Deb Marlowe - Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

‘As what? A reclusive hermit? You are all alone.’

‘And happy to remain that way.’

Mairi was becoming distraught. ‘Don’t say that,’ she whispered. ‘Of course you must marry! I don’t want to think of you alone. I cannot bear the thought that you will never find someone to be happy with.’

He didn’t want to upset her. He summoned a smile and nodded at her. ‘Well, then, of course I shall,’ he said lightly. ‘Eventually.’

But he knew he would not. Mairi had got it backwards. But how to tell her that the brother she knew was largely a fabrication? She had her ways of dealing with the difficulties of their childhood and he’d developed his own. He’d discovered early that exposing too much of himself left him open to ridicule from his father—and worse from his brother. Distance had become his saving grace, both emotionally and physically. It had kept him going until adulthood, when he’d bought himself an army commission just as soon as he was able.

The military had been demanding, but hard-edged reserve had stood him in good stead in the field, almost as much as his skill in tracking down, harassing and capturing French pay wagons and supply caches. He’d been moved eventually into more strategic and diplomatic posts, where he’d learned to add practised charm to his bag of tricks. He’d done well, but it had been a tense and exhausting way of life.

And now—at last—he had the freedom to shape his life exactly as he wanted it. Shockingly, he’d found he enjoyed the role of marquess far more than he had expected he would. As loath as he had been to return to Denning, he had found life here to be almost enjoyable now that he held the title and lived here on his own.

In fact, everything important was easier here. He was the master, and nearly everyone expected him to hold himself detached. The pretence so essential in the army and in the diplomatic arena was simply not necessary. He didn’t have to work so hard to hide. Tenants tugged their forelock and deferred to his opinion. They didn’t require unending caution or the light, easy banter that served so well to keep society at a distance. He had his duty, a few acquaintances, his collection and Hardwick to share his enthusiasm.

So, no—there could be no marriage. How to maintain defences in such an intimate relationship? Even to imagine the sort of work required made him shudder. His father and brother might be gone, but the lessons they had taught had served him well: don’t ask for anything. For God’s sake, never give anything away. Keep the exterior calm and the interior guarded and you could not be hurt.

But he had given the correct answer and Mairi’s face had lightened—in direct contrast to the dark turn of his thoughts.

‘Eventually is not soon enough, dear brother.’ Her gaze grew mischievous. ‘I confess, I’d thought to nag you until you joined me in Town.’ She tilted her head. ‘But now I am entertaining new suspicions.’ She glanced towards the door, then back at him with widening eyes. ‘You must tell me all, Braedon … Are you hiding your bridal candidate up here with you?’

Now he laughed. ‘You’re the mad one in the family, not I. Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve no secret bride stashed away.’ He gestured grandly. ‘However, you’re more than welcome to make a search of the cellars and attics.’ He grinned at her before he took a long swig of his drink.

‘Cawker.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m talking about Miss Hardwick.’

The brandy came back up with far more velocity than it had gone down. Eyes watering, he sputtered and glared at his plague of a sister. ‘Hardwick?’ he choked. ‘You truly are mad.’ He ignored the rush of … what?—Interest? Excitement?—that surged at the unexpected notion.

‘I’m not mad. She’s a woman—and one who apparently shares your odd interests.’

‘She is in my employ ,’ he stated firmly. It was not arousal stirring to life at Mairead’s ridiculous idea. It was merely the old, latent curiosity—the wonder at what Hardwick was trying so hard to hide. ‘And a very valuable employee she is, too, so please keep your wild notions to yourself. I won’t have her scared off because you cannot keep your imagination in check.’

He drew breath, ready to scold her further, but his sister turned and crossed her arms in defiance. The lace at the end of her sleeve fell back just as the sunlight streaming though the windows slanted across her. It illuminated clearly the large bruise above her elbow, a stain pulsing darkly against her fair skin in the exact shape of a man’s hand.

Fury roared to life inside him. He rushed her like a maddened bull, though he forced himself to be gentle as he grasped her arm.

‘What’s this?’ he demanded, his voice gone rough. Her skin felt so soft, her bones so fragile cradled in his broad fist. ‘What have you done, Mairi? Have you finally pushed Ashton too far?’ He needed a target for the rage clawing its way through him.

She yanked her arm from his grasp and stepped away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Ashton would never hurt me.’

Braedon’s fists tightened at his sides.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘I can see what you are thinking and I would never serve my husband so ill. It was just a … misunderstanding. A small flirtation that got out of hand.’

There was no keeping all that he felt from his face. Dismay. Disillusionment. Disappointment.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Braedon.’ She gave a soft sob and he was seized with the urge to pull her close, tuck her away in his embrace and shield her as he’d always done.

He didn’t. Couldn’t. ‘Does Ashton know?’ But he already knew the answer—knew that that had been Mairi’s idea all along.

‘He challenged the man—no, not to a duel. Fisticuffs, at a training salon. Ashton beat the dastard to a bloody pulp and then he packed his things and fled to his hunting lodge in the Highlands.’

Braedon sighed. ‘I take it back, Mairi. You’re not mad, you’re merely trying to make your husband so.’

His sister lifted her chin. ‘These bruises are badges of honour, brother dear.’ She let loose a defiant bark that was supposed to be laughter. ‘At least I know he feels something for me. My marriage may not be sunshine and roses, but it is passionate and deep.’

Braedon closed his eyes.

‘Think what you like, but at least I never have to wonder if Ashton even sees me.’ She jabbed a finger high. ‘At least I’m not like Mother, sitting alone up there in the solar day after day, while my husband forgets my very existence!’

‘I understand.’ Weariness swept over him. ‘Of course I do.’

Mairead had turned back to the view outside the window again. She stood straight as a rod, but she suddenly appeared to shrink in on herself. ‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered. ‘I’m afraid I’ve pushed him too far this time.’

‘You should be. A man can only take so much, my dear.’ Feeling a hundred years old, Braedon poured another drink and tossed it back. ‘Listen. I’m only going to say this to you once. Once,’ he emphasised, and refrained from gazing longingly at the door. ‘Ashton will be back, I’m sure. Wait for him here, if you wish, but you had better use this time to think long and hard on what sort of marriage you want, what sort of wife you wish to be.’ He set his glass down. ‘The man cares for you, my dear. I can see it. Everybody can. But now is the time for you to finally believe it—or to let him go. God knows, the ton is full of married couples who exist in a state of polite estrangement.’

She made a wordless sound of protest.

‘You cannot keep testing him this way, Mairi. Decide now,’ he continued ruthlessly, ‘before it is too late.’ He sighed. ‘And what of children? Will you treat them the same way? Will you leave them anxious and wary, never knowing what to expect from you? How to approach you?’