Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick
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Deb Marlowe
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19,3K
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24
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 high-relief 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?’
