Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick (7 page)

Chloe stilled. The marquess surely didn’t intend to be cruel.

‘I know your tricks, in any case, Mairead.’ Lord Marland’s voice had gone heavy with warning. ‘You won’t leave it at a party and be done with it. You’ll turn this jaunt into a husband-hunting expedition—and what will that gain Hardwick? She’s not that sort of woman. She’ll be left with naught but dashed hopes and broken dreams.’

Jagged and intense, the pain ripped through her. His disregard was so casual and immediate. So easily he summed her up and dismissed her.

She could scarcely believe how much it hurt. But worse was her suddenly bleak vision of their future. The marquess had made his stance clear. He was content, insistent even, on carrying on in the same manner. Yet what else could she expect? He did not see her—but how could he? He saw only what she had shown him. What she had become—for him.

Suddenly the truth was blindingly clear. She could not stay. Could not pretend that nothing had changed inside her. The pain she felt now was nothing to what such a course would lead to. Before long she would be writhing beneath an unbearable weight of unrequited caring and burgeoning resentment.

Hardwick had no future. Not with the marquess. Not even without him.

Yet, she was more than Hardwick, was she not?

She would never find out, if she stayed.

And just like that, Chloe decided. It was going to hurt. It was most decidedly not going to be safe. But she was going to go.

She stood. ‘Upon further reflection, I’ve changed my mind. Lord Marland, I hereby tender my resignation.’

Over his sputtered protests, she turned to his sister. ‘Lady Ashton, I would be pleased to accompany you, to assist you with your project.’

And to take the chance to discover just who Miss Chloe Hardwick truly was.

Chapter Four

‘A
post from London, my lord.’ Billings hovered in the doorway to the workroom. ‘The messenger said it was urgent.’

Braedon winced as he looked up from the rack and ruin of Hardwick’s desk. The constant pressure of his grinding jaw had given him a headache. ‘Does he wait for an answer?’

‘No, sir.’

Impatient, he beckoned the man forwards. Billings, unable to hide his distaste, picked his way past stacked crates and piles of books and papers strewn on the floor. Braedon sighed. Hardwick had not been gone a month, but her well-ordered system and intricately organised process was disintegrating about his ears.

‘The completion of the wing is not progressing quite as smoothly since Hardwick left us, is it?’ Billings handed over the thick vellum and stared at the shambles of the desk. ‘Shall I send down a maid to assist you, my lord?’

‘No, no,’ Braedon refused irritably. ‘I shall set it all to rights, eventually.’ He was tired of hearing Hardwick’s name, weary of having to excise her from his thoughts. It was ridiculous to fixate on her now that she had gone. She’d been right under his nose for months and he’d barely allowed her to register on his mind. And why?

Perhaps because he had known better.

Yes, occasionally he had looked at her—like a man looks at a woman. But he had never really seen—never
allowed
himself to see. Because he had never wanted to view her as a person, and he could ill afford to frighten her away. He had needed her, damn it. Needed her to smooth the construction on his blasted wing. To put the last, elegant touches on his collection. To be his sounding board and the one person who shared his enthusiasms. He had needed her—and he had not allowed himself to think too deeply about the
why
of the thing.

He paused, fingers poised to tear open the letter, and frowned up at Billings. ‘Do we not have another candidate for Hardwick’s replacement coming to interview today?’

‘We do, sir. Shall I place him in the library when he arrives?’

‘It would be best. I don’t wish to scare another off before we can even begin.’ The irritation simmering beneath his skin threatened to boil up again. ‘Does this one have any sort of credentials?’

‘A background in mining, I believe.’

This time Braedon cursed out loud. Mining, land management, insurers. None of the men applying for Hardwick’s position knew the first damned thing about how to manage a collection like his. They had no knowledge, no reverence, no art in their souls—and he’d yet to find one of them who possessed Hardwick’s skills at managing men. He banged a fist on the desk, sending papers sliding in every direction. Damn it all to hell and back! He’d had the perfect assistant and now she was off in Town, organising parties.

‘Never mind all that!’ Brian Keller, his architect and builder, burst into the room. He pointed an accusing finger at the correspondence in Braedon’s hand. ‘There’s no time for it. I have urgent need of you.’

Braedon frowned and brandished the letter. ‘You don’t even know what it is.’ Neither did he.

‘I don’t care. The
stuccatore
has quarrelled with one of the carpenters. I’ve tried to calm him, but he refuses to finish the decorative reliefs over the niches. You must come and be properly intimidating or this wing will never be done!’

Happy for an excuse to push away from the desk, Braedon started around it. But something pulled him to an abrupt halt. He frowned at Keller. ‘Is that how Hardwick would have handled it?’

‘Lord, no.’ Keller frowned back.

He waited.

Keller cast helpless hands into the air. ‘I don’t know how she did it. She would have listened to them complain, just as I have, but somehow, in five minutes she’d have taken them from the brink of mayhem to laughing and clapping each other on the back, vowing to buy each other a pint at the end of the day.’

Braedon blinked. ‘How the hell am I supposed to do that?’

‘I don’t know!’ Keller looked him over. ‘You’re the Marauding Marquess, for God’s sake! You’ve sniffed out enemy supply dumps and strategic secrets all over the Continent. Sniff out a solution for us now. Or at least use that air of arrogant command.’

The door was thrown open. It hit the wall with a crash and rebounded as two men pushed their way through, their voices raised in argument. The
stuccatore
, his hands waving, cursed wildly in Italian. The carpenter shouted his protest that he could not even understand what it was he was accused of. Keller waded in and even Billings raised his voice as he tried to restore order.

Braedon stared at the ascending chaos and silently cursed Hardwick.
Arrogant command?
He’d rather snatch up one of the multitude of weapons lying about and scare the devil out of the lot of them. Struggling for control, he sank back down to perch on the desk. He had not stooped to using a weapon to intimidate since his brother was alive and living at Denning, nor felt such impending rage.

Connor. Hardwick. Shocking to think that they might have so much in common. And yet his brother had been an expert at hiding nasty surprises inside shiny packages. Hardwick had gone about it differently, concealing all the bright, appealing bits of herself behind grim efficiency, yards of forbidding material and a row of formidable buttons.

A rustle distracted him from his resentment and the rumpus before him. He still held the letter in his hands. He tore it open and began to read.

His fists clenched tighter, the further he read. This was the final straw. Weeks of restraint and control gave way before a great, rushing wave of anger. Skanda’s Spear—confirmed on England’s shores? Pursued by a host of collectors? Damn Hardwick! Bad enough that the finishing of his wing was descending into disarray. He needed her to help him obtain that weapon. He needed her expertise, her resources, the network of contacts that she’d inherited from her father and expanded on her own.

He
must
have that spear, had to have it as the centrepiece of his collection. No one could understand what it meant to him, how everything he’d heard of it resonated within his soul. It was as if someone centuries ago had looked into the future and seen how this particular weapon would stand as a symbol of all of his victories, his triumphs over the layered and varied darkness of his life.

He felt swamped by a familiar, hated feeling of frustration. Truly Hardwick was Connor’s
doppelgänger
, promising him that which he most wanted, then snatching it away.

He tossed the letter aside and stood, deliberately hardening his heart. By all that was holy, he’d never, in all of those years, allowed Connor to beat him. He’d be thrice-damned before he let Hardwick do so. She’d made him promises. Damned if he wasn’t going to make sure she kept them.

Without hesitation he ploughed through the cluster of quarrelling men. Surprised, they fell back and fell silent.

The
stuccatore
aimed a querulous remark at him in Italian.

‘Yes. Where are you going, my lord?’ Keller asked.

‘I’m leaving you in charge, Keller. This collection is missing two important pieces—I’m going to fetch them both.’

* * *

Chloe left the printer’s shop, a beautifully realised sample invitation in her pocket and a smile on her face. She stepped out, heading for the Strand and the confectioner’s, her last stop for the day. As she went she withdrew a list from her pocket and consulted it. Satisfaction, thick, warm and comforting, wafted over her. Plans for Lady Ashton’s birthday ball were proceeding well. This might be the most unusual, the most talked-about event in years, but it was going to happen without a hitch. She was well ahead of her schedule. Already she’d hired the musicians, interviewed extra help for the countess’s kitchen staff and…

And she was doing it again.

She came to an abrupt halt, right in the middle of the pavement, her back arching as if the thought had been a blow between her shoulder blades. Pedestrians grumbled as they stepped around her, but Chloe remained frozen, caught by harsh truth.

She was doing it again. Nearly a month she’d been in London, working with Lady Ashton on her plans to surprise her husband. She’d debated ideas, made notes and begun to organise the thing with her usual ruthless efficiency and attention to detail. She’d also paid calls with the countess, gone driving in the park and attended two lovely dinner parties. She’d begun to learn Lady Ashton’s ways and to anticipate her needs. She was well on her way to becoming the countess’s perfect companion.

What she had
not
done was that which she had left Denning to do. She had not taken a single step towards discovering more about herself.

Cold humiliation chased her former satisfaction away as Chloe started trudging forwards again. She must stop this. She’d left Denning for this chance. Almost irritably, she quelled the sudden leap of her heart—an instinctive reaction to the mere name of the place—and brushed away the memories of passionate black eyes, large hands and worn boots. She’d left all that behind, and for good reason. She’d exchanged the impossible dream of Lord Marland for the prospect of a real life, abandoned the safety of her role as Hardwick for the opportunity to find Chloe. It was time she stopped hiding behind the care of others and discovered her own needs and desires.

Another fresh swell of shame rose inside her as she stepped into the confectioner’s shop. The place was charming, done up in rich creams and soothing blues. Warm draughts and rich smells surrounded her, but it was the sight of the woman she spotted in the kitchens, pacing behind a swinging half-door, that sent a stab of envy through her gut.

Older than Chloe, but not by many years, the woman was wrapped in a voluminous apron. She strode the substantial length of a pine table, examining row upon row of delicate pastries even as she issued orders to a beleaguered staff. Her words were sharp, her tone urgent, but the look on her face as she turned to begin tucking her creations into pretty boxes…it was beautiful. She nearly glowed with pride and contentment.

There
, thought Chloe. There is a woman who understands herself.

Perhaps Chloe’s gaze carried the weight of her envy, for the woman glanced up suddenly. She called out further orders in rapid French as she wiped her hands and came through to the shop to greet Chloe with a smile.

‘Good day to you,’ she said. ‘You are Miss Hardwick, yes?’ At Chloe’s nod she continued, ‘I am Madame Hobert.’ She swept a hand towards a small table set up at the end of the display case. ‘You are to discuss an order for Lady Ashton’s ball, I understand?’

‘I am. It is a pleasure to meet you,
madame
.’ She moved to take a seat at the table. ‘Your shop is charming.’

‘Merci.’
The confectioner gazed about with satisfaction as she sat. ‘It is just what I have wanted, since I was a girl.’ From a pocket she produced a pencil and paper. ‘Now, can you tell me what the lady has in mind?’

‘Of course.’ Ignoring the surge of envy the woman’s words sent thrumming through her, Chloe took out her own notes and leaned forwards. ‘The ball is to be in honour of the Earl’s birthday and we are planning something special. Lady Ashton admires your artistry, but she asks for your discretion, as well.’

‘Ah.’ Madame smiled. ‘There is to be a surprise?’

‘Many surprises,’ Chloe said with a grin. ‘Most important, the countess wishes you to create a grand dessert table, in the old style. She wishes an entire tableau done in sugar-paste sculpture, with the theme of an English Hunt.’

The confectioner’s eyes widened in delight. ‘But how wonderful! Oh, but the creations my father made in Paris, long ago! He was truly an artist. And I have all his moulds—I shall be thrilled to use them once more.’ Her brows lowered as she thought. ‘A hunt! Yes. Yes. I know just the thing!’ She fell silent, clearly caught up in the idea.

‘Of course, Lady Ashford wishes to order other desserts as well.’ Chloe outlined the ideas they had settled on.

Madame was all nods and smiles. By the end she was nearly clapping her hands in delight. ‘How marvellously well you have planned.’ Her face fell a little as she sat back from her notes. ‘Ah, you have inspired me,
Mademoiselle! Already I have ideas for entirely new creations that will serve your theme.’ Her hands began to twist together. ‘Alas, I have a large order to fill today and two of my bakers are ill at home. But please, send the good lady my deepest apologies and assure her that I shall have a selection for her to approve by tomorrow.’ She stood, clearly anxious. ‘Will it do, do you think?’

Chloe stood as well. ‘Certainly,
madame
. You must meet your obligations, of course.’ She stared a little wistfully over the confectioner’s shoulder. She’d never spent more than a minute or two in a kitchen.
Madame
must have grown up in one. Yet how had the woman known that she loved it enough to make it her life’s work? And now that she had, how difficult did she find it to handle the business side of her enterprise? What if one or both of those things might be something that
Chloe
had a passion for? How could she know?

She couldn’t—unless she finally did what she’d come here to do. It was time she began to embrace possibilities and explore…everything.

The confectioner took a step towards the door, clearly intending to escort her out, but Chloe stopped her with a shy smile. ‘
Madame
, I admit I’ve no kitchen experience, but I’ve a willing spirit and two good hands. Would you mind if I volunteered to help you? Would you permit me to help you fill your order?’

Madame Hobert chuckled as she continued towards the door. When Chloe didn’t follow, she turned. Obviously perplexed, she began, ‘Your offer is much appreciated, Miss Hardwick.’ She stopped and ran an assessing eye over her. ‘But…why?’

‘I’m new to Town…’ Chloe faltered and bit her lip. Lifting pleading eyes, she started over. ‘The truth is that I’m a stranger to myself,
madame
. I came to London…well, to start over, you might say. I’m searching,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Searching for myself and for a way forwards. And I’ve made a vow that I would explore new ideas and possibilities.’