Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick (10 page)

Chapter Seven

H
e was being watched. Braedon felt it the next afternoon, as he pulled on his driving coat and accepted his gloves. There. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the small form huddled at the base of the rail two storeys up. He didn’t acknowledge the child’s steady regard, but neither did he mind it. Sometime during the long night he had come to realise that the boy’s arrival was serendipitous—and not the disaster he had first feared.

He had been unbalanced of late, off-kilter, and it had begun the moment he’d first glimpsed Hardwick in a gown of ocean-blue. At last he’d realised how ridiculous—insupportable, really—it was to allow the shock of her transformation to affect him. And it must have been the shock. For in the end, what had truly changed? So Hardwick was now a pretty girl. Well, he was a marquess with a great deal of experience with pretty girls—and with keeping his balance. All he needed to do was accept her help and hold her at a distance. He’d done it for months at Denning. This need be no different.

Yes, the boy’s arrival—indeed, the discovery of his existence—was just the shock he’d needed to restore his equilibrium. It had shaken him awake and reminded him who he really was.

‘Check the post carefully, Dobbs,’ he instructed now, taking up his hat. ‘Watch for any missives from my stewards and set them aside. We have, what, six estates attached to the marquisate?’

‘Seven, if you include the hunting box, my lord.’

‘As you say. Surely one of them will have a nice couple or comfortable family willing to take on our unexpected guest.’ He darted his eyes upwards. The slight figure promptly disappeared.

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ Dobbs brightened at the mere mention of the boy’s imminent departure.

The observation gave Braedon pause. ‘And instruct Mrs Grady to take him shopping. Did he arrive with any clothes other than those on his back?’

‘No, sir,’ the butler replied. ‘But there is no need. Mrs Grady and the maids have already raided the attics for a suitable wardrobe.’

‘Excellent. Well, then. Order up something special for him, will you? Some tin soldiers, perhaps? Don’t lads enjoy that sort of thing?’ He had no idea. He wondered if he’d ever been a lad at all.

‘Of course, sir. I’ll see to it.’

Braedon took his leave then, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. He went so far as to whistle his way across Mayfair, causing his team’s ears to twitch back at him, and managed to hold on to his good humour even when he saw that Mairi’s parlour was full of chattering women.

‘Braedon!’ Mairi called as he paused on the threshold. ‘Here you are at last. Come in.’ She beckoned. ‘I’ll pour you a dish of tea.’

‘No, thank you,’ he answered. ‘I cannot stay. My horses are standing.’

His demurral was no hindrance to his sister’s guests. He’d had no idea his sister’s airy front room could even hold this many women, but fully half of them rose to gather around. Some seemed genuinely happy to greet him. Others were likely only happy to be able to say they’d been present at one of his few forays into polite society. Several eyed him with predatory gleams and offered him welcomes full of mischief—and promise.

Unfazed, Braedon smiled at them all. He was himself again. Contained. Aloof. He gave them the flirtatious greetings that they craved, keeping the atmosphere light, his manner charming and impersonal. They tittered and fluttered and adored him for it.

Several minutes passed before he was able to disengage himself enough to peer about the room. Surely Hardwick was here somewhere. He craned his neck, peering around Mairi’s bosom friend, the bold widow, Mrs Edmunds. Ah, he caught a glimpse of Hardwick’s dark head bent over a ledger at a tiny desk, slightly removed from the throng of guests.

‘Good God, Mairi,’ he exclaimed. ‘I have more cause than most to know of Hardwick’s skills—not to mention her discretion—but surely you haven’t set her to tallying up your household accounts?’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ Mairi answered with a roll of her eyes. ‘Come, ladies, do return to your seats so that I may at least see my brother to speak to him. Indeed,’ she continued, ‘you cannot lay Chloe’s peculiarities to my door. Someone said something to set the dear girl off and she could not rest until she got her latest notion down in her ever-present notebook.’

Her remark struck a chord. Braedon peered at the ledger Hardwick laboured over and recalled seeing her bent over a similar book at Denning.

‘It’s all Miss Margary’s fault,’ Hardwick called with a wave of her hand. ‘She raved about her florist and I had to get the particulars down!’

‘I’ve learned not to argue with her.’ Mairi grinned. ‘Not when her odd kicks return such amazing results.’ She smirked at the lady closest to her. ‘So much we’ve accomplished in a few weeks, and such surprises we’ve cooked up for our ball!’ The smile she cast in Hardwick’s direction shone with affection. ‘And I’ve begun to suspect that that notebook is the secret to her success!’

‘Don’t tease us about the birthday ball, Lady Ashton,’ someone scolded. ‘Not when you refuse to give us even a hint about the delights you’ve planned.’

‘Well, I shall give you quite a large hint,’ Hardwick said, closing the ledger and rising from her chair. ‘For just this morning I finished putting down my notes about Le Cygne, the most fabulous confectionery. Do any of you know of it?’ She paused for a chorus of conflicting answers. ‘I highly recommend the place. Madame Hobert is an amazing talent and most accommodating. Just wait until you see what she’s come up with for us.’

Twitters of excitement broke out. Braedon noticed none of it. His stare was fixed on Hardwick.

She was new again. Another transformation. The woman across the room, smiling and prattling along with the rest, was not the Hardwick he’d known at Denning. Neither was she the carefully covered, tightly contained lady he’d encountered yesterday.

This time Hardwick was clad in a deceptively simple day gown. Her skin glowed porcelain against soft chintz in the palest pink. Someone had drawn her heavy ebony hair high, then gathered it into a loose twist allowed to drape along the elegant sweep of her neck. Her square bodice was cut low, the simple waistline high. She looked soft, natural, winsome—and he could not look away.

What was she doing? For surely this was not a random alteration. Of all women, Hardwick would comprehend the significance that accompanied the garments she wore. Who better would understand the power of suggestion, the role of perception that came with appearances?

What was she about? Gradually he did come to himself enough to spare a look around. She was dressed largely like the other ladies, if with less adornment. Was that it? Was she only trying to fit in? Or was she trying a new persona with each costume change, hoping to discover where she belonged?

His jaw clenched. In all likelihood she was merely trying to drive him insane.

Next to him, Mrs Edmunds was not partaking of the conversation like the rest of the ladies. He felt the weight of her regard, told himself to wake up, to break his gaze away as her head swivelled repeatedly between him and Hardwick.

Too late. The widow straightened suddenly. ‘Miss Hardwick, I would suppose that notebook of yours holds many secrets,’ she called. ‘Things every society hostess would dearly love to know.’

Hardwick shrugged in their direction. ‘No secrets, Mrs Edmunds, but a few useful titbits, I’m sure.’

The older woman’s smile grew, more calculating than pleasant. ‘Then perhaps you’ll share a bit more?’

‘Gladly, ma’am, but not today.’ She gestured in his direction. ‘For Lord Marland has kindly agreed to drive me to the printers this afternoon.’ She turned to address his sister. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to answer his questions, my lady.’ And then she grinned.

Braedon blinked.

‘Your brother drives a phaeton, I’ve discovered.’ She actually
winked
at his sister.

‘Oh, you and your phaetons.’ Mairi laughed. ‘Thank you, dear. And thank you, Braedon, for escorting her. But do be careful? Don’t listen to her when she urges you to drive like the wind.’

Braedon stepped back, retreating from what might be the most disturbing reincarnation of Hardwick yet.
Aloof,
he reminded himself.
Contained.

Numb.

‘Don’t keep her too long,’ Mairi warned. ‘We have much work to do. I must investigate the back parlour, where I’m told the wallpaper has begun to bubble.’ She thrust her lip out in a pout.

‘Oh, but that paper is practically new, is it not?’ someone asked. A chorus of advice gained in volume.

Braedon nodded at his sister, and then addressed Hardwick without looking directly at her. ‘I don’t wish to keep my team standing. I’ll drive them around while you fetch your wrap.’

He gave a short, general bow of leave-taking—and fled.

* * *

They were done at the stationer’s in record time. Now the Carlton House colonnade whizzed past, a dizzying pattern of gleaming stone and dark shadow that dazzled Chloe as they moved down Pall Mall at a clip.

She slapped a hand to her dainty straw hat and laughed in exhilaration. ‘It’s like flying, is it not?’ she called out.

A quick glance down and a tightening of the tension around the marquess’s eyes served as her only answer. She sighed, but refused to lose heart. The day shone bright, the wind was a marvel against her face and she was perched perilously close to the marquess on the phaeton’s bench. His large form loomed over her and occupied more than his fair share of the space. She didn’t mind. She pretended not to notice his thick-hewn thigh marching alongside hers, trapping the fringed end of her colourful shawl, and tried not to stare at his large and shining boot dwarfing her own small, slippered foot.

He held his silence, even when their shoulders brushed on the leaning turn onto Haymarket, and still Chloe refused to despair. He’d had ease and charm enough for Lady Ashton’s friends this morning—and she still held tight to the fading glory of yesterday’s smile.

No denying—that smile had thrown her into a state of confusion. She’d been unable to recover last night, with the marquess so compellingly near. A night alone in her room had been no help; she’d spent hours tossing and turning and recalling the feel of his large hands on her waist, remembering the heat coming off him and how she’d yearned for him to pull her close.

But she’d spent the morning getting more than just her notebook in order. She’d seized a few quiet hours to consider her role here and re-evaluate her rash response to Lord Marland’s request.

And she’d decided that her pledge to help the marquess did not negate the promises that she had made to herself. The realisation was such a relief that she’d repeated it again. And again. Until it became a quiet, reassuring refrain.

She’d vowed to experiment, had she not? She’d made a conscious decision to embrace life and all the possibilities it might offer. Surely the marquess’s request slid neatly into that category? She flushed. Lord Marland had been a fantasy for Hardwick, never a true option. Perhaps for Chloe, things might be different.

‘There we are.’ She directed the marquess towards a small, unassuming shopfront, perched between a
hosier’s and a coffee shop. They waited while a wagon, loaded with fragrant hay, lumbered on and out of their way, and then Lord Marland slid his vehicle in close to the pavement. His groom jumped down to handle the horses and the marquess crossed over to help her alight. This time his hands did not linger on her.

She quashed a swell of disappointment. He stood so close she was forced to look up and up to meet his gaze. ‘When we enter,’ she directed, ‘please allow me to do the talking.’

Ah. It took annoyance to break through that carefully blank facade. Chloe watched his quick struggle to quell it and revelled in her small victory. She’d spent time enough masking her emotional reactions to him; his turn was past due.

She looked forwards to making the task more difficult for him.

He glared at her. ‘May I ask why?’

She couldn’t answer for a moment. All of her disparate thoughts were colliding as she stared at him. She talked to herself of possibilities, but practicality was a trait that would always be part of her nature. The chances of her having any sort of relationship with the marquess after their objective was obtained were so slim to be almost incalculable. All he wanted was the Spear. But would it truly satisfy him? It was just another object, another prize for his collection. After that, she feared, he would need another. And another. There would never be enough of them to ease his isolation.

She would do as he asked. She would help him track down this mysterious weapon. But perhaps it would be a greater gift if she
did
make it more difficult to stifle his emotions.

Still waiting, he raised a brow.

She widened her eyes. ‘You are a man of many talents, my lord. I had no idea it was even possible for one to frown and to raise a quizzical brow at the same time.’ She tilted her head. ‘Did it take much practice for you to master the skill?’

‘None at all,’ he returned easily. ‘You may count it as one of my many natural gifts.’ He leaned in closer yet and the very air tightened between them. ‘Would you care to chance a guess at what another one might be?’

Oh, she knew the answer, with no need to guess. Even if she hadn’t heard the tales about his many European paramours, she had plenty of insight into the matter. As her lurching heartbeat and ragged breath attested.

‘I am a master of…’ His breath tickled her as he put his mouth right next to her ear. Shivers ran like water up and down her spine.

‘…easy conversation.’ He stood straight suddenly and stepped back. His tone switched from seductive to sardonic. ‘So why should I not indulge in it with your shopkeeper friend?’

Did he think this was a game? The fact that he played at all was a victory—for him as much as for her. She laughed. ‘Look further if you are seeking a testimonial, my lord. I’m sure that in over a year
we
have not had a conversation that did not revolve around a construction schedule, rusty blade or mouldy scabbard.’