Deb Marlowe - Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

Chloe wanted to do it. But all of her old instincts still had a voice, too. She might be risking the safety that she’d worked so hard for. ‘What if Lord Marland doesn’t approve?’ It came out in a whisper.

The countess grinned. ‘Approve?’ She ran a practised eye up and down Chloe’s long form. ‘I think that my brother is going to thank us. In fact, I believe he’ll be on his knees before us both.’

Whoosh went her insides, roiling again. That mental image crowned all the others and drowned her worries in a flood of excitement.

‘Come, Miss Hardwick.’ The countess beckoned. ‘It is time for you to step out of the shadows.’

Her words resonated through Chloe, as sharp and loud and long as the strike of a bell. She met Lord Marland’s sister’s eyes and nodded.

The vicar’s lady was excessively fond of her cats. At least, her incessant ramblings about them made it sound that way to Braedon. Her obsession could not be healthy—he’d learned the hard way, as a child, the dangers of emotional dependence on something so fragile.

On Mrs Goodmond’s other side, Thom tossed back another drink. Unobtrusively, Braedon changed position, trying to wiggle his toes. He couldn’t begrudge Mairi her dinner—not as he’d been the one to suggest both a project and an acquaintance with the vicar’s wife—but he couldn’t help pining for his favourite boots and a pint down at the Hog’s Tail.

He’d just shifted again, seeking relief for his cramped toes, when he saw Thom’s eyes alight. Ah. Mairi must have arrived. He turned towards the door. Now they could be seated and he could rest his aching …

Tight shoes were forgotten as he realised Mairi wasn’t alone. She stood poised just inside the parlour door, another female—a tall, slender beauty—at her side.

Mrs Goodmond fell silent. Thom stepped up close beside him.

‘I thought I was going to have to change your nickname to the Mouldering Marquess, stuck as you’ve been up here, with no opponents or conquests to speak of, but I see that you’ve been holding out on me.’ His sparring partner nudged him with an elbow. ‘Who is she?’

Braedon opened his mouth to inform Thom that he had no idea who the strange woman might be, when his sister drew her forwards to greet the vicar. Just the smallest thing, a change of expression, the fading of nerves into a gentle smile of greeting—but it tilted Braedon’s world right off its axis.

‘Hardwick,’ he breathed. The earth rolled beneath his feet. No. It jerked to a halt, leaving him stumbling on alone.

‘Hardwick?’ scoffed Thom. ‘Nice try, Braedon, but I’m not that gullible.’

Hardwick . It was she. He didn’t know how he could be so certain. He’d never seen his Hardwick smile so widely. He’d never seen her hair shining so richly, left to lie in gleaming sable curls long past the sweet curve of her nape. He only knew that it was Hardwick standing there, as foreign and exotic as an ocean naiad in a gown containing every changing colour of the sea.

Thom let loose a long, low breath. ‘By all that’s holy, that is Hardwick!’ He shot Braedon an accusatory glance and moved to intercept the two women.

Cursing wildly in his head, Braedon made his excuses to the vicar’s wife and followed. Some of the anxiety returned to Hardwick’s expression as he joined the small group.

Good. Some primitive part of him did not want her to be comfortable. Mairi crowed with delight in her handiwork and Thom was at that very moment expressing his own approval of the surprise, but Braedon was feeling unaccountably … furious.

Why? He breathed deeply, pushed back, tried to impose the emotional distance that was such a vital component of his equilibrium, but it fell apart each time he looked at her and the anger in his gut raged a little higher.

Again, he forced himself to consider why. Because the two women had cooked this up between themselves, without his knowledge? Because Thom was acting like a randy stallion who’d just scented a new mare? Or because this was what Hardwick had been hiding all of these months—and he’d never had the faintest idea?

He still hadn’t spoken a word. She sent another nervous glance his way and he stepped closer. ‘Hardwick,’ he began. His voice had gone rough as gravel. He had half a mind to order her back to her room and into her regular, daunting uniform.

‘Lord Marland.’ She inclined her head.

‘I gather that I am now meant to compliment you on your changed appearance?’

Her hand rose and hovered uncertainly for a moment over her bodice. He recognised the movement and suffered a small-minded sense of victory.

But Hardwick raised her chin and lowered her hand. It was just as well, for there were no buttons, only miles of skin and a sophisticated gown of the most gorgeous changeable silk. Beautiful blue shot with green, the dress flowed over her like the ocean it was meant to represent.

And then she smiled at him. ‘Of course you are not obligated, my lord, but should you choose to offer a compliment, I will be glad to accept it.’

He snorted. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that you look beautiful this evening, as I’m sure both your looking glass and my sister have already done so.’

She tilted her head. ‘I am sure that it should not be so, but the fact remains that a compliment from a gentleman always means more. So I will thank you—even for that half-hearted attempt.’

Glowering, he took a drink. ‘I am reminded of the adage about a leopard never really changing her spots.’ He lifted his glass. ‘And find myself hoping it is true.’

She frowned. ‘I’m not changing my spots, my lord. Following your analogy, I would say that I am merely shifting my pelt about to showcase a new side.’

‘Turning yourself inside out is more like it,’ he grumbled.

Hardwick laughed. ‘Nothing so dramatic, I promise.’

His sister had noticed his ire and moved to intercept. ‘Do forgive us for the delay,’ she announced to the group at large. ‘Shall we all go in to dinner?’ She took Braedon’s arm and left Hardwick to be escorted by the vicar.

But before Mr Goodmond led her away, Hardwick stepped close and sparkled up at him. ‘You may yet get a glimpse of my insides, Lord Marland, but not before you display a bit of your own.’

Frowning, Braedon led the company in. His agitation didn’t fade as they took their seats. He’d known something was in the wind, but he’d done his best to ignore it. He shook his head. Hardwick already had so many fine and useful qualities—now she displayed beauty and wit as well? Any other woman and he’d be intrigued. But this was Hardwick! Didn’t she see? Changing herself forced other things to change, too. He suppressed a snort. Show his insides? She should know him well enough to realise he’d avoid such a thing at all costs.

He sighed. Surely this was a temporary aberration, provoked by Mairi, no doubt. He would wait and things were sure to go back to normal.

But finding his balance proved impossible. The distance lens through which he normally viewed life had flipped completely—and focused itself firmly on his assistant. He barely ate, could scarcely concentrate on Thom’s sporadic attempts at conversation. He could only stare at the magnified brilliance of Hardwick.

She looked so soft. The close-viewing lens roamed over her, highlighting glowing skin, every bit as lustrous as the pearls enhancing her gown, cataloging the plush and creamy bosom so gratifyingly displayed. Her eyes sparkled brilliantly blue. Where were her damned spectacles?

Her laughter drifted down the table and Braedon stifled a flare of outrage. How could this be? Surely it was not jealousy burning in his gut—over Hardwick?