Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

‘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.