Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick (14 page)

‘The constant uncertainty was the worst. Never knowing when our
next meal would come, if we would scrape together enough funds for rent or be
forced to move on to a new set of cramped and dirty rooms.’ She drew a deep,
restoring breath. ‘And the loneliness. For my mama was never the same after his
death. She just…disappeared into herself. There were days on end when I could
not coax her out of bed.’ Her voice had dipped lower as she spoke, but now she
looked up to meet Braedon’s gaze directly. ‘I did not want to go back to that,
you see. I would have done anything to keep us from going back.

‘So I did as she did. More than anything, I wished to keep
George Hardwick happy. I was the most amiable child the world had ever seen. I
was quiet and polite. I showed an interest in his work, began to ask him
questions about the artefacts he obtained, asked him to describe his projects
and his displays.’ She straightened. ‘As a strategy, it proved highly
successful. I quickly learned to share his interests. We became close. His
approval and friendship and regard were so important to me—after that long
difficult spell, they meant as much as the warm home and full larder he
provided.’

He frowned. ‘But Hardwick was in Europe when I met him.’

‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘Despite her inability to match his level of
regard, he really did love my mother. Three years they were married and he
treated her so gently, as if she was made of spun sugar. He would do anything to
make her laugh. It became a game. He loved to bring her little treats to make
her smile. We were mostly happy, the three of us together.’ She blinked back
tears. ‘But there came one of those springs in which you barely see the sun for
all of the continuous rain. Mama caught a chill and declined to linger like my
father. One day she began to cough and within a week she was gone. George was
devastated.’

‘He left you at school,’ Braedon said. ‘He mentioned it when I
met him in Brussels. We were both hoping to purchase the same Roman legionary’s
dagger.’

‘Yes. He couldn’t bear to stay at home with the memories of my
mother.’ Her eyes closed. ‘I suppose I was the worst reminder.’ She sighed. ‘So
he assured me that he loved me. He asked me to take his name, before he left, as
the situation abroad was still unsettled. And he made me officially his heir.’
She paused, and grief nearly emanated from her pores. ‘And then he, too, was
gone.’

He’d lost control, allowed the conversation to slip into
territory more dangerous than any he’d faced in the wars. Braedon drew a deep
breath and reached out to pull them both back from the brink. ‘But the buttons
and the bombazine? Where did that come in?’ He straightened. ‘Surely you did not
concoct that get-up for my sake?’

She shook her head to answer his question. ‘No. It came about
at school. It was such a misery. I was the pupil with no parents to come along
on visits, no family to go home to on holidays. It made me the nuisance that
someone had to stay back and be responsible for when the rest of the school had
gone home. I was an easy target, for other students and for discontented
teachers. I had hopes, but it didn’t get any better after I finished and took a
position as a teacher.’

Appalled, he protested, ‘But why do such a thing? Stay where
you were unhappy?’

‘I was young. Alone. I had nowhere else to go,’ she said
simply. ‘Father wouldn’t hear of me joining him on his travels. They were more
restricted and grew more dangerous as the wars progressed.’

Braedon felt like a fool—a guilty, culpable fool—because by
that time he had surely hired away her stepfather and made him his factor.

‘I was the youngest teacher and already unpopular, but I grew
tired of being the scapegoat for the entire school. So I decided to repeat the
lesson I had learned after my mother’s second marriage. I watched the
headmistress of the school, asked questions and listened to her likes and
complaints. She had been educated in a convent herself and bemoaned the fact
that English parents would not consider nuns as instructors. She longed for the
structure and order of her youth. She despaired of teachers more interested in
dresses and beaus than their students. She tired of dismissing them for flirting
with the dancing master or losing them to marriage.’

He gave a horrified laugh. ‘So you thought to fit them up in a
modified nun’s costume?’

She bit back a laugh. ‘Well, yes. Sifting through all of her
complaints, it seemed a good idea.’

‘To the headmistress, perhaps. I cannot imagine the rest of
them were happy with your ideas—or your sense of fashion.’

‘And that’s exactly why it worked. The teachers who cared for
such things rebelled—and eventually left.’

‘And you became the headmistress’s pet?’ he asked with
sarcasm.

‘No, even better, I became invisible. I blended right in with
those who couldn’t have cared less about the uniform. I kept quiet and became
anonymous. I was more function—arithmetic and elocution for the youngest
pupils—than a person. It was bliss. I wasn’t a target any longer. I felt
swaddled behind my row of buttons and yards of fabric. Safe.’

Braedon stared at her. He understood. And he was at once
imagining her donning her clothes like her own armour and watching the sunlight
disappear into the ebony of her hair, when the realisation hit him. No glancing
blow, either. It thumped him with the force of a cannon, scattering fury and
shock like so much shrapnel.

‘Damn it all to hell and back,’ he said in a voice throbbing
with anger. ‘You did it again at Denning, didn’t you? You watched me with the
same purpose, studied my ways and adjusted your behaviour, your very
self
—to become what I needed most?’

She didn’t answer, only stubbornly met his gaze. But he already
knew the truth. Rage boiled in his belly and constricted his airways. His fists
clenched impotently at his sides.

Until he took in her apprehension, felt the unease she tried to
wring away with twisting hands. He reached for calm. Breathed deep. ‘Well, it
was asinine behaviour, without a doubt.’ He managed to maintain a tone of civil
disdain. ‘And it’s landed you in the predicament you find yourself in now.’ He
nodded. ‘But it certainly made you one damned fine assistant.’

She straightened. ‘Then you are not angry?’

‘I’m angry as hell. And I’m disgusted with you, with myself and
with nearly everyone else in your misbegotten life.’ He pushed away from the
wall and began to pace in the enclosed space, from one unremarkable brick wall
to the next. ‘You do know that your stepfather truly cared for you? He spoke of
you often.’

‘Of course,’ she said, startled. ‘As I did for him.’

‘I can’t help but feel that there are other observations that
you have failed to make—and that they leave more than one hole in your
theories.’

Polite disbelief coloured her cool glance.

‘It’s true. I still do not believe that it is possible for
anyone—even you—to live a lie or play a part for twenty-four hours a day. Do you
think that it was all part of the charade, that you never incorporated anything
personal or true into your role?’

Still she didn’t answer, though she glanced his way and then
quickly ducked her head.

He regarded her a moment in silence before he understood. ‘Ah,
now I can see the wheels turning in your mind. You think even if you had let
something slip in, that I would not have noticed.’

She pressed her lips together. ‘I think that if I had revealed
something, you would not have noticed even if I had given it to you in a song
and dance.’

‘How do I take my coffee?’ he asked abruptly.

‘With one sugar only,’ she replied easily. Her brow rose. ‘How
do I take mine?’

He regarded her with disdain. ‘I am not so easily fooled. I’ve
never seen you take coffee, only tea. Plain tea.’ He thought a moment. ‘Although
I can recall you adding a bit of honey in the winter months.’

She looked reluctantly impressed.

‘We were colleagues,’ he said. ‘We worked together for months.
I would be the worst sort of cad if I did not know a bit about you.’

‘Yes, well I dare say even Mrs Goodmond might recall how I take
my tea.’

‘How painful it is to discover what a villain you find me.
Well, you are wrong and I can prove it. For I recall one incident, not so far
past either, when you let your guard down a bit. I vividly remember when you
mentioned that you enjoy the seashore.’

Both eyebrows rose. ‘I believe what I said was that I would
some day like to live at the seashore.’

‘There. You see. I was paying attention.’

She smiled at his jest, but it was a look of condescension. As
if his inadequacy merely proved her point. And abruptly the smouldering embers
of his rage roared back to life. He closed his eyes against that look and the
echoes of ancient fury that it summoned. But it was no good. The memories were
there, awake in his head and sending anger flickering along his veins. How many
times had he seen such a smile—full of pity and disappointed resignation—on his
father’s face? How many countless more instances had his brother’s face echoed
that expression, just before it melted into the crafty promise of
malevolence?

This. This was exactly why he disdained this sort of personal
alliance. Why it was safer to stick to clearly defined roles: master and
servant, employer and employee. Why emotional distance and armour and even
symbolic rows of buttons were such utterly brilliant ideas.

But the buttons were gone and his insulating armour showed
signs of the battering she’d given it. He had to put a stop to it before the
cracks grew any wider. So he snapped open his eyes and let loose with a torrent
of angry words.

‘Damn it, Hardwick! Don’t look at me in that way. I am not a
monster, nor did I ever act as one. And you were never the saint in this
cautionary tale either—so pray do not fault me for failing to discover that
which you were trying so hard to keep hidden.’

The offensive smile faded. Stricken, she took a step back. But
this was Hardwick, so it was merely a matter of seconds before her chin lifted.
‘Very well, my lord. I do apologise. It was not my intention to find fault, but
merely to explain why I must follow a path that you so obviously
disapprove.’

She turned away, her lips pressed tight, and Braedon cursed to
see her bravado fail. Her shoulders drooping, she stepped towards the narrow
alley.

He let her go. Cursing inwardly, he watched her pause in the
last bit of shadow before the mouth of the narrow lane. Breathing deeply, she
straightened her spine and stepped into the sun.

‘Hardwick.’

He was a fool. Why stop her? She was firm in her purpose, which
meant that he must be firm in his. She would move on—and he must allow it.

‘It can’t have been easy for you, catering to my every whim for
so long. I am a harsh taskmaster. A difficult man. Everything in my life has
conspired to mould me into a cold and remote form.’ For once, as a gift to her,
he allowed true remorse to enter his tone. ‘I do not pine over it. In fact, I
nearly always appreciate the benefits of my nature, but if it has in some way
harmed you, then I do apologise.’ He gestured toward the street. ‘Why do you not
go on alone? The garden is visible from here. You are nearly home. It should be
perfectly safe.’ He gave her a nod and turned back, allowing the cool darkness
of the alley to soothe his inflamed nerves.

He never heard her approach. Yet somehow he was not surprised
when her hand lightly brushed his shoulder.

‘I am the one who must apologise,’ she whispered. ‘I feel
so…fractured. Lost.’

Her hand slipped down to lightly grip his arm. Such a soft
touch from a tiny hand, yet it set his heart to racing and held him completely
in thrall. She tugged and he allowed her to pull him about to face her.

‘It is confusing enough inside my heart and my mind.’ She
ducked her head a moment. Her gaze rested on her fingers, now resting lightly
above his heart. Undoubtedly she could feel the rapid rise and fall of his
chest. ‘I can only imagine how erratic I must appear from the outside.’

He should go. The wisest course of action would be to step
back, to keep away, to lead her firmly to Mairi’s door and to leave her there.
For good.

He reached out instead, ignored his every natural impulse and
ran a finger along the pure ivory curve of her jaw. ‘Just because you are
looking does not mean that you are lost,’ he said roughly.

And just because he touched her did not mean he didn’t have to
put her away from him.

‘Tea with honey,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Hard work. A shining
blade. An organised desk. A fast ride in an open vehicle. All things that you do
well or enjoy. It seems to me that you have more pieces to your puzzle than you
might think.’

She swallowed. His heart pounded. He was cupping her cheek now
and she leaned into the caress. Her soft skin rubbed into his calloused
palm.

‘And just today we’ve discovered another. Something else I know
you to enjoy.’

She gazed up at him through a fan of thick lashes.

Every instinct shouted frantically for him to stop. The very
same gut feelings that had saved his life on the battlefield and steered him
safely through diplomatic arenas and social minefields.

He ignored them all.

He paid heed to her artlessly beckoning gaze instead. God, how
could she combine innocence and allure into such a heady mix? There was no
thought of or desire for numbness now. She called and an answering thrum coursed
through him. Excitement and desire sparked to life where they touched and
spiralled outwards. It sped though his veins and he felt high and wild and more
alive than at any other moment in his life.

He followed her call with his hand, allowing it to travel along
her jaw and down the white and slender column of his throat. She arched into the
caress and he answered again, sliding up and burying his fingers into the ebony
sheen of her hair. He pulled her close. Her eyes slid closed as he leaned in to
cover her mouth with his.