Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick (9 page)

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.

‘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.’

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

S
triding 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 prefer 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.