Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick (12 page)

At last she turned to him. ‘Shall we go out the back, do you think?’

Chapter Eight

B
raedon was feeling neither calm nor aloof. Laxton’s effrontery had got his blood up, triggering his competitive spirit and stirring up a maddening surge of anger at the thought of the man getting his hands on the Spear that was meant for him.

He deliberately embraced the turbulent emotions. They made such a welcome distraction from his unnerving reaction to Hardwick. A
blushing
Hardwick, who had gone nearly the same charming shade of pink as her gown when Signor Pisano urged her to leave him behind for a husband and babies.

Babies. Hardwick. The mind boggled.

Though his mind—and various other parts of him as well—could readily imagine the process of getting children on her. Especially in her latest incarnation. Those softly abundant curves, that falling twist of ebony hair. This was what she’d hidden from him all of these months, damn her. The thought pricked like needles of frustration under his skin and sent him pacing around the surprisingly spacious workroom.

‘Shall we go out the back, do you think?’ she asked from the door.

The question brought him back, forced him to focus on their predicament. He spun about. ‘I was under the impression that the
signor
had more to tell us about the Spear, before we were interrupted.’ He frowned. ‘But you know him best. Did you come away with the same idea?’

Silent, she nodded.

‘Then we stay.’ He allowed all the turmoil inside of him to be expressed as harsh severity. ‘I have no wish to bring trouble to your friend, but we cannot fail at this, Hardwick. I don’t care if Laxton and a hundred others are after the Spear. I have to have it.’

She breathed deeply. ‘Why?’

Braedon’s breath began to come faster. The question flummoxed him—and he was damned well getting tired of being flummoxed by Hardwick. ‘Because it belongs in the collection.’

Her gaze remained steady. ‘Yes, so you’ve said. But why?’

His fists tightened. His torso began to vibrate with the force of his irritation. He wished, suddenly and intently, for the feel of a blade in his hand. For a skilled opponent and the chance to spend his frustration in blood and sweat and the clash of steel. ‘I would vastly prefer not to discuss the reasons why. It is a family matter.’

‘I see.’ She nodded and moved away from the door. A long worktable occupied the centre of the room. She paused in front of it and kept her gaze fixed on the items scattered across it. ‘Families can be so polarising, can they not? You and I are perfect examples of both ends of the spectrum. My family is gone now, but I spent my life trying to stay close to them. Yours is gone, too, but even still you try to push them away.’

Braedon gaped at her. This was it. Exactly what he’d feared when he’d been forced to ask for her help rather than command it. Prying questions. Conjectures. The fact that hers were remarkably accurate conjectures only made everything worse.

She stilled, her fingers gripping the table before her. He thought at first that the objects in front of her had captured her attention. He moved closer. Spread over the table lay a collection of Lover’s Eye’s—those miniature portraits of just the eye of a loved one that had been so popular at the end of the last century.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

She made a cutting gesture with her hand. ‘Listen,’ she breathed.

He lifted his chin. There. Male voices approaching the door, one of them unmistakably Signor Pisano’s, raised in protest.

Braedon did not hesitate. A low, plush seat occupied the corner next to the fire. He gripped Hardwick’s hand and dragged her bodily over to it. He seated himself and positioned her standing before the chair, facing him and blocking his view of the door.

She went willingly. Her head was cocked, her attention focused on the
signor
’s suddenly audible words. He must be right outside.

‘Your paranoia is getting the better of you, Mr Laxton,’ the old man complained. ‘That is a perfectly ordinary couple in there. Valued customers. I won’t have you disturbing them.’

‘And I won’t have you deceiving me. I don’t know what prompted me to remember that Marland’s much-vaunted assistant is a woman, but if I find you’ve concealed the pair of them I will ruin you, Pisano. I’ll blacken your name so thoroughly that collectors will dig through rubbish heaps themselves before buying anything from you.’ The door rattled. ‘Now move out of my way, old man, before you are hurt.’

Hardwick, panic in her eyes, began to step away.

Braedon grasped her, held her in place. ‘Bend down,’ he ordered.

‘What?’

‘Bend. Down. Now.’ He tugged on her arm until she was forced to move closer and her knees touched his. He kept pulling until she was bent over at the waist, forced to brace her hands on either side of the chair. Her face was positioned mere inches from his.

Behind them, the door opened.

‘Of course I wish you to be happy, dear heart.’ Braedon stared into Hardwick’s dark eyes and pitched his voice seductive and low. ‘But why on earth should I pay for a pretty portrait of some stranger’s eye when my wife has such a lovely pair of her own?’ He ran his hand slowly up the length of her arm. Lightly, he circled her shoulder before spreading his hand across the top of her back. ‘Instead, if you are fond of the notion, why do we not hire someone to paint me your beautiful eye as a keepsake?’

Comprehension dawned on Hardwick’s face. Only silence echoed in the room behind her.

He couldn’t see Laxton, but Braedon guessed that the man was indulging in a prime view of Hardwick’s behind. Let him. It couldn’t compare to his own vantage, so close to her flushed expression—or the peek at her lush bosom afforded by her gaping bodice.

‘Or better yet,’ he purred, ‘we might commission a portrait of a more…interesting portion of your
anatomy?’

She had the heart for it. She tried to play along. But her colour was high and her pupils had gone wide and dark with excitement, nerves…and something that looked alarmingly like yearning. She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged but a breathless sound of agreement.

He felt breathless himself. But he forged on and did what he’d spent weeks trying not to envision, what he’d been lying to himself about, what he’d wanted to do since she first waltzed down his stairs in a shifting gown of green-blue. He reached up, wound his other arm around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss—long, demanding and deep.

For just a moment, she forgot herself, forgot their audience and stiffened in shock. He didn’t let up. He tugged her again, urged her to settle astride his lap and enfolded her in his arms.

Abruptly, she thawed. Her small hands left his shoulders to curl around his neck. She settled herself more thoroughly against his pounding groin and opened her mouth before the onslaught of his.

What utter madness. This was
Hardwick
hovering over him, trapped in the weight of his embrace, capturing him with her irresistible mix of innocence and devastating sensuality. His brain scrambled to get the message through, but it seemed the rest of him refused to listen.

Contained? Aloof? Surely Braedon had never heard of such concepts. He was thoroughly anchored in this moment, on fire, alight with passion and with the need to burrow closer, feel more. He deepened the kiss, sent his tongue seeking hers. She made a sound at the back of her throat, a low growl of surprise and approval. And then she responded. Willingly, she entwined her tongue with his. Her fingers trailed up the front of him until she cupped his jaw with her dainty hand. The lightest touch, the most innocent caress, yet a slow twist began inside him, a tangle of something deep and insistent.

Something treacherous. Something completely unwise and even more dangerous. And yet he was helpless against it.

A throat cleared behind her. ‘As you see, Mr Laxton, there is no conspiracy. Merely a young and happy newlywed couple.’

Laxton grumbled his answer, but the door closed.

They were left alone once more. With an extreme force of will, Braedon broke the kiss.

Hardwick blinked down at him, unfocused. Her gaze fixed on his lips. He returned the favour; she looked mussed and adorable—and terrifyingly—like she wanted more.

‘Well, then,’ she said shakily, ‘I think we showed Mr Laxton.’

He grimaced. ‘Not yet.’ He gripped her arms, lifted and set her back on unsteady feet. ‘But we will. It is only a matter of time.’

* * *

‘It is only a matter of time,’ Signor Pisano said on a sigh, easing the door closed behind him again, ‘before they all discover that you are here and that you are also after the Spear.’

Chloe, huddling across the room at the window, held silent. Let the marquess answer. He’d done something to her with that kiss, broken her like Pandora’s box. She was occupied enough trying to piece herself back together. Refocusing on the reasons why they were here was beyond her—as was stuffing a torrent of dangerous emotions back under lock and key.

‘True, of course,’ the marquess admitted. ‘But it would be to our advantage if we could delay their discovery.’ He pushed away from the far edge of the mantel, where he had retreated—and stayed—after their…encounter.

She gripped the windowsill and frantically held back a peal of ironic, slightly unhinged laughter.
He
had no difficulty moving past that kiss, while she still shook with the aftermath of so much blazing passion. She had lost herself completely to it. But for him it had been no more than a means to an end.

That wasn’t the worst of it. She’d come apart, and heady and addictive—if unrequited—desire was not the only evil to be released through the cracks in her soul. Shards of her new-found confidence lay scattered at her feet. The fear that she’d tried so hard to subdue swelled suddenly with new life.

She pressed her lips together. How arrogant she had been, hoping to change his behaviour. How blind she had been to consequences of changing hers. She’d convinced herself to embrace opportunity—even persuaded herself that it might exist between the two of them. Yet foolishly, only now did she consider another possibility: that Lord Marland could hurt her. Terribly. If she allowed it.

Perhaps some of her resentment had escaped only to find a home with Signor Pisano. Her old friend was favouring the marquess with a hard look. ‘It will only be a matter of time before you find yourself slit from stem to stern with one of your own blades, my lord, should I ever see you touch Chloe in that manner again.’

‘Signor!’
Chloe gasped. ‘Please!’ The shock of his temper was what she needed. She had changed her behaviour, indeed, her entire approach to life. She had already made the decision not to be ruled by fear—she could not go back now.

Reaching for him, she left her retreat near the window and crossed to her old friend. ‘It was a simple kiss, nothing more. A ruse, concocted to protect you and your reputation, you must remember. Of course it will not happen again.’

‘Simple? Bah! It looked quite complicated from where I was standing.’

‘Well, it was not,’ she insisted. ‘It is not. I have left the marquess’s employ, do you not recall? Once we have obtained the Spear our association will end and we will be going our separate ways.’ She ignored the stab of pain the words brought on. She’d already conquered this hurt once. She could do it again. She need only be sure there was no repeat of today’s performance to knock her from her path.

‘From the looks of things, that day cannot come quickly enough,’ the
signor
grumbled.

‘It is entirely in your power to speed it along,’ the marquess spoke up.

‘Almost, you convince me not to counsel you as I should.’ He grimaced and gave way, moving to take a seat at the worktable. ‘But I am duty-bound to ask you again if you won’t give up this quest?’ He shivered. ‘I have the strongest feeling that you should not pursue this.’

Lord Marland shook his head. Chloe merely gave a quick shrug.

The
signor
gave a heavy sigh. ‘Very well.’ He fiddled disconsolately with one of the small portraits.

They waited. The silence stretched out. At last, Chloe spoke up. ‘
Signor
, what can you tell us?’

He gave her a bleak look. ‘It is not much.’

‘Is Skanda’s Spear in London?’ Lord Marland asked. ‘Can you confirm that much, at least?’

The
signor
nodded.

‘Have you seen it for yourself?’ the marquess quickly continued.

‘No.’ The older man met Lord Marland’s gaze. ‘But I know someone who has.’

‘Who is it,
signor
?’ Chloe asked gently.

He straightened. ‘Now there is someone I should like to introduce you to,
cara
.
Arthur Claibourne, the Earl of Conover. A young man, but quite knowledgeable.’ He grinned. ‘Famously good-looking—and reputed to be the biggest catch on the marriage mart.’

‘He might be an Adonis walking among us,’ the marquess said sourly. ‘But what matters is if he is trustworthy—and if he knows enough to be of any use. Can you depend on his word?’

The
signor
nodded. ‘We have worked together in the past, authenticating certain pieces. The Saxons are his area of particular interest and expertise, but the Society of Antiquaries has tapped him to handle a very delicate matter regarding the Spear.’

‘The Society has?’ the marquess said with surprise. ‘But what have they to do with it?’

‘Wait a moment.’ The older man rose from his stool and shuffled over to a bookcase standing on the other side of the window. He withdrew a battered tome and retrieved something from inside. Crossing slowly back, he stopped at Chloe’s seat and handed her two thick sheets of heavy vellum.

‘But what is it?’ she asked.

‘The tickets you will need if you truly wish to enter this game.’ He tapped them. ‘Oh, it’s bad enough now. But this is where the real mayhem will begin.’ He shook his head in disapproval.

Chloe scanned the top-most sheet. ‘Invitations?’

‘The Society is hosting a lecture on legendary ancient weapons. Skanda’s Spear is to be one of the pieces featured. The event is open only by invitation—and everyone invited has shown an interest in obtaining that Spear.’ He patted her hand. ‘I asked the Earl of Conover specifically to tender you an invitation.’ He sent a sour glance in Lord Marland’s direction. ‘I suppose that you can have mine.’