Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

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.