The Marquess had made his stance clear.

He was content—insistent, even—on carrying on in the same manner. Yet what else could she expect? He did not see her—but how could he? He saw only what she had shown him. What she had become—for him.

Suddenly the truth was blindingly clear. She could not stay. Could not pretend that nothing had changed inside her. The pain she felt now was nothing to what such a course would lead to. Before long she would be writhing beneath an unbearable weight of unrequited caring and burgeoning resentment.

Hardwick had no future. Not with the Marquess. Not even without him.

Yet she was more than Hardwick, was she not?

She would never find out if she stayed.

AUTHOR NOTE

Are you a collector? Although I admit to a taste for research books, I don’t have anything to rival Lord Marland’s superior weapons collection. Then again, neither have I made his mistake of pouring all my passions into a room full of ancient swords and gleaming battleaxes—or hefty tomes and old maps, as the case may be!

I’m not über-organised either—unlike Miss Chloe Hardwick. But that’s the beauty of writing romance—the chance to explore all sorts of fantasies! Uptight Chloe may seem like an odd choice to turn the Marquess away from his obsession with instruments of death and towards life, but their quest to find a mysterious spear turns into a journey of discovery for both Chloe and Lord Marland. I hope you’ll enjoy the trip along with them, as they learn to let fear and hurt drift away and hold onto love—and each other—instead.

About the Author

DEB MARLOWE grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’d read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina, and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.

Though she now spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it.

Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at debmarlowe@debmarlowe.com

Previous novels by the same author:

SCANDALOUS LORD, REBELLIOUS MISS

AN IMPROPER ARISTOCRAT

HER CINDERELLA SEASON

ANNALISE AND THE SCANDALOUS RAKE

(part of Regency Summer Scandals) TALL, DARK AND DISREPUTABLE HOW TO MARRY A RAKE

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Unbuttoning
Miss Hardwick

Deb Marlowe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Valiant Husband:

For braving trolls and spiders beneath decks,

for technical support, for ‘just stopping by’,

for liking my friends, for all the late pick-ups

at the gym, for not damaging my calm,

for having the best laugh and sharing it so often,

and for a thousand and one other reasons.

I know how lucky I am.

Prologue

‘Miss! He’s coming!’

Over the relentless pounding of her own heart, Chloe Hardwick caught the excitement in the maid’s tone. She inched a little closer to her desk, straightened her spine and settled her new spectacles more firmly on her nose.

Clearly this was a woefully insignificant reaction.

‘Miss!’ How was it possible for the girl to shriek and whisper at the same time? Her shivery delight grated on Chloe’s already strained nerves.

‘Oh, heavens!’ From the passageway, the maid hissed again. ‘He’s nearly here!’

Chloe swallowed an empathetic surge of panic. Her day of reckoning had come. It was time to own up to her lies, to confess her deceit to The Marauding Marquess.

It’s only a nickname.

None of his infamous conquests, reportedly gathered on the battlefields and in the bedrooms of Europe, would come into play here at Denning Castle. She repeated the reassurance in her head even as she pinned the girl with a stern stare. ‘Thank you, Daisy. That will be all.’

The disappointed maid flounced away from the door. Making a small concession to her nerves, Chloe ran a finger along the row of buttons marching down the front of her jacket. The garment might be supremely unstylish, but as always she drew strength and a sense of security from her unusual attire, as if the string of tightly spaced fasteners were a line of soldiers standing firm between her and the world. Breathing deeply, she ignored the sounds of arrival, pulled a file from the neat stack at the corner of her desk and bent over it.

‘Hardwick!’ The shout echoed from below, followed by a set of footsteps advancing up the stairs. They paused as Chloe’s unwitting employer called to an unseen servant. ‘There is a loaded wagon coming along behind. No one is to touch it until I am available to supervise. Is that understood?’

He didn’t wait for an answer. The footsteps were nearly upon her now. ‘Hardwick!’ he called again. ‘Did you get it, man?’

Chloe sensed, rather than saw, the large form that erupted into her small study.

‘Hardwick?’

This was it. The moment she’d been preparing for—and dreading—for nearly sixteen months. Nervous energy coursed through her. She closed her eyes and tried desperately to quell it. When she opened her eyes, however, she saw that the quill she held trembled in her hand. Deliberate and slow, she set it down and rose to her feet.

‘Lord Marland, welcome home,’ she said to the quill. ‘How pleased we all are to have you back.’

She forced her gaze up, across her desk and the short expanse of carpet … and stalled at a pair of slightly dusty cavalry boots.

Oh, my.

Chloe did have a weakness for a man in boots—and this set had her swallowing back a sigh of admiration. Plain, black leather, climbing high at the knee and cut away in the rear, worn from use and moulded to a set of muscular calves …

‘Yes, yes. Thank you.’ The Marquess of Marland cleared his throat. ‘I’m looking for Hardwick.’

She raised her eyes, then—up and up, over the tall and powerful figure that dominated the small room—and stalled again.

He looked nothing like she expected—so much more than the portrait in the gallery downstairs. He was magnificent … and wrong. Broad of shoulder, wide of chest and sleekly muscled, Lord Marland looked as if he’d stepped from the pages of history. A Viking warrior, perhaps, or a knight of old, nothing like the few gentlemen of noble birth she’d had a glimpse of before. Even his hair bespoke of ages past: thick, chestnut locks left to grow just past his shoulders and caught up in a queue at his nape. Chloe couldn’t help herself. She ran her gaze over him, mentally stripping away the buff breeches and brown superfine. He belonged in leather, or armour. Perhaps a kilted plaid from across the nearby Scottish border. But, no, then he wouldn’t be wearing those wonderful boots …

He cleared his throat once more and Chloe started, yanking herself back to reality.

‘Hardwick?’ he repeated. ‘Where might I find him?’

Summoning every bit of willpower, each ounce of determination she possessed, she met his bold, black gaze and answered him. ‘I’m Hardwick, my lord.’

The marquess blinked. For a single, thrilling instant, he allowed his interested gaze to wander over her, as she’d just done to him. Then he blew out a breath, his impatience clear. ‘As fond as I am of games, Miss … whoever you are, I’ve no time for them today. I need to talk to Hardwick immediately. Mr George Hardwick. My Hardwick.’

Chloe wanted to look away from his dark eyes—even if only for another glimpse at his broad and powerful frame—but she didn’t dare. Everything she had worked for came down to this moment. ‘Mr George Hardwick—my adoptive father—grew ill right after you went abroad, my lord. He’s been confined to his bed and fighting a wasting illness ever since.’ She breathed deeply. ‘For all intents and purposes I am your Hardwick, sir.’

He drew himself up, impossibly straight. The scorching look he sent her way should have seared her skin. She met his burning gaze and braced herself for the explosion.

It didn’t come. Instead the marquess froze. His obsidian eyes flared wide for a second, then he whirled. In an instant he was gone. She could hear him sprinting down the stairs.

Chloe knew where he had gone, but for the life of her she couldn’t follow. Please, she sent the silent plea out. There was nowhere for her to go. She needed the safety of this position more than she would ever be able to admit out loud.

Her knees buckled. She dropped into her seat and let her head fall into her hands.

Braedon Denning, the seventh Marquess of Marland, pushed impatiently through the layers of tarpaulin separating the new wing from the rest of Castle Denning. His wing. The legacy that he meant to leave to the future—and his brother and father both be damned.

The breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding burst out of him. He sucked in a lungful of air tainted with sawdust, tinged with the acrid tang of paint, but tasted nothing more than sweet relief.

All looked as it should. His fury abating, he walked across the vast, grey-stone floor. The intricate, inlaid pattern of Italian marble was just as he remembered from the designs. Halfway across, he looked up, noting the curved niches spaced around him and the scaffolding running up one wall, reaching up to the first signs of the second-floor gallery.

‘Hell and damnation,’ Braedon whispered the words, just to hear the echo come back to him from the domed ceiling. He’d expected the worst, but it rather looked as if the wing was ahead of schedule. Even the separate entrance was in place, as he had specified. Eagerly, he strode through the pedimented door to examine the place from the outside.

It was perfect, each stone block a masterpiece of precision. Braedon walked every foot of the perimeter without finding a single flaw. His anxiety and irritation began to dissipate, leaving room for jaded curiosity to grow. When he circled back around to the entrance and found the unknown chit waiting on the top step, he was able to examine her with his usual, careful detachment.

Even that didn’t help. Here was a woman that did not fit into any of the usual classifications. She was tall, that much was clear. But every other womanly detail was hidden away. Trim figure or curves? Impossible to tell under the box-like garment she wore, cut in severe lines. Rather like a gentleman’s morning coat, without the cutaway front. The skirt was made of the same material, and hid just as much, although Braedon surmised the legs beneath must be mouthwateringly long.

Could she know that such a get-up merely made a man itch to know what was underneath? Was that her game after all? Braedon eyed her warily. He’d grown up in a ruthless and manipulative environment, and learned early that dark and dangerous gifts often came wrapped in shiny packages. Staring hard at this odd specimen, he couldn’t help but wonder if the opposite would hold true.

‘The Aislaby sandstone was a wonderful choice,’ she said as he drew near. ‘Nearly a perfect match for the rest of the exterior walls.’ She cut a glance in his direction and reached out to touch the golden stone. ‘Though we only narrowly avoided a disaster, when the quarry sent word that we would have to wait a year for enough stone to finish.’

Braedon watched her hand. She caressed the stone as if it were a living thing and could feel her approbation.

‘And yet all appears to be proceeding according to schedule,’ he said, gesturing about them. ‘Why is that?’

‘The quarrymen had heard of your departure for the Continent,’ she responded with a shrug. ‘Thus they judged your project to be a lower priority than some of their other customers.’ She turned and met his gaze squarely. ‘I convinced them otherwise.’

Braedon crossed his arms and regarded her with amusement. ‘So I’m to believe that you have been directing all of this …’ he paused and lowered his voice to a timbre that had set seasoned soldiers to shaking in their boots ‘… all of this, practically since the day I left?’

She dropped her arm and drew herself up straight. ‘Believe what you like, but it is simply the truth.’

‘I want to see Hardwick.’ It came out an order.

‘He’s awaiting you, somewhat anxiously,’ she answered calmly. Her eyes grew sad. ‘But I ask you to go softly with him. You’ll find him much … diminished.’

‘Why wasn’t I told?’

‘At first, I merely wished for a chance to prove myself. And we hoped that Father’s health would improve. A few months at the most …’ Her voice trailed off and she regarded him with irony. ‘Your trip was initially to be much shorter, if you’ll recall.’ She sighed. ‘And the longer your absence stretched, the more difficult it became to tell you the truth. I decided merely to do my best and confess my sins when I must.’

‘And now you have.’ Braedon strode past her through the large door.

She followed, right on his heels.

‘The columns of veined alabaster are due to arrive next week. Once they are in place, work on the gallery will begin to move quickly.’

He was moving quickly, but she kept pace with him and her clipped conversation outpaced them both. ‘Your arrival now is propitious. The plasterers have questions about the trim on the niches. I have a few sketches from Mr Keller. I would appreciate it if you would choose between them.’

That brought Braedon up short. He turned to glare at her. ‘Brian Keller is an architect of keen eye and remarkable skill. He’s also a womanising rogue of the first order. Am I now to accept that for—’ he paused to count ‘—fifteen months—’

‘Nearly sixteen,’ she interrupted.

‘For sixteen months, Keller has been taking orders from you?’

‘No.’

Braedon’s mouth curved in triumph.

‘He’s been collaborating with me, which is something else altogether.’ She chuckled. ‘I admit, he was reluctant at first, but I won him over.’

‘How?’ He couldn’t hide the suspicion he felt.

She merely smiled. ‘He wasn’t able to get the Aislaby delivered in time.’

Braedon huffed. ‘Look, Miss … Hardwick?’

She nodded.

‘Perhaps you do indeed have a gift for organisation—or perhaps merely for manipulating men.’ He continued on past her wordless protest. ‘But George Hardwick was more than merely a manager for the building of this wing. He was in charge of my entire collection. Do you have any idea what that means? How far behind it must be?’ He moaned and increased his pace again.

Miss Hardwick, on the other hand, drew to a sudden halt. ‘Come with me, my lord.’ Turning abruptly, she headed for a corner of the room. Behind a hidden door she revealed a narrow passage and a door with double locks. From her pocket she produced a ring of keys.

‘Stay here,’ she said as the door opened onto a dark room. She entered and within moments light flared and grew.

It was a workroom, he saw, as she lit one lamp after another. Neatly hung brushes and small tools ringed the walls. Crates of many sizes were stacked against the wall. Near the back sat a desk covered with papers, parchment and books. And in the middle of the room, on a long table, revealed as she peeled back layers of cushioning muslin …

Braedon rushed forwards. It was a bronze short sword, tinged with the greenish patina of extreme age. Reverent, he lifted it. Months ago he’d found this treasure in a Hungarian curiosity shop, filth-encrusted and looking as if the proprietor had used it to pry open tins of food. What he held now was a masterpiece.

He ran a finger along the half-circle of highrelief carvings just past the hilt and leaned closer to the light to examine the sharpened edge of the blade. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Who restored it?’

The pride with which she beheld the weapon answered the question for him.

‘How?’

‘My father has been working with me. His speech is slow and his body seems to be gradually betraying him, but his mind is as keen as ever.’ She crossed to the desk and lifted a file. ‘I’ve done a bit of research. There are notes here on its possible age, construction and use, that sort of thing. I also jotted down a few ideas on how you might wish to display it.’

He looked up, his eyes narrowed. ‘What of the others I sent? The Egyptian dagger? The carved-ivory scabbard?’

‘All here, my lord.’ One by one she revealed the pieces he’d gathered over the last months, scavenged from collectors, pawnshops and junk heaps across Europe. Each one shone with new life and had been treated with the veneration it deserved.

He was impressed, despite himself. When he spoke again, he allowed respect to replace the animosity in his tone. ‘There is no doubt you’ve done a fine job here, Miss Hardwick. I have a full appreciation for the work you’ve done and I thank you for it.’

The relief he caught shining through those spectacles forced him to go on quickly. ‘A problem remains, however. I was woefully indulgent in staying away so long. A huge amount of work and a long list of duties await my attention now. I was counting on Hardwick to carry on with the collection, to take my place with some of the legwork and travelling. There is much involved in acquiring pieces like this: correspondence, business savvy, negotiation skills, the ability to travel with ease.’ Braedon sighed. ‘I had written your father about a piece I had particularly longed for—a rare Japanese pole arm recently brought back from the Orient. I hate to think that my chance at it is gone.’

Without a word, the girl produced another key and crossed to a tall armoire in the corner. She opened it to reveal a gleam of metal emanating from a long-hafted weapon.

Speechless, he stared. He rushed over to pull the piece into the light. Time passed as he traced reverent fingers and a sharp gaze over the masterfully crafted samurai blade, the long tang and longer staff. He looked at her in awe. ‘How did you do it?’

‘I followed the instructions you sent my father. I took William, your sturdiest footman, along and one of your tenants, a young woman recently widowed, as a companion. We made an effective team.’

Braedon knew there was more to the story. There were a hundred questions he should ask, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the incredible piece in his hand. ‘We’ll enlarge one of the niches,’ he said suddenly. ‘Design it around this piece—it will be one of the highlights of the collection.’

‘Actually—’ the girl crossed to the desk again ‘—I saw a magnificent display case in a private collection of manuscripts once. I made a few changes and came up with this. We could place the whole thing right in the centre of the room.’

He stared at the gorgeously rendered, ornate sketch. ‘You designed this?’

She nodded.

Braedon eyed her closely again. He fought back a short-lived twinge of disappointment at the idea of never probing beneath all of that packaging she wrapped herself in. He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder, back in the direction of the main house. He was back at Castle Denning, wasn’t he? The place where he’d grown used to being denied what he wanted most. He shrugged off the thought. In any case, it wasn’t his habit to pry into others’ secrets, any more than it was to share his own.

The magnificent design caught his eye again and he made his decision.

‘Well, then, Miss Hardwick—how would you like to stay on as my Hardwick?’

Chapter One

One year later

‘Miss?’ The head carpenter poked his head into her workroom. ‘Would you have a moment? You might wish to see this.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the weapons wing.

Clutching her correspondence, Chloe instantly left her desk. ‘What is it, Mr Forrest?’ She groaned. ‘Not the gallery floor again, I hope?’

‘Now, miss,’ the carpenter said with a chuckle, ‘it does no good to always expect the worst.’

Plaster dust swirled about her skirts as she followed the man, ducking under scaffolding and stepping around stacks of wood. But there were far fewer obstacles than in months past, and in only a minute he paused to wave triumphantly at one of the niches set into the first-floor walls.

‘Ooohh.’ She sighed in delight.

Forrest nodded. ‘That Italian you brought over talks as fast as a river floods, and I vow he’s as tetchy as a cat with a sore tail … but he does beautiful work.’

That he did. The scalloped levels of the domed top beautifully echoed the colours of the ceiling, pillars and floor, while the framing and the interior panels had been covered in gorgeously ornate plasterwork. A large blank space awaited the installation of a specially designed display case.

‘That does end the day on a good note, doesn’t it?’ Mr Forrest grinned. ‘I’m the last straggler here, miss, save yourself. Do you want to lock up after me?’

‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ With a last lingering look, she tore herself away. She bid the tradesman a good evening, then, closing the heavily panelled doors after him, she leaned against them and took in the results of two years of hard labour.

Nearly complete. It seemed an impossibility. Yet Lord Marland’s wing stretched out before her, a dusty, slightly cluttered promise of magnificence. Only details remained to be completed: the niches, a bit of work on the second-floor gallery, the intricate trim and moulding about the walls. Then, of course, the displays would need to be arranged and set up—oh, who was she fooling? There were still a hundred small tasks that needed doing, but the end was drawing undeniably near.

The thought had her pulling out her crumpled letter. Her old friend knew that the wing was nearly finished—and he hinted that it was time for her to leave Northumberland.

She looked up again, taking in marble and stone, pillars and dome, and clutched a fistful of buttons on her formidable jacket. She’d been so fortunate in this project—and in this position. Here, she had the best of all worlds. Tucked up safe behind her spectacles and boxy skirts, she’d also been utterly challenged and completely absorbed. The work had brought her closer to her stepfather in his last days and provided an outlet for grief and an escape from loss when he’d passed on, mere weeks after Lord Marland’s return.

Never could she have imagined such a perfect hiding spot. She’d thrown herself into both the collection and the construction, reinforced her persona and buried her true self deep, far beyond the chance of discovery. She’d proved herself to the marquess, too, and they had gradually developed a quiet bond of respect. She’d found herself as close to that elusive state—happiness—as she’d been in a long, long time.

‘Hardwick!’ Lord Marland’s voice echoed like thunder from the passage beyond the wing. ‘Hardwick?’ The door swung open and the marquess leaned in, his dark gaze meeting hers across the vast chamber. ‘There you are.’ He strode in, and the wrench inside her was both familiar and surprisingly strong. He was garbed casually, as if he’d come from his work, in waistcoat and shirtsleeves rolled high. He’d left his coat behind again. It was a familiar sight, yet it hit her hard, a bubbling rush of pleasure and pain that bloomed in her chest and raced with frothy abandon through her veins.

What was wrong with her? She shook her head and, tucking her letter away, moved to meet him midway. ‘Good evening, my lord.’

‘And to you. I wished to tell you …’ His words trailed off as he caught sight of the completed niche. Silent, he went to stand in front of it. When he turned away, long moments later, he was grinning. His eye roamed about the room and then back again. ‘It truly is going to be magnificent, isn’t it?’ he asked softly.

‘It truly is,’ Chloe agreed. She stared at him, caught by the light in his eyes and the way that the sun’s last rays burrowed in his long hair, carving lighter channels along certain strands. He was her employer. He was pleased. She was also, of course. Hadn’t she just stood in that same spot and sighed over the intricate beauty of the stuccatore’s work? Yet the the marquess’s euphoria irritated her. She shook her head again. She was being irrational.

He met her gaze at last. ‘About that Druidic dagger …’ he began.

‘I don’t recommend that we pursue it,’ she said abruptly.

He paused. ‘I was going to say the same thing. I have it on good authority that it’s a fake.’

She nodded. ‘I had heard the same.’

His gaze wandered again, travelling about the room, fixing on the marble veining of a pillar here, a delicately turned newel post there. This was nothing unusual. They often discussed business here at the end of the day and the marquess was often distracted, cataloguing the progress made. Chloe was used to it; preoccupied as he might seem to be, he never missed or forgot a single detail of their conversations.

And yet—there was that phrase again. Something had changed, but she could not quite get her finger on the pulse of it. She only knew that her heart rate was ratcheting, her skin felt tight and she realised suddenly that tonight she could not stand here, calmly talking about the collection while his attention fixed on everything but her.

‘Would you mind walking as we talk, my lord? If you have more to discuss, that is.’ She made her request with a lift of her chin. ‘I promised Mr Keller I would find a sketch of a certain Roman medallion in the library.’

‘Of course.’ The marquess looked surprised, but trailed obligingly along. He had a few more questions about displays and possible acquisitions and Chloe felt a certain guilty satisfaction when his focus remained on her.

In the library, their discussion wound down. She’d just found her illustration when the marquess stood to take his leave. ‘That should be enough to occupy you for a day or two,’ he said with a wry twist of his mouth. ‘I’ll be busy for a few days with the bailiff’s latest idea to keep the sheep from wandering into the mud flats. I’ll check back with you then, if there isn’t anything else.’

He stood, the scrape of his chair sounding loud in the quiet room. He clearly expected that there would not be anything else. And why wouldn’t he?

He turned to go without another glance and Chloe marvelled at the differences that existed between them. For her, isolation was a necessity—the price she was willing to pay for the security of a respectable position and the blessed feeling of safety. Lord Marland, on the other hand, seemed to revel in his solitude—and to actively encourage and increase it. Chloe didn’t know if this behaviour originated with some pain in his past or from simply never having experienced otherwise. Either way, her heart ached for him.

But she would never break his trust by allowing him to know of it. The marquess was an intensely private man, she’d discovered, and nothing displeased him more than someone—anyone—trying to edge past the barriers he kept firmly in place. So instead, she did what she did best. She watched him closely, learned all that she could and became exactly what he needed most. She took on his burdens and eased his mind about the project closest to him. In short, she became the absolute best Hardwick she could be.

Sneaking another glance at him, she suppressed a sigh. Sometimes being Hardwick was very hard indeed.

‘Lord Marland—wait!’

He pivoted on a heel, brow arched in surprise. She knew how he felt. She’d shocked herself.

‘Ah, could you wait a moment? There is something, actually.’ She twisted her fingers around each other to keep them away from her buttons.

He waited.

‘It’s just … the new wing is so nearly complete … and the collection is in splendid shape … and I know you are not interested in opening the collection to outsiders …’

‘No. I am not,’ he said flatly.

‘I didn’t mean to argue the point.’ Chloe ducked her head. Reaching into her pocket, she touched the letter from her oldest friend. ‘It’s only—it’s been suggested that I might seek another position. That you might not require my services any longer, after the project is finished.’

‘What?’ He reared back. ‘Who’s been spouting such nonsense?’ His shock and outrage were sincere, to her utter gratification. ‘Not Mrs Goodmond, I hope?’

Surprised, Chloe shook her head and placed her book on the table between them. ‘No, it was—’

She stopped, her mouth open, unable to continue, when the marquess took a seat directly across from her. He stared up at her with a kind expression of sympathy and understanding. ‘Your position must be an awkward one, Hardwick. You’ve talents that put you beyond a woman’s normal sphere. No doubt you will run into more than one narrow-minded fool who will push you towards a more accepted mould.’

He reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist. Chloe’s mouth dropped again in wordless shock, even though her coat covered the spot. Her bones felt small and fragile beneath his large hand. His grip was both firm and tender. Warmth radiated from his hand and she could not suppress the shiver that ran through her.

‘Don’t listen to them, Hardwick,’ he said, insistent. ‘Any woman can run a household or pop out a parcel of babes, but your skills are unique. You have a fine, clear mind, a gift for retaining and arranging information, and the damnedest ability to inspire people to meet your high standards.’ He shook his head. ‘This wing, this collection, they are incredibly important to me, and neither would be in so grand a shape were it not for you.’

He gave her arm a squeeze and, sitting back, let her go. Chloe flushed with surprise and pleasure. He’d given her compliments before, on a job well done, but this level of warmth and approval was new—and intoxicating.

‘Not everyone is meant for the intimacy of marriage or the rigours of child-rearing,’ the marquess reflected. He smiled at her. ‘Embrace your differences, Hardwick. Don’t allow anyone to make you feel inferior.’

Elation abruptly drained away. Stricken, Chloe blinked at the marquess. Inferior? She might have spent the last months moulding herself to best fit his needs, but she’d never considered that the process would render her unfit for anything else.

She cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood, my lord. It is not Mrs Goodmond, but a friend of mine who worries … He fears that there soon may not be enough work for me here.’

He leaned back. ‘What sort of friend?’ He frowned. ‘And what could he know of the state of my collection?’

Incredulous—and a little exhausted from the constant swing of her emotions—Chloe narrowed her gaze. ‘An old family friend. And he possesses the same scant information that the rest of the antiquities community does.’ Seeing his frown deepen, she leaned forwards, her hands on the table. ‘And no, I have not been talking out of turn.’ She raised a brow. ‘Surely you’ve realised the curiosity our work here has stirred? With tradesmen and specialists coming and going—not to mention the aggressive number of acquisitions we’ve made—it’s caused a stir.’

‘I don’t like to think of people speculating about me.’ He shot her a conciliatory glance. ‘Or you.’

‘Well, I’m afraid a certain amount of speculation is unavoidable, my lord.’

He sighed and climbed to his feet. ‘In any case, tell your friend that his concern is premature. Such a notion is absurd. Put it from your head, Hardwick. No one could display this collection like you will—you’ve designed half of it yourself, for God’s sake. And the collection is far from complete.’ He gave a curt nod. ‘There’s plenty more work to do here.’

Uneasy, she watched as he nodded a dismissal and left the room.

She bit down on her lip hard to quash her wildly fluctuating feelings. Forcibly, she unclenched her fists and turned back to her illustration. She should be thrilled. She was thrilled, she told herself firmly. Against all odds, this position had given her exactly what she wanted: a perfect blend of safety and responsibility, anonymity and respect. Truly, she was grateful that there was no need to contemplate leaving it.

She sneaked a peek over her shoulder, after the marquess.

Yes. She had exactly what she wanted.

And if she were wise, she would keep reminding herself of the fact.

‘Skanda’s Spear? Do I have that right?’ Chloe asked, nearly a week later. She tossed a book onto a pile of others, already discarded. ‘I can’t find a mention of it in any of my journals or references.’

Something was off again today. She dug her fingers into her temple, trying to sort the odd sensation. Something in the air, perhaps.

No. Chloe might deceive the world—after all, what were her spectacles, her dress and all that which made up her odd persona, if not for deception and evasion? But she did make it a policy to be honest with herself. And that was the rub. Reluctantly, she had come to the conclusion that whatever strangeness had been haunting the place lately … was coming from her.

Tranquillity had deserted her. The unflagging energy she normally focused on her work had begun to unravel. Since she’d spoken with the marquess in the library, she’d been beset with unfamiliar doubt, yearning and the rolling echo of his words in her head. Marriage. Babes. It wasn’t that she’d never contemplated such things for herself. It was just that she’d been so intent on finding a place and position of safety and security, that they had always felt very far away. Now Lord Marland’s words had jerked them right to the front and centre of her mind.

Did she want such normal, feminine things? The part of her that melted at the thought knew she did, but the pragmatic side of her couldn’t find a scenario in which it could happen, while the dark, doubting bit of her soul threw out the marquess’s other words—words like unusual and inferior.

She rubbed a hand against her brow. She was awash in conflicting new feelings and desires—and suddenly unceasingly aware of an older one.

Bracing herself, she glanced over at her employer.

She couldn’t ignore the truth any longer, any more than she could ignore the jolt of longing and resignation she felt every time she looked at the marquess. When had it begun? Irrelevant, she supposed. Some time in the months since her stepfather’s death she’d allowed grief to inevitably loosen its hold on her heart. She’d grown comfortable with Lord Marland, had begun to esteem his dedication and reserved humour just as she’d always admired his broad shoulders and incredible strength. Yearning had escaped the realm of fantasy and daydream while want had awoken and swirled up and out of her, tiny tendrils, reaching for the marquess, seeking to bind him to her.

She ducked her head, worried that he might catch a hint of her shifting feelings, but another quick glance showed him still occupied and oblivious. Straightening, she stared at him outright for several long moments.

Still nothing. Lord Marland’s barriers worked both ways, she realised. They, together with her mannish attire and severe coiffure, had succeeded in making her invisible. To Lord Marland she was Hardwick, more function than flesh and blood. He no more noticed her breath catching or her heart pounding than he would suffer such afflictions himself—which was to say, not at all.

Today they sat together in the workroom, she at her desk, while he—an artist’s vision of a warrior tamed—bent over a rusty cavalry sword, painstakingly cleaning the pierced guard.

‘You won’t find Skanda’s Spear in any reference books,’ Lord Marland chided her.

‘Then how do you know of it?’ she asked carefully. His attention still hadn’t wavered from his task, so she eased her spectacles off and allowed her gaze to roam over him.

Though he sat still and focused, the marquess loomed large in the enclosed space. From corner to corner, the air pulsed with the energy of leashed strength, of capable male. He had, as usual, lost his coat some time earlier in the day. Beneath the linen of his shirt, muscles bunched and flexed as he worked. The old, scuffed cavalry boots, his favourite and hers, were planted wide on either side of his chair as he worked. His hair—good heavens, the fantasies that she’d built around that hair—had begun to pull loose from his queue. One long strand hung before his eyes as he leaned in close to his work.

He sat back suddenly and grinned at her. She whipped her gaze back to her desk and pushed her spectacles back onto her nose.

‘Whispers,’ he answered. ‘The Spear of Skanda has been but a myth, a legend spoke of in whispers trickled down through the ages.’ His eyes flashed in the candlelit room, nearly as dark as the elaborate black embroidery on his waistcoat. ‘Lately the trickle has become a river. People are talking about it once more. I’ve heard more than one report saying that the Spear has been brought to England by an unknowing nabob.’

She looked up again, and cocked her head at him. ‘What doesn’t he know?’

‘The extreme value of what he holds, it is to be hoped,’ he answered sardonically. ‘And if he’s unaware of just what he has, then it’s unlikely he’s aware of the curse.’

Chloe groaned. ‘It’s cursed, too?’ Heart thumping, she returned his grin. ‘Bad enough you charge me with finding a will-o’-the-wisp weapon that may or may not exist, but must it be cursed as well?’

The marquess’s expression grew suddenly stern and unexpectedly intent. ‘I want that spear, Hardwick.’ He slapped down the oiled cloth he’d been using with a muffled thump. ‘If it has indeed surfaced, then I must have it. No other weapon could be a more perfect centrepiece for my collection.’

Mesmerised, Chloe stared. Since the day he’d agreed to let her stay on, Lord Marland’s manner had been cool, unflappable and frustratingly distant. As passionate as she knew him to be about his weapons collection and the elaborate wing they were constructing to showcase it, she’d seen evidence of it only in his unending dedication to the project. He’d never given her so much as a glimpse of what lay behind his obsession or how he truly felt about it and she had learned not to ask. This sudden flash of emotion set her to blinking. She felt as if she’d caught wind of something far more rare than Skanda’s alleged spear.

‘You’ve amassed a network of sources that puts even your father’s to shame. Use it. Track it down,’ he ordered, retreating into bland politeness once more. He gestured towards the papers on her desk. ‘I know you’ll find it. You’ve never failed me yet.’

He turned back to his weapon, running slow fingers over the length of the curved blade. A shiver of longing skittered up Chloe’s spine, tightening her nipples and setting her insides to sizzling. She suffered a vision of those big hands touching her with such precision.

Abruptly the marquess flourished the sword he’d been working on, slashing bites out of the air with practised ease. ‘This is interesting,’ he said, caressing the pommel. ‘A hodge-podge of a piece, with the lion’s head and the fancy basket guard. A cavalry sword, I’d guess, but the blade …’ He ran careful fingers along the curved edge. ‘It is unmistakably from an earlier weapon. Repaired after battle, perhaps?’ He stared at the thing, musing. ‘Scots made, in all likelihood. Not fit for display, but excellent for practice.’ A slow smile spread across his face. ‘It puts me in mind of the first old blade that I ever found.’

Chloe’s heart leapt, though she was careful to keep her expression neutral and her gaze fixed on her next book selection. She had no idea what might have brought on this unusually candid mood, but she had no wish to inadvertently put an end to it. ‘Is that how you began your collection?’ she asked casually.

‘Have I never told you the tale?’ A wry grin put a lie to the innocent question.

‘Not that I recall,’ she replied, turning a page and keeping her tone absent. All of her insides were aflutter at the idea of Lord Marland sharing such an important piece of his past.

‘Ah.’ For several long moments he said no more. The workroom filled with a companionable silence, broken only by the distant clatter of workmen and the rasp of the polishing stone over his tarnished blade.

‘I was young—perhaps twelve years at most,’ he said eventually. ‘I was exploring the eastern boundaries of my father’s land. Near the shore there are long stretches of rocky ledges that eventually expand into cliffs.’

Chloe glanced up. ‘Yes, I’m familiar with the area.’

The marquess looked surprised. ‘Are you?’

She shrugged. ‘I enjoy the seaside.’

He stared at her a moment.

Inexplicably, his startled expression began to irritate her. ‘It may come as a shock, my lord, but I do continue to exist once I step out of this workroom and beyond the new wing.’

‘Yes, of course.’

She raised her chin. ‘I find the sea to be soothing. Ever changing and yet constant at the same time—it comforts me. I go whenever I can, especially in the months since my father passed.’

Lord Marland blinked.

What was she doing? She was breaking their code, the unwritten rules that had allowed them to exist in harmony these many months. But there truly was something different about her today. Her inner landscape was shifting and the words would not stop bubbling out. ‘Some day I hope to have a home of my own, near the sea.’

A flash of bleakness darkened his expression, just for an instant. Chloe winced. She’d gone too far.

Charged silence stretched between them. Breathless, she waited.

He’d turned back to his work. ‘I found a cache, built of stone,’ he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, but he’d lost the open, contemplative tone that he’d started with. ‘It contained a musty old sporran, a disintegrating bit of plaid and a heavy, gorgeous broadsword, corroded by the sea air.’ A sigh escaped him. ‘I could barely lift the thing, but I thought it the most marvellous thing I had ever beheld.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Chloe caught a small flutter of movement. Silently cursing the ill-timed interruption, she turned her head towards the door. She expected to find yet another workman with a question or problem—but to her surprise, she discovered a strange woman standing there.

Chloe stiffened. In an automatically defensive gesture, she reached to tug her coat straight.

The woman caught her eye and smiled. ‘You would have thought it was a sultan’s treasure that he had found—’ she spoke as if she had been included in the conversation all along ‘—instead of a pile of mouldy discards.’

The sword clattered to the table and Lord Marland was up and bounding to the door before Chloe could blink an eye.

‘Mairead, you minx!’ He lifted the woman off her feet in an exuberant embrace. ‘I was expecting you this morning.’

‘The roads were muddy from yesterday’s rain. It slowed us a bit.’ She returned his hug with enthusiasm.

Chloe stood, feeling extraneous. Lord Marland’s sister, of course. She had the look of her brother and the same appealing vitality. The square family jaw was softened in her case, while the strikingly high cheekbones were not. Lighter hair and a mouth more lush than wide combined to make her a strikingly beautiful woman.

The excited babble of happy greetings continued. Chloe spared a moment to wonder if the housekeeper had been apprised of this visit. She certainly had heard nothing of it.

‘You came through the wing,’ Lord Marland said eagerly. ‘What do you think?’

‘It is magnificent,’ his sister declared. ‘As striking and elegant as you could possibly have managed.’

‘And it doesn’t match a stick of the rest of the house.’ The grin he flashed at her held a definite boyish quality. ‘Father would have despised it, would he not have?’

‘Heartily.’ She laughed. ‘That’s what makes it all the more grand.’

‘Come.’ He tugged her towards the door. ‘Let me show you all that we’ve done.’

‘Of course, Braedon, I’m eager to see it—but won’t you introduce me first?’ Lady Mairead made an elegant gesture towards Chloe.

‘What?’ The marquess turned back with a frown. ‘Oh, yes—of course!’ Without the slightest discomfort he beckoned the forgotten Chloe forwards. ‘Mairi, I’m delighted to make you acquainted with my invaluable assistant, Hardwick. Hardwick, my sister, the Countess of Ashton.’

The curiosity on the countess’s face gave way to shock. ‘Hardwick?’ She rounded on her brother. ‘Do you mean to tell me that, all of these months you’ve been writing and expounding on the many talents of your Hardwick, you forgot to mention that she is a woman?’

Lord Marland shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

Chloe’s face flamed. Caught between pleasure at the compliment—second-hand though it might be—and the ignobleness of having her femininity so casually dismissed, she found it impossible to do more than bob a curtsy in the countess’s direction.

Lady Ashton gave her a sympathetic glance. ‘Please … Miss Hardwick?’ At Chloe’s nod, she continued. ‘Pay no mind to my brother. He has always been the perfect embodiment of every exasperating male quality.’

Chloe could not help but silently agree.

‘I won’t bother to defend myself,’ the marquess said with a sigh, ‘since I can’t be sure just what I’ve already done to push the two of you into an unholy feminine alliance. Come, Mairi.’ He pulled his sister’s arm through his. ‘There’s so much I want to show you.’

‘Gladly, Braedon. I’ve much to share with you as well.’ She smiled at Chloe. ‘It was lovely to meet you at last, Miss Hardwick. I can scarcely wait to get to know you better.’

‘Thank you, my lady. I look forward to that as well.’

Refusing to glance at the marquess, Chloe turned back to her desk. But as the pair made to leave she was struck by a sudden thought.

‘Wait!’ She felt the flush climb over her face. ‘My lord, that first blade, the one that you found in the rocks—it would make a poignant addition to our displays. But I don’t believe that I’ve seen it. Do you know where it is?’

Lord Marland’s expression closed and his shoulders tightened. ‘Lost, I’m afraid,’ he replied.

‘Sold, you mean.’ Chloe was startled to hear the bitterness in Lady Ashton’s voice. ‘Thanks due to Connor.’

The marquess merely shook his head.

‘Sold to cover the licentious—and expensive—habits of our departed brother, Miss Hardwick.’ It was pain that put the twist in the lady’s lovely mouth, Chloe thought, along with an unexpected dose of resentment. ‘He, you understand, was the perfect embodiment of every loathsome male quality.’

‘Hardwick,’ Lord Marland broke in, his tone distant and dismissive once more, ‘put your ear to the ground and see what you find out about that spear.’ Turning away, he tugged his sister along with him. ‘Come, Mairi. Let’s get you settled in. On the way, you can tell me what you think of my marble inlay. And later, I plan to bore you with a description of each and every display that will occupy all of my wonderful nooks and crannies.’

‘I don’t know why you’ve gone to such incredible—and incredibly expensive—detail, Braedon, when you don’t intend on allowing anyone to actually see all of your hard work.’ Lady Ashton glanced back one last time as they moved towards the door. ‘Or has your Hardwick convinced you to open your weapons wing for public display?’

‘Never,’ he responded firmly.

‘Why so much bother, then, if no one will see it?’

‘I will see it, dear Mairi. I will frequently walk in here and gaze with utter satisfaction on my private contribution to the Marland legacy.’

‘Ah, you intend to gloat then, do you?’

‘Each and every day.’

Their voices faded. Chloe stared after them for a long minute while her pulse settled and the sharp stab of yearning in her breast shrunk to a dull ache. Clearly her own altered feelings didn’t matter. The elaborate mask she’d been so comfortable hiding behind worked too well. Lord Marland looked at her and could see nothing but quiet, stark and efficient Hardwick.

Surely that was as it should be? The marquess had looked at her—touched her—with warmth and admiration for that narrow side of her. She wrapped her arms tight about her middle, as if to hold in all the formally dormant aspects of her nature that were clamouring to be let out—and clamouring to show Lord Marland an altogether different side of Chloe Hardwick.

With a sigh, she turned back to her work. But nothing was accomplished for a good while. She was caught up, instead, contemplating a project of another nature.

Chapter Two

True to his word, Braedon dragged his sister all over the new wing, filling her ears with his ideas, describing all that they’d already accomplished and much that he still had planned. Poor Mairi bore it well, but as the afternoon wore on, her eyes began to glaze.

He took pity on her—and on himself, too, for his mind wandered repeatedly back to Hardwick. There had been something different about her these last weeks, had there not? Or perhaps he was transferring his own uneasiness on to her, for he had to admit, the idea of her searching for a new position had shaken him.

It was one reason he’d been so excited to hear the news about Skanda’s Spear. Not the main reason, but he had to admit that he’d considered that the challenge of finding that elusive artefact would leave Hardwick with no time to think of leaving.

With a smile for his sister, he held out his arm. Escorting her back to the library, he poured her a good, stiff drink and set about discovering what crisis lay behind her unexpected trip home.

‘You’ve utterly transformed this room,’ she marvelled, looking about her while she trailed a hand over the back of the new sofa.

‘This is where I work.’ He nodded to the behemoth desk he’d brought in and grinned at her. ‘I had to do something. This is the only room I can spend any amount of time in.’

‘You’ll have no argument from me.’ Mairi gave a theatrical shudder. ‘They always make me nervous, all of those dead animals glaring at me with their glassy, accusing eyes.’ She crossed over to the high bank of windows he’d had installed. ‘All of this lovely light.’ She sighed. ‘If it were me, I’d go right through the place. Rip out all of that dark panelling and lay all of those poor creatures to rest in some high, sunny meadow.’ She shuddered again. ‘Far away.’

‘I don’t know.’ Braedon shrugged. ‘I feel a certain, perverse satisfaction, walking through those rooms every day.’

‘Because you are here to enjoy them and they are not?’ Mairi asked with her usual terrible clarity. ‘Or because they provide such a marked contrast with your tasteful, new and modern wing?’

‘A bit of both, I’d say.’ And because all of those gloomy rooms served as an inescapable warning. Those dark walls might echo with memories of his desperate unhappiness, but they were also a reminder of the invaluable lessons he’d learned. ‘In any case, I don’t plan on redoing the rest of the old pile.’

‘You surprise me,’ she said with brows raised. ‘I would have thought that you would grab at the chance—if only to thumb your metaphorical nose at Father.’

‘Ah, but I think leaving it the way that it is accomplishes the same purpose. You know how the old man loved Denning. The only thing that ruined his pleasure was the disparity of the place—his beloved Jacobin manor shoved up against the old North Tower like a malformed appendage.’ He allowed his mouth to twist into a grin. ‘Well, now I’ve thrown the new wing into the mix, and we’ve three different styles shoved cheek by jowl together.’

His sister didn’t even try to hide her snort of delight. ‘You are right,’ she said fervently. ‘He’s likely spinning in his grave.’ She trailed a hand along the thick curtains and her expression grew devilish, her smile crafty as she glanced his way. ‘It’s likely a good idea to wait before you redecorate, in any case. What better gift could you give to your bride, after all, than an entire castle to do with as she pleases?’

Braedon’s amusement burst like a bubble. ‘Leave off, Mairi. All the fun and privilege—and expense—of modernising the place will go to your cousin Franklin, as eventual heir.’ He waved a hand. ‘And much joy may he have of it.’

Her face fell. ‘Don’t tell me that you are holding on to that old saw?’

‘Old saw?’ he repeated sardonically. ‘Which one? I dare say I have a death grip on several.’

‘It’s no joking matter, Braedon.’ Mairi’s voice tightened, taking on the shrill edge it had nearly always held in the past, when she was forced to live each day with unending tension and constant vigilance. ‘They are gone now,’ she said with intensity. ‘You cannot let them shape your life. You cannot hide away up here.’

‘I’m not hiding,’ he retorted, stung. ‘I’ve come home and I am fulfilling my duties. I am working!’

‘As what? A reclusive hermit? You are all alone.’

‘And happy to remain that way.’

Mairi was becoming distraught. ‘Don’t say that,’ she whispered. ‘Of course you must marry! I don’t want to think of you alone. I cannot bear the thought that you will never find someone to be happy with.’

He didn’t want to upset her. He summoned a smile and nodded at her. ‘Well, then, of course I shall,’ he said lightly. ‘Eventually.’

But he knew he would not. Mairi had got it backwards. But how to tell her that the brother she knew was largely a fabrication? She had her ways of dealing with the difficulties of their childhood and he’d developed his own. He’d discovered early that exposing too much of himself left him open to ridicule from his father—and worse from his brother. Distance had become his saving grace, both emotionally and physically. It had kept him going until adulthood, when he’d bought himself an army commission just as soon as he was able.

The military had been demanding, but hard-edged reserve had stood him in good stead in the field, almost as much as his skill in tracking down, harassing and capturing French pay wagons and supply caches. He’d been moved eventually into more strategic and diplomatic posts, where he’d learned to add practised charm to his bag of tricks. He’d done well, but it had been a tense and exhausting way of life.

And now—at last—he had the freedom to shape his life exactly as he wanted it. Shockingly, he’d found he enjoyed the role of marquess far more than he had expected he would. As loath as he had been to return to Denning, he had found life here to be almost enjoyable now that he held the title and lived here on his own.

In fact, everything important was easier here. He was the master, and nearly everyone expected him to hold himself detached. The pretence so essential in the army and in the diplomatic arena was simply not necessary. He didn’t have to work so hard to hide. Tenants tugged their forelock and deferred to his opinion. They didn’t require unending caution or the light, easy banter that served so well to keep society at a distance. He had his duty, a few acquaintances, his collection and Hardwick to share his enthusiasm.

So, no—there could be no marriage. How to maintain defences in such an intimate relationship? Even to imagine the sort of work required made him shudder. His father and brother might be gone, but the lessons they had taught had served him well: don’t ask for anything. For God’s sake, never give anything away. Keep the exterior calm and the interior guarded and you could not be hurt.

But he had given the correct answer and Mairi’s face had lightened—in direct contrast to the dark turn of his thoughts.

‘Eventually is not soon enough, dear brother.’ Her gaze grew mischievous. ‘I confess, I’d thought to nag you until you joined me in Town.’ She tilted her head. ‘But now I am entertaining new suspicions.’ She glanced towards the door, then back at him with widening eyes. ‘You must tell me all, Braedon … Are you hiding your bridal candidate up here with you?’

Now he laughed. ‘You’re the mad one in the family, not I. Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve no secret bride stashed away.’ He gestured grandly. ‘However, you’re more than welcome to make a search of the cellars and attics.’ He grinned at her before he took a long swig of his drink.

‘Cawker.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m talking about Miss Hardwick.’

The brandy came back up with far more velocity than it had gone down. Eyes watering, he sputtered and glared at his plague of a sister. ‘Hardwick?’ he choked. ‘You truly are mad.’ He ignored the rush of … what?—Interest? Excitement?—that surged at the unexpected notion.

‘I’m not mad. She’s a woman—and one who apparently shares your odd interests.’

‘She is in my employ,’ he stated firmly. It was not arousal stirring to life at Mairead’s ridiculous idea. It was merely the old, latent curiosity—the wonder at what Hardwick was trying so hard to hide. ‘And a very valuable employee she is, too, so please keep your wild notions to yourself. I won’t have her scared off because you cannot keep your imagination in check.’

He drew breath, ready to scold her further, but his sister turned and crossed her arms in defiance. The lace at the end of her sleeve fell back just as the sunlight streaming though the windows slanted across her. It illuminated clearly the large bruise above her elbow, a stain pulsing darkly against her fair skin in the exact shape of a man’s hand.

Fury roared to life inside him. He rushed her like a maddened bull, though he forced himself to be gentle as he grasped her arm.

‘What’s this?’ he demanded, his voice gone rough. Her skin felt so soft, her bones so fragile cradled in his broad fist. ‘What have you done, Mairi? Have you finally pushed Ashton too far?’ He needed a target for the rage clawing its way through him.

She yanked her arm from his grasp and stepped away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Ashton would never hurt me.’

Braedon’s fists tightened at his sides.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘I can see what you are thinking and I would never serve my husband so ill. It was just a … misunderstanding. A small flirtation that got out of hand.’

There was no keeping all that he felt from his face. Dismay. Disillusionment. Disappointment.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Braedon.’ She gave a soft sob and he was seized with the urge to pull her close, tuck her away in his embrace and shield her as he’d always done.

He didn’t. Couldn’t. ‘Does Ashton know?’ But he already knew the answer—knew that that had been Mairi’s idea all along.

‘He challenged the man—no, not to a duel. Fisticuffs, at a training salon. Ashton beat the dastard to a bloody pulp and then he packed his things and fled to his hunting lodge in the Highlands.’

Braedon sighed. ‘I take it back, Mairi. You’re not mad, you’re merely trying to make your husband so.’

His sister lifted her chin. ‘These bruises are badges of honour, brother dear.’ She let loose a defiant bark that was supposed to be laughter. ‘At least I know he feels something for me. My marriage may not be sunshine and roses, but it is passionate and deep.’

Braedon closed his eyes.

‘Think what you like, but at least I never have to wonder if Ashton even sees me.’ She jabbed a finger high. ‘At least I’m not like Mother, sitting alone up there in the solar day after day, while my husband forgets my very existence!’

‘I understand.’ Weariness swept over him. ‘Of course I do.’

Mairead had turned back to the view outside the window again. She stood straight as a rod, but she suddenly appeared to shrink in on herself. ‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered. ‘I’m afraid I’ve pushed him too far this time.’

‘You should be. A man can only take so much, my dear.’ Feeling a hundred years old, Braedon poured another drink and tossed it back. ‘Listen. I’m only going to say this to you once. Once,’ he emphasised, and refrained from gazing longingly at the door. ‘Ashton will be back, I’m sure. Wait for him here, if you wish, but you had better use this time to think long and hard on what sort of marriage you want, what sort of wife you wish to be.’ He set his glass down. ‘The man cares for you, my dear. I can see it. Everybody can. But now is the time for you to finally believe it—or to let him go. God knows, the ton is full of married couples who exist in a state of polite estrangement.’

She made a wordless sound of protest.

‘You cannot keep testing him this way, Mairi. Decide now,’ he continued ruthlessly, ‘before it is too late.’ He sighed. ‘And what of children? Will you treat them the same way? Will you leave them anxious and wary, never knowing what to expect from you? How to approach you?’

‘Braedon!’ It was a whispered cry of despair.

‘Think about it. You have some serious decisions to make. Make them here, if you wish. Stay as long as you like.’ He deliberately firmed his tone. ‘But I won’t have you making mischief.’

‘I wouldn’t.’ She sounded small now, as well.

‘Your mind will be busy enough. Look around, talk to the housekeeper, the vicar’s wife, perhaps. Find some project to keep your fingers occupied as well.’

She did not turn to meet his eye. ‘Thank you, Braedon.’

He fled. With a measured tread that belied his inner turmoil he strode quickly through the gloom. He felt for Mairi. It was never easy, coming home to Denning. Yet it was a damned sight easier than growing up here. He sighed. He was doing what he could to change things, but he and Mairi would always carry the burdens of their childhood. It was just a damned shame that her marriage must also be marked.

He found himself in the soothing quiet of his weapons wing. Some instinct had him pausing beneath the vast glory of the dome. Braedon closed his eyes and let the empty silence of the place ease him, push him further away from the turbulence brought on by his sister’s distress. Yet her words echoed in his mind. She accused him of hiding? He snorted, thinking of Mairi’s histrionics and Hardwick’s manufactured, forbidding aspect. There were ways and ways of hiding.

And suddenly it was Hardwick’s image filling his head and making inroads on his carefully maintained borders. Her earlier words sprang to mind. She’d been irritated—because he had not known of her preference for the sea? He tried to recall if he’d ever before seen Hardwick irritated. She was always calm, competent, serene. He’d grown used to—hell, he’d come to count on—her silent efficiency.

Damn Mairi anyway, for her outlandish suggestion. Of course he’d wondered about his assistant. Occasionally he had surprised a delighted laugh out of her, or caught a glimpse of her hard at work, her lips pursed in concentration and her hair falling in tendrils about her face—and he’d known that there was something there. But he hadn’t looked too deeply. All these months he’d tucked away his curiosity, banished the occasional urge to know what Hardwick was hiding beneath all that severe tailoring and daunting effectiveness. The more he’d come to value her skills, the less inclined he’d been to meddle. Now his interest had been piqued again and it had brought along the image, lush and vivid, of him starting with those damned buttons and peeling her layers away, one by one.

Flushed and hot, he banished the vision and headed for the workroom and the blade he’d abandoned there. He grasped the hilt and lunged, stabbing a thrust through an imaginary opponent. What he needed was a bit of practice to conquer such wayward thoughts.

And that was why Mairead was wrong. He’d no need to hide. He’d faced war, both at home and abroad, he’d swum through the murky waters of diplomatic intrigue and he’d survived social manoeuvring that made politics look like child’s play. And he’d yet to meet the obstacle he couldn’t conquer with determination and a damned good weapon.

He glanced over at Hardwick’s empty desk. Surely this one would be no different.

It had taken a couple of days, but Chloe had at last tracked down the hint she needed regarding Skanda’s Spear. She clutched the table in relief. She needed to maintain her usual impeccable work performance, for her attempts to attract the marquess’s attention in other ways were resulting in mixed success, at best.

She’d thought that seeing him outside her usual sphere might be a good beginning, so she’d ‘arranged’ to run into him in different spots about the house and the grounds. Lord Marland had looked intrigued, the first time, and then increasingly resigned, but in each instance, he’d merely nodded, exchanged a brief nod and moved on.

So she’d tried bringing up other topics of conversation. He’d followed easily when she’d asked about the estate, talking with enthusiasm about the improvements he was undertaking at his bailiff’s advice. But then he’d caught himself and cast her a measuring glance. Later he’d resisted speaking of his sister and flatly refused to discuss the weather, each time turning the conversation back to the collection or, repeatedly, the Spear of Skanda.

Yesterday, though, she’d experienced a greater measure of success. She’d eschewed her usual, severe chignon and worn her hair loose down the back of her neck. She’d gone about other business as usual, but several times she’d looked up to find him staring intently from a distance. Near the end of the day they’d been debating the merits of open and closed cases for a set of ancient flint knives when his argument had stuttered to a stop. She’d glanced up in surprise to see his gaze fixed on the curl that had fallen forwards over her shoulder. Without another word he had stood and stalked from the workroom.

She had grinned for the remainder of the evening and taken it as a sign, however small, that he did feel a degree of attraction for her. It gave her real hope. They were so compatible in other ways. And she certainly felt more than enough heat for him.

But today she needed to focus on her work. She had a feeling that the marquess knew more about this mysterious spear than he was saying, but it wasn’t her place to ask. Now at last, in his vast library she’d finally discovered that Skanda was one of several names for the Hindu war god. She’d even found an illustration, complete with a depiction of his favoured weapon—a spear with a wide, spade-shaped blade. Her heart lifted. She knew of several experts who might be of immediate help for this sort of artefact. She’d just bent closer to study the image when she was distracted by several flashes of light dancing across the bookcase in front of her.

She knew what that meant. Skanda was forgotten as she tore off her spectacles and made her quick and stealthy way to the large windows. She eased herself into position. See without being seen, that was the trick. There. One small step more … Her breath hitched. Her heart began to pound as if she was the one about to engage in combat.

For combat it was to be. Lord Marland moved below, pacing the levelled bowling green that he had long ago appropriated for his more … unusual pastime. He gripped the newly restored cavalry sword in one hand, sunlight flashing with each restless slash of the blade. A predatory gleam lit his eye as he watched his sparring partner ready himself for their match.

The twitching started up again, deep in the secret recesses of Chloe’s belly, a tympani that pulsed loudest between her legs and sent echoing tremors along all of her limbs. The thrumming began each and every time she saw the marquess like this—a hunter, a warrior clad incongruously in thigh-hugging breeches and high, worn boots. He’d cast his coat and waistcoat aside, leaving only thin linen and a few tantalising glimpses of browned skin and broad torso. Chloe’s mouth went dry.

Lord Marland was warming to his task, each practised lunge and thrust showing her more. All those sculpted muscles and masculine planes and angles. She closed her eyes, wondering how they would feel beneath her fingers.

The clash of steel signalled the opening of battle. Chloe took a risk and edged a little closer to the window. The combatants were engaged, their focus locked intently on each other. She allowed hers to fix on her employer. He was magnificent, a figure straight out of legend. He was an expert in his warrior’s dance of strength and strategy, and she was enraptured. She was …

Caught.

The weight of someone’s gaze rested on the back of her neck, growing more palpable by the second. The tiny hairs there rose high. Someone was staring at her as intently as she was watching the scene below.

Grasping for a veneer of nonchalance, she turned. For the second time in as many days, she confronted Lord Marland’s sister poised on the threshold of a doorway.

‘I had wondered how you managed it.’ The countess’s expression was mobile, fading from surprise and interest into something that resembled mischief.

‘My lady?’ Chloe did not move from the window.

‘Living up here, tolerating the isolation. Getting along with my singularly uncommunicative brother. But now I see.’ Lady Ashton’s mouth quirked. ‘You fit right in because you are just like the rest of this family—gifted at hiding what you don’t wish to face.’

Chloe stiffened. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.’

‘No matter.’ Still smiling, the countess stepped fully into the library. ‘I’m in no place to criticize, in any case. I heard the clamour and merely wished to see the show.’ She crossed the room to stand at the window by Chloe’s side. With considerable enjoyment she watched the fight below, but after a moment she leaned abruptly over the sill. ‘Braedon’s partner—is that Sir Thomas Cobbe?’

Chloe realised she’d been edging away. ‘It is.’ She gave up and moved back to stand next to the countess. ‘He comes to train with Lord Marland as frequently as his schedule will allow.’

‘I heard he was the best. Knighted after he became sword master to the Prince Regent and his set, was he not?’ She winked in Chloe’s direction. ‘Of course that was years ago. He may be a bit older than Braedon, but I met him once in London. Poor as a church mouse, but I should say he’d be more than able to hold his own in battle. And he’s just as sword-mad as my brother.’

Her eyes twinkled in good humour. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if we might find some common ground as well.’ She looked over her shoulder at the books Chloe had spread over a table and her spectacles lying conspicuously on top. ‘What was it you were working on, before you were so understandably distracted?’

Chloe took another step back towards her work. ‘Lord Marland wishes to acquire an elusive weapon, a spear. I should perhaps—’

She was interrupted by a clash of steel and a low grunt that echoed up from below. Lord Marland’s opponent had sunk to one knee. But the fight was far from finished. Though his sword was locked with the marquess’s, Sir Thomas suddenly held a wicked-looking dirk in his other hand. He aimed a vicious swing at Lord Marland’s knee.

‘Oh, that’s hardly cricket, is it?’ the countess cried.

Her heart flopping like a fish, Chloe gasped as her employer jumped back, the blade missing him by a hair. Sir Thomas lunged to his feet and the battle raged on, as fiercely as ever.

‘They are marvellous, aren’t they?’ Lady Ashton murmured. ‘Just look at Braedon. Fully engaged, utterly alive. Battle brings it out of him.’ She sighed. ‘It was ever thus. It is only in these moments that he allows himself to step out of the shadows and into the light.’

Chloe said nothing, though part of her burned to encourage the countess, to push and pry and question. The strange feeling was back again, alive in her gut, urging her to give in to the temptation. But she shouldn’t. She knew Lord Marland would find it intrusive. And therein lay her particular genius.

Chloe knew how to blend, to fade. Transforming herself into what was needed most was a strategy that had allowed her to survive all the difficult periods of her life. It was just such a tactic that had convinced the marquess to grant her the secure haven of this position. And after so long, she knew what Lord Marland wished for and needed her to be. So she did what she’d become so adept at doing: she swallowed her curiosity, tucked away all of her wonder and excitement and unslaked desire. She was Hardwick. Calm, detached and efficient.

Safe.

She breathed deeply. The warriors outside had reached a détente. They’d discarded their weapons and were pouring tall drinks as they relived their skirmish.

‘Enough of them!’

Chloe started when the countess reached out to tug her away from the window.

‘Come, Miss Hardwick. Let us spend some time getting to know each other.’

‘I’m sorry, my lady, but your brother was most insistent about the spear …’ Chloe began to make her way back to her work-strewn table.

‘He always is,’ Lady Ashton said with a roll of her eyes. ‘But answer a question for me—when was the last time you took an afternoon for yourself?’

She hesitated, pursing her lips. She had taken a day, spent the morning walking along the seashore and the afternoon shopping for essentials in the village. But when had that been? ‘Months ago,’ she admitted.

‘Well, you are overdue then, are you not?’ The countess’s smile was pure wickedness. ‘I can be quite insistent, too, you know.’

Chloe glanced again at the books and correspondence awaiting her. Her duty was clear. Yet those other voices were calling, too, and for the first time she wondered if duty—and safety—was enough. ‘Perhaps for a short while.’

‘Come!’ Lady Ashton was triumphant. ‘I want to hear it all—how you came to be my brother’s right hand. And perhaps I shall share with you how I escaped Denning when I cajoled Lord Ashton into asking for my hand.’ She waggled her fingers and extended her arm.

Pushing aside her last reservation, Chloe took it and allowed herself to be led away.

‘And that,’ the countess said later, her voice full of laughter, ‘is how I convinced Lord Ashton that he could not bear the thought of life without me.’

Chloe only kept her jaw from dropping by taking a sip of her tea. Among the servants at Denning, Lady Ashton had the reputation of a certain … instability. But she quite liked the countess. She and Lord Marland’s sister were comfortably ensconced in the lady’s apartments with a tray from the kitchens. ‘I don’t know how you dared,’ she said after she’d got over her shock.

‘In truth, I had him in a frenzy by that time. He was nearly half-mad with desire and took only the slightest of pushes.’ Lady Ashton’s smile faded and Chloe caught the hint of sadness that coloured her expression. ‘But enough about me. I want to learn about you.’ She looked her over closely. ‘Months since you’ve taken a day off?’ Impishness chased any lingering melancholy away as she leaned forwards. ‘You must enjoy your position enormously. Your father held it before you, did he not?’

Chloe nodded. ‘He met Lord Marland abroad, years ago, and was hired as your brother’s factor. He travelled, doing research and acquiring pieces. When the marquess decided to begin building the new wing to house his collection, he asked Father to come and take charge.’

‘But where were you while your father was working overseas for so long?’

‘He was my stepfather, actually,’ Chloe confessed. She ran her finger around the edge of her cup. Surely it couldn’t hurt to share this small bit of her history. The countess could discover any of the same information if she asked her brother. ‘But he treated me as his own and we were very close. After my mother died, he was distraught. He wanted to leave England for a while, to help him forget. I went to school. He wrote me the loveliest letters, filled with the sights he’d seen and the treasures he’d found. When I was finished with school myself, I took a teaching position at the establishment.’

‘How happy you must have been when he returned.’

She couldn’t suppress the smile that bloomed at the thought. ‘Ecstatic, I should say. We had not seen each other in years. I was thrilled to leave my position and to come here to act as his assistant.’ She looked up. ‘It was as if we’d never parted. I’ll always be grateful to your brother for those lovely months I shared with my father before his death.’

‘How lucky you were,’ Lady Ashton said wistfully. ‘I rather thought that Ashton was my chance at such a relationship. We had such a wonderfully satisfactory courtship and after our marriage we grew even closer.’ With a heavy sigh she set down her tea. ‘Thick as thieves, we were, so impatient to get back to each other at the end of the day. I finished his sentences and I vow that he knew what I was going to say before I could finish thinking it …’ Her words trailed off and her gaze came unfocused. Chloe knew she’d left these rooms altogether. She sipped her tea and left the countess to her memories.

But in a dazzling change of mood, Lady Ashton whirled and fixed a determinedly hopeful smile upon her. ‘But the bloom does fade. A common enough situation, I would guess.’ She leaned forwards. ‘What would you recommend, Miss Hardwick, for a couple grown distant from each other?’

Chloe’s cup rattled in the saucer. ‘Why ask me?’

‘My brother’s letters are full of praise for you, dear. He raves about your uncanny skill at reading people, at your ability to handle any situation or solve any problem. I thought you might have a suggestion that could help me.’

She flushed. She shouldn’t answer, shouldn’t meddle. Almost without thought, she ran her fingers down the row of buttons on her jacket. She’d forgotten herself, crawled too far out of her shell. She needed to get back.

Yet the countess’s pain was apparent and remarkably like her brother’s. She pursed her lips together.

‘You miss him, it is obvious,’ she abruptly blurted. ‘I’d wager that he feels the same. Perhaps he only needs a reminder of the closeness that you once shared.’

‘A reminder?’ Lady Ashton arched a brow. ‘I remind him quite regularly, Miss Hardwick.’

Chloe tried not to flush. ‘Something only you would know, I meant.’

The countess sat back with a frown. ‘A secret?’

‘A secret wish, perhaps. A regret? Something that you would understand the significance of, more than anyone else.’

The frown deepened and her eyes narrowed. ‘That is a very interesting notion, Miss Hardwick. I shall set my mind to it.’

Several long moments of silence passed. Chloe quietly set her cup down. She started to rise, but jumped when Lady Ashton gasped out loud.

‘I know just the thing!’ The countess had gone pink with excitement. ‘It couldn’t be simpler—or more perfect! Miss Hardwick, you are brilliant!’

‘I am truly glad I could help, my lady.’ Chloe got to her feet. ‘I should get back now, though. Thank you for a lovely visit.’

‘Oh, you must forgive me once more.’ Lady Ashton rose as well. ‘First I steal you away and then I neglect you. But you must not worry that Braedon will berate you, Miss Hardwick. I doubt we’ll see either hide or hair of him until dinner and then we shall present a united front. He’ll be helpless against the two of us.’

Chloe paused and placed her hands on the back of her chair. ‘Dinner?’

‘Indeed. The vicar and his wife are to join us. And Sir Thomas, of course.’

Chloe bit her lip. ‘I’m afraid that I do not normally join the company at dinner.’

The countess frowned. ‘How do you normally take your meals?’

‘On a tray in my room. Or sometimes with the housekeeper in her apartment.’ She shifted. ‘I’ve found that the servants are not really comfortable having me in their hall.’

The countess’s eyes flashed. ‘I see that I’ve come not a moment too soon. Well. This will not do.’ Her smile welcomed Chloe in as a conspirator. ‘Pull your best dress out of your closet, Miss Hardwick. Dust it off. You shall be at the formal table tonight. I need you to even out the numbers.’

A mad surge of disappointment froze Chloe to the spot. ‘I cannot, my lady.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘I have no dress to wear. All of my garments are …’ She made a small gesture down the length of her protective coat and heavy skirt.

‘What, all?’ Shock had apparently robbed the countess of further words.

Chloe nodded.

‘How can this be? No—never mind.’ Lady Ashton was already across the room and pulling the chord to summon a maid. She appeared to become more agitated by the minute.

Chloe instinctively moved to soothe her. ‘Don’t fret, please. No one here will fuss over uneven numbers. Or perhaps I can send a footman with an invitation to one of the other neighbourhood ladies …’

‘Stop right there, Miss Hardwick!’ The countess’s tone was firm. ‘How efficient you are. No wonder my brother values you so highly. You step right in and do what needs to be done, don’t you?’

‘That is a basic, if sweeping, description of my duty, my lady.’ Chloe’s mouth twisted wryly.

‘Not today it isn’t.’

A soft knock sounded on the door. Daisy entered, but the countess waved her out. ‘No, I need Brigita, please. Have her come at once.’ She crossed the room to close the door behind the maid, but her dresser was already hovering outside in the passage. ‘Brigita! Come in, I am in dire need of your wisdom.’ Her foreign serving woman entered and the countess firmly shut the door on the befuddled maid even as she swept her hand in Chloe’s direction.

The pair of them took up a side-by-side stance, identical expressions of displeasure on their faces.

Chloe took a step back. ‘What is it?’

‘What do you think?’ the countess mused. ‘Jewel tones, I should think.’

The formidable Brigita nodded.

‘The dark purple, then.’

‘No, my lady—not with that pearlescent skin and dark hair. She needs the ocean-blue.’ This was said with heavy Germanic finality.

Chloe began to understand what was going on. She took another step back. ‘No, my lady …’ But she paused. Changing her hair had had a measurable effect on the marquess. What might happen if she changed … everything? She looked down at her costume. Could she do it? Step outside of the disguise? Leave herself vulnerable?

Her eyes closed. Images sprang to life in her mind. Lord Marland at practice, all muscle and might. Leaning over her desk, eyes glowing over a renovation. Sitting across the workroom in companionable silence. Gripping her arm and smiling up with warmth and support.

She nearly trembled with sudden yearning. She could do it. Because she wanted all of that again—plus the promise of more. Not so long ago she’d thought that she was grateful to have landed close to happiness. Truly, she was changing inside—because now close wasn’t enough. She wanted to be happy—she wanted to wallow in it. And she quite desperately wanted to make Lord Marland happy, too.

She thought they had a chance at it. A spark did exist between them. She knew it. Just as she knew he had been ignoring it nearly as diligently as she had been urging it to life. A complete change of appearance might be what she needed to blow his resistance to shreds, to obliterate the barriers he’d placed between them from the beginning.

Only one thought gave her pause. To what end? He was a marquess. Would he even consider a relationship with his assistant? She bit her lip. He’d never exhibited any need to live by any strictures except his own. His words to her the other day had certainly encouraged her to look beyond society’s expectations.

‘Oh, yes, Miss Hardwick.’ The countess was waiting, all kindness. ‘This is a momentous day. Not only has my taciturn brother offered me advice, but for perhaps the first time, I am taking it. Today you have been of invaluable help to me.’ Her voice softened. ‘Today you have given me hope.’

All of her new feelings whirled inside of her, urging her on. ‘But what of—?’

‘No.’ Lady Ashton raised a hand. ‘Now I am going to go start my own preparations. You are going to put yourself in Brigita’s hands.’

Chloe wanted to do it. But all of her old instincts still had a voice, too. She might be risking the safety that she’d worked so hard for. ‘What if Lord Marland doesn’t approve?’ It came out in a whisper.

The countess grinned. ‘Approve?’ She ran a practised eye up and down Chloe’s long form. ‘I think that my brother is going to thank us. In fact, I believe he’ll be on his knees before us both.’

Whoosh went her insides, roiling again. That mental image crowned all the others and drowned her worries in a flood of excitement.

‘Come, Miss Hardwick.’ The countess beckoned. ‘It is time for you to step out of the shadows.’

Her words resonated through Chloe, as sharp and loud and long as the strike of a bell. She met Lord Marland’s sister’s eyes and nodded.

Chapter Three

The vicar’s lady was excessively fond of her cats. At least, her incessant ramblings about them made it sound that way to Braedon. Her obsession could not be healthy—he’d learned the hard way, as a child, the dangers of emotional dependence on something so fragile.

On Mrs Goodmond’s other side, Thom tossed back another drink. Unobtrusively, Braedon changed position, trying to wiggle his toes. He couldn’t begrudge Mairi her dinner—not as he’d been the one to suggest both a project and an acquaintance with the vicar’s wife—but he couldn’t help pining for his favourite boots and a pint down at the Hog’s Tail.

He’d just shifted again, seeking relief for his cramped toes, when he saw Thom’s eyes alight. Ah. Mairi must have arrived. He turned towards the door. Now they could be seated and he could rest his aching …

Tight shoes were forgotten as he realised Mairi wasn’t alone. She stood poised just inside the parlour door, another female—a tall, slender beauty—at her side.

Mrs Goodmond fell silent. Thom stepped up close beside him.

‘I thought I was going to have to change your nickname to the Mouldering Marquess, stuck as you’ve been up here, with no opponents or conquests to speak of, but I see that you’ve been holding out on me.’ His sparring partner nudged him with an elbow. ‘Who is she?’

Braedon opened his mouth to inform Thom that he had no idea who the strange woman might be, when his sister drew her forwards to greet the vicar. Just the smallest thing, a change of expression, the fading of nerves into a gentle smile of greeting—but it tilted Braedon’s world right off its axis.

‘Hardwick,’ he breathed. The earth rolled beneath his feet. No. It jerked to a halt, leaving him stumbling on alone.

‘Hardwick?’ scoffed Thom. ‘Nice try, Braedon, but I’m not that gullible.’

Hardwick. It was she. He didn’t know how he could be so certain. He’d never seen his Hardwick smile so widely. He’d never seen her hair shining so richly, left to lie in gleaming sable curls long past the sweet curve of her nape. He only knew that it was Hardwick standing there, as foreign and exotic as an ocean naiad in a gown containing every changing colour of the sea.

Thom let loose a long, low breath. ‘By all that’s holy, that is Hardwick!’ He shot Braedon an accusatory glance and moved to intercept the two women.

Cursing wildly in his head, Braedon made his excuses to the vicar’s wife and followed. Some of the anxiety returned to Hardwick’s expression as he joined the small group.

Good. Some primitive part of him did not want her to be comfortable. Mairi crowed with delight in her handiwork and Thom was at that very moment expressing his own approval of the surprise, but Braedon was feeling unaccountably … furious.

Why? He breathed deeply, pushed back, tried to impose the emotional distance that was such a vital component of his equilibrium, but it fell apart each time he looked at her and the anger in his gut raged a little higher.

Again, he forced himself to consider why. Because the two women had cooked this up between themselves, without his knowledge? Because Thom was acting like a randy stallion who’d just scented a new mare? Or because this was what Hardwick had been hiding all of these months—and he’d never had the faintest idea?

He still hadn’t spoken a word. She sent another nervous glance his way and he stepped closer. ‘Hardwick,’ he began. His voice had gone rough as gravel. He had half a mind to order her back to her room and into her regular, daunting uniform.

‘Lord Marland.’ She inclined her head.

‘I gather that I am now meant to compliment you on your changed appearance?’

Her hand rose and hovered uncertainly for a moment over her bodice. He recognised the movement and suffered a small-minded sense of victory.

But Hardwick raised her chin and lowered her hand. It was just as well, for there were no buttons, only miles of skin and a sophisticated gown of the most gorgeous changeable silk. Beautiful blue shot with green, the dress flowed over her like the ocean it was meant to represent.

And then she smiled at him. ‘Of course you are not obligated, my lord, but should you choose to offer a compliment, I will be glad to accept it.’

He snorted. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that you look beautiful this evening, as I’m sure both your looking glass and my sister have already done so.’

She tilted her head. ‘I am sure that it should not be so, but the fact remains that a compliment from a gentleman always means more. So I will thank you—even for that half-hearted attempt.’

Glowering, he took a drink. ‘I am reminded of the adage about a leopard never really changing her spots.’ He lifted his glass. ‘And find myself hoping it is true.’

She frowned. ‘I’m not changing my spots, my lord. Following your analogy, I would say that I am merely shifting my pelt about to showcase a new side.’

‘Turning yourself inside out is more like it,’ he grumbled.

Hardwick laughed. ‘Nothing so dramatic, I promise.’

His sister had noticed his ire and moved to intercept. ‘Do forgive us for the delay,’ she announced to the group at large. ‘Shall we all go in to dinner?’ She took Braedon’s arm and left Hardwick to be escorted by the vicar.

But before Mr Goodmond led her away, Hardwick stepped close and sparkled up at him. ‘You may yet get a glimpse of my insides, Lord Marland, but not before you display a bit of your own.’

Frowning, Braedon led the company in. His agitation didn’t fade as they took their seats. He’d known something was in the wind, but he’d done his best to ignore it. He shook his head. Hardwick already had so many fine and useful qualities—now she displayed beauty and wit as well? Any other woman and he’d be intrigued. But this was Hardwick! Didn’t she see? Changing herself forced other things to change, too. He suppressed a snort. Show his insides? She should know him well enough to realise he’d avoid such a thing at all costs.

He sighed. Surely this was a temporary aberration, provoked by Mairi, no doubt. He would wait and things were sure to go back to normal.

But finding his balance proved impossible. The distance lens through which he normally viewed life had flipped completely—and focused itself firmly on his assistant. He barely ate, could scarcely concentrate on Thom’s sporadic attempts at conversation. He could only stare at the magnified brilliance of Hardwick.

She looked so soft. The close-viewing lens roamed over her, highlighting glowing skin, every bit as lustrous as the pearls enhancing her gown, cataloging the plush and creamy bosom so gratifyingly displayed. Her eyes sparkled brilliantly blue. Where were her damned spectacles?

Her laughter drifted down the table and Braedon stifled a flare of outrage. How could this be? Surely it was not jealousy burning in his gut—over Hardwick?

She glanced his way again, just the lightest, fleeting brush of their gazes. She coloured and looked away.

No. He wasn’t jealous. The notion was too ridiculous to be entertained. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder—from where had come that glow, lighting her face from within? Why had he never seen her smile so, before now? He couldn’t look away.

He wasn’t alone. Thom stared unabashedly. The vicar kept shooting her small glances of bemusement. Even Mrs Goodmond frowned repeatedly in Hardwick’s direction. As the next course came out, the vicar’s wife laid down her utensils and cleared her throat.

‘Miss Hardwick, I wondered if you intend to engage a chaperon to stay here at Denning along with you.’ She gave a nod towards Mairi. ‘Lady Ashton lends you countenance, of course, but I’m sure her stay is only temporary.’

Hardwick frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought to, Mrs Goodmond.’ She set down her own silverware and met the woman’s eye directly. ‘In truth, I hadn’t even considered such a thing. When I first came to Denning, my father was here as well. After his death, I was so distraught, and then so busy, that it never entered my mind that I should need a chaperon.’

‘Well, it entered mine,’ the lady returned somewhat waspishly. ‘But Lord Marland has been so busily engaged in restoring his estate and you seemed so occupied with the new wing, and so I thought … There was talk, of course, but, well, I let the matter drop.’ She leaned back in her chair and bestowed a sternly disapproving look, first upon her husband, then upon her victim. ‘And now I am picking it back up.’

Hardwick stiffened. ‘I’ve only changed my dress, Mrs Goodmond. Not my character.’

The lady sniffed. ‘Appearances matter, Miss Hardwick. And now that your appearance has changed … a chaperon is in order. I only hope it is not too late.’

Braedon had heard enough. ‘I respect your position, of course,’ he said with a nod to the vicar. ‘But Hardwick is a member of my staff and I don’t appreciate interference in how I run my household.’

‘Now, everyone take a breath,’ Mairi interrupted as Mrs Goodmond puffed up, ready for a fight. ‘I am sure that my brother will do all that is right and proper, ma’am. He usually does.’ She smiled. ‘Now, he tells me that you manage several charitable projects in the area. Will you tell me about your work?’

Braedon ducked his head. It had been a long time since he’d had to reach for the numbness that had protected him so long ago, but he could use a good dose of it now. How heartily he wished this night over. Tomorrow he would have a talk with Hardwick, clear the air and insist that they return to the normal, comfortable state of things.

Chloe bit her lip and stared at her plate. This scenario had not played out as she’d hoped. Lord Marland appeared only annoyed at her transformation, not intrigued. Why was he so resistant?

She caught him tossing her a quick, scowling glance and thought perhaps she could guess why. She’d been so caught up in the swirl of her new feelings that she’d forgot that only her inner landscape was in upheaval—and had been even before the countess had arrived. Everything inside Chloe was shifting as fear receded and curiosity and confidence began to grow. She was changing, nearly by the minute. Lord Marland was not—and neither was his view of her.

She sucked in a breath and hoped that she had not made a colossal mistake.

Her head came up as she heard her name.

‘—and I understand now the high praise you included in your letters, Braedon,’ the countess said. ‘And I find myself in complete agreement. Why, I’ve only been here a few days and Miss Hardwick has helped me with a particularly sticky problem.’

The marquess mumbled something incoherent.

‘You’ll recall the matter we discussed,’ his sister said brightly. She turned to Mrs Goodmond. ‘I’m happy to say that the solution will lead to a large project of my own. You see, my husband’s birthday approaches.’ The countess caught Chloe’s eye. ‘Growing up, he’s mentioned that such occasions were never marked. But this year I intend that it should be.’

Understanding dawned. The secret, the regret that she had mentioned as a way back to intimacy with the earl. She nodded.

‘I’d like to make it a grand event. An occasion suited to his particular tastes. A celebration of every masculine delight.’

From Sir Thomas came a great guffaw. The countess turned a saucy eye on him. ‘Nearly every masculine delight, then.’ Her smile faded. ‘It shall be a great deal of work. I suspect I must find an assistant of my own, when I return to Town. I can only hope to find someone half so competent as Miss Hardwick.’

Chloe straightened, lightning-struck by the obvious notion. She caught Lord Marland’s eye, but he quickly glanced away. No, she thought, staring hard at him. She had not made a mistake. She hadn’t been wrong to pursue this position when she’d had such a great need of it, and she wasn’t wrong to heed her changing needs now. But perhaps she had tried the wrong tack. Perhaps, now that she had delivered the marquess such a shock, she should let him taste her absence.

‘Oh, but you’ve given me a lovely idea, Lady Ashton!’ she said. ‘I’m due some time away from my position, as you pointed out earlier. So why do I not come to London to help you?’

The countess grasped her hand and gasped in delight. The Goodmonds exchanged a glance. The marquess, however, gave a snort of derision that echoed around the room.

‘Oh, would you?’ Lady Ashton cried. ‘It would be just the thing! You are a model of organisation and efficiency—with your help I’m sure I could not fail to please my husband.’

Lord Marland eyed his sister with obvious irritation. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mairead.’ He turned to Chloe with the same hostility. She fought back a shiver as he raked a critical eye over her. ‘I know I asked you to find some way to keep busy, but I never meant for you to turn Hardwick into a pet project.’

Chloe stiffened. Now she was becoming agitated.

‘You are the one being ridiculous, Braedon,’ Lady Ashton responded. ‘Miss Hardwick is a person, not a project. A young woman with hopes, dreams and feelings.’

‘And responsibilities. I need her here. The collection—’

‘Will be fine in your capable hands,’ Chloe said smoothly. ‘The wing is in the last stages of construction. Most of the collection is ready, or waiting on the completion of our custom-built display cases. Surely I could be spared for a few weeks?’

‘Famous!’ the countess exclaimed, with a clap of her hands. ‘I’m so relieved!’ She squeezed Chloe’s hand again. ‘I promise that it won’t be all work and no play. We shall have plenty of time to shop and meet new people, to go to the theatre and the parks. It will be a grand time all around. What do you think?’

Chloe’s heart leapt. Underneath the table, her free hand gripped her napkin until her knuckles were surely whitened. It sounded terrifying—and divine.

‘Now that is the outside of enough,’ Lord Marland scoffed. ‘You mean to take Hardwick to Town and thrust her amongst the ton?’

His mockery made Chloe blanch.

‘It would be nothing but an unmitigated disaster.’

Lady Ashton clenched her jaw. ‘I think that you underestimate Miss Hardwick.’

‘No, I believe that you overestimate the fashionable set. Hardwick is no empty-headed society chit. What does she care for fashion and furbelows?’ He gestured in her direction. ‘Hardwick can estimate mortar to the last brick. She deals in stone blocks and steel blades, not crowds and gowns and gossip.’

Chloe stilled. The marquess surely didn’t intend to be cruel.

‘I know your tricks, in any case, Mairead.’ Lord Marland’s voice had gone heavy with warning. ‘You won’t leave it at a party and be done with it. You’ll turn this jaunt into a husband-hunting expedition—and what will that gain Hardwick? She’s not that sort of woman. She’ll be left with naught but dashed hopes and broken dreams.’

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