.

  He never heard her approach. Yet somehow he was not surprised when her hand lightly brushed his shoulder.

  ‘I am the one who must apologise,’ she whispered. ‘I feel so…fractured. Lost.’

  Her hand slipped down to lightly grip his arm. Such a soft touch from a tiny hand, yet it set his heart to racing and held him completely in thrall. She tugged and he allowed her to pull him about to face her.

  ‘It is confusing enough inside my heart and my mind.’ She ducked her head a moment. Her gaze rested on her fingers, now resting lightly above his heart. Undoubtedly she could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. ‘I can only imagine how erratic I must appear from the outside.’

  He should go. The wisest course of action would be to step back, to keep away, to lead her firmly to Mairi’s door and to leave her there. For good.

  He reached out instead, ignored his every natural impulse and ran a finger along the pure ivory curve of her jaw. ‘Just because you are looking does not mean that you are lost,’ he said roughly.

  And just because he touched her did not mean he didn’t have to put her away from him.

  ‘Tea with honey,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Hard work. A shining blade. An organised desk. A fast ride in an open vehicle. All things that you do well or enjoy. It seems to me that you have more pieces to your puzzle than you might think.’

  She swallowed. His heart pounded. He was cupping her cheek now and she leaned into the caress. Her soft skin rubbed into his calloused palm.

  ‘And just today we’ve discovered another. Something else I know you to enjoy.’

  She gazed up at him through a fan of thick lashes.

  Every instinct shouted frantically for him to stop. The very same gut feelings that had saved his life on the battlefield and steered him safely th
rough diplomatic arenas and social minefields.

  He ignored them all.

  He paid heed to her artlessly beckoning gaze instead. God, how could she combine innocence and allure into such a heady mix? There was no thought of or desire for numbness now. She called and an answering thrum coursed through him. Excitement and desire sparked to life where they touched and spiralled outwards. It sped though his veins and he felt high and wild and more alive than at any other moment in his life.

  He followed her call with his hand, allowing it to travel along her jaw and down the white and slender column of his throat. She arched into the caress and he answered again, sliding up and burying his fingers into the ebony sheen of her hair. He pulled her close. Her eyes slid closed as he leaned in to cover her mouth with his.

  Chapter Ten

  Courage. Their kiss tasted of it—glorious heat and climbing passion and the incredible blaze of courage that it took for each of them to lose themselves in the dangerous give and take of this moment.

  Risk lived here. Chloe understood it—she knew that exploration went hand in hand with jeopardy. That she was making herself vulnerable to the one person left on earth with the ability to do her true harm.

  She didn’t care.

  His kiss burned hotter, coaxed harder than it had done earlier and she responded in kind. Her arms crept higher. Up and up again, she allowed her fingers to wander, over the broad expanse of his chest and along the strong and solid column of his neck. She fulfilled the fantasies of a thousand nights when she slid her fingers home—into the thick, silken strands of his hair.

  Unreal. Almost unbelievable, that this was happening at last. She was consumed with want, transformed by joy and wild, fierce need into an unfamiliar, untamed, and demanding version of herself. With a moan climbing from deep within, she pulled him closer and tighter against her.

  He heard her, knew better than she what she needed. She gasped in protest when he tore his mouth from hers. But he wasn’t leaving her.