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Braedon rushed forwards. It was a bronze short sword, tinged with the greenish patina of extreme age. Reverent, he lifted it. Months ago he’d found this treasure in a Hungarian curiosity shop, filth-encrusted and looking as if the proprietor had used it to pry open tins of food. What he held now was a masterpiece.
He ran a finger along the half-circle of highrelief carvings just past the hilt and leaned closer to the light to examine the sharpened edge of the blade. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Who restored it?’
The pride with which she beheld the weapon answered the question for him.
‘How?’
‘My father has been working with me. His speech is slow and his body seems to be gradually betraying him, but his mind is as keen as ever.’ She crossed to the desk and lifted a file. ‘I’ve done a bit of research. There are notes here on its possible age, construction and use, that sort of thing. I also jotted down a few ideas on how you might wish to display it.’
He looked up, his eyes narrowed. ‘What of the others I sent? The Egyptian dagger? The carved-ivory scabbard?’
‘All here, my lord.’ One by one she revealed the pieces he’d gathered over the last months, scavenged from collectors, pawnshops and junk heaps across Europe. Each one shone with new life and had been treated with the veneration it deserved.
He was impressed, despite himself. When he spoke again, he allowed respect to replace the animosity in his tone. ‘There is no doubt you’ve done a fine job here, Miss Hardwick. I have a full appreciation for the work you’ve done and I thank you for it.’
The relief he caught shining through those spectacles forced him to go on quickly. ‘A problem remains, however. I was woefully indulgent in staying away so long. A huge amount of work and a long list of duties await my attention now. I was counting on Hardwick to carry on with the collection, to take my place with some of the legwork and travelling. There is much involved in acquiring pieces like this: correspondence, business savvy, negotiation skills, the ability to travel with ease.’ Braedon sighed. ‘I had written your father about a piece I had particularly longed for—a rare Japanese pole arm recently brought back from the Orient. I hate to think that my chance at it is gone.’
Without a word, the girl produced another key and crossed to a tall armoire in the corner. She opened it to reveal a gleam of metal emanating from a long-hafted weapon.
Speechless, he stared. He rushed over to pull the piece into the light. Time passed as he traced reverent fingers and a sharp gaze over the masterfully crafted samurai blade, the long tang and longer staff. He looked at her in awe. ‘How did you do it?’
‘I followed the instructions you sent my father. I took William, your sturdiest footman, along and one of your tenants, a young woman recently widowed, as a companion. We made an effective team.’
Braedon knew there was more to the story. There were a hundred questions he should ask, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the incredible piece in his hand. ‘We’ll enlarge one of the niches,’ he said suddenly. ‘Design it around this piece—it will be one of the highlights of the collection.’
‘Actually—’ the girl crossed to the desk again ‘—I saw a magnificent display case in a private collection of manuscripts once. I made a few changes and came up with this. We could place the whole thing right in the centre of the room.’
He stared at the gorgeously rendered, ornate sketch. ‘You designed this?’
She nodded.
Braedon eyed her closely again. He fought back a short-lived twinge of disappointment at the idea of never probing beneath all of that packaging she wrapped herself in. He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder, back in the direction of the main house. He was back at Castle Denning, wasn’t he? The place where he’d grown used to being denied what he wanted most. He shrugged off the thought. In any case, it wasn’t his habit to pry into others’ secrets, any more than it was to share his own.
The magnificent design caught his eye again and he made his decision.
‘Well, then, Miss Hardwick—how would you like to stay on as my Hardwick?’
Chapter One
One year later
‘Miss?’ The head carpenter poked his head into her workroom. ‘Would you have a moment? You might wish to see this.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the weapons wing.
Clutching her correspondence, Chloe instantly left her desk. ‘What is it, Mr Forrest?’ She groaned. ‘Not the gallery floor again, I hope?’
‘Now, miss,’ the carpenter said with a chuckle, ‘it does no good to always expect the worst.’
Plaster dust swirled about her skirts as she followed the man, ducking under scaffolding and stepping around stacks of wood. But there were far fewer obstacles than in months past, and in only a minute he paused to wave triumphantly at one of the niches set into the first-floor walls.
‘Ooohh.’ She sighed in delight.
Forrest nodded. ‘That Italian you brought over talks as fast as a river floods, and I vow he’s as tetchy as a cat with a sore tail … but he does beautiful work.’
That he did. The scalloped levels of the domed top beautifully echoed the colours of the ceiling, pillars and floor, while the framing and the interior panels had been covered in gorgeously ornate plasterwork. A large blank space awaited the installation of a specially designed display case.
‘That does end the day on a good note, doesn’t it?’ Mr Forrest grinned. ‘I’m the last straggler here, miss, save yourself. Do you want to lock up after me?’
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ With a last lingering look, she tore herself away. She bid the tradesman a good evening, then, closing the heavily panelled doors after him, she leaned against them and took in the results of two years of hard labour.
Nearly complete. It seemed an impossibility. Yet Lord Marland’s wing stretched out before her, a dusty, slightly cluttered promise of magnificence. Only details remained to be completed: the niches, a bit of work on the second-floor gallery, the intricate trim and moulding about the walls. Then, of course, the displays would need to be arranged and set up—oh, who was she fooling? There were still a hundred small tasks that needed doing, but the end was drawing undeniably near.
The thought had her pulling out her crumpled letter. Her old friend knew that the wing was nearly finished—and he hinted that it was time for her to leave Northumberland.
She looked up again, taking in marble and stone, pillars and dome, and clutched a fistful of buttons on her formidable jacket. She’d been so fortunate in this project—and in this position. Here, she had the best of all worlds. Tucked up safe behind her spectacles and boxy skirts, she’d also been utterly challenged and completely absorbed. The work had brought her closer to her stepfather in his last days and provided an outlet for grief and an escape from loss when he’d passed on, mere weeks after Lord Marland’s return.
Never could she have imagined such a perfect hiding spot. She’d thrown herself into both the collection and the construction, reinforced her persona and buried her true self deep, far beyond the chance of discovery. She’d proved herself to the marquess, too, and they had gradually developed a quiet bond of respect. She’d found herself as close to that elusive state—happiness—as she’d been in a long, long time.
‘Hardwick!’ Lord Marland’s voice echoed like thunder from the passage beyond the wing. ‘Hardwick?’ The door swung open and the marquess leaned in, his dark gaze meeting hers across the vast chamber. ‘There you are.’ He strode in, and the wrench inside her was both familiar and surprisingly strong. He was garbed casually, as if he’d come from his work, in waistcoat and shirtsleeves rolled high. He’d left his coat behind again. It was a familiar sight, yet it hit her hard, a bubbling rush of pleasure and pain that bloomed in her chest and raced with frothy abandon through her veins.
What was wrong with her? She shook her head and, tucking her letter away, moved to meet him midway. ‘Good evening, my lord.’
‘And to you. I wished to tell you …’ His words trailed off as he caught sight of the completed niche. Silent, he went to stand in front of it. When he turned away, long moments later, he was grinning. His eye roamed about the room and then back again. ‘It truly is going to be magnificent, isn’t it?’ he asked softly.
‘It truly is,’ Chloe agreed. She stared at him, caught by the light in his eyes and the way that the sun’s last rays burrowed in his long hair, carving lighter channels along certain strands. He was her employer. He was pleased. She was also, of course. Hadn’t she just stood in that same spot and sighed over the intricate beauty of the stuccatore’s work? Yet the the marquess’s euphoria irritated her. She shook her head again. She was being irrational.
He met her gaze at last. ‘About that Druidic dagger …’ he began.
‘I don’t recommend that we pursue it,’ she said abruptly.
He paused. ‘I was going to say the same thing. I have it on good authority that it’s a fake.’
She nodded. ‘I had heard the same.’
His gaze wandered again, travelling about the room, fixing on the marble veining of a pillar here, a delicately turned newel post there. This was nothing unusual. They often discussed business here at the end of the day and the marquess was often distracted, cataloguing the progress made. Chloe was used to it; preoccupied as he might seem to be, he never missed or forgot a single detail of their conversations.
And yet—there was that phrase again. Something had changed, but she could not quite get her finger on the pulse of it. She only knew that her heart rate was ratcheting, her skin felt tight and she realised suddenly that tonight she could not stand here, calmly talking about the collection while his attention fixed on everything but her.
‘Would you mind walking as we talk, my lord? If you have more to discuss, that is.’ She made her request with a lift of her chin. ‘I promised Mr Keller I would find a sketch of a certain Roman medallion in the library.’
‘Of course.’ The marquess looked surprised, but trailed obligingly along. He had a few more questions about displays and possible acquisitions and Chloe felt a certain guilty satisfaction when his focus remained on her.
In the library, their discussion wound down. She’d just found her illustration when the marquess stood to take his leave. ‘That should be enough to occupy you for a day or two,’ he said with a wry twist of his mouth. ‘I’ll be busy for a few days with the bailiff’s latest idea to keep the sheep from wandering into the mud flats. I’ll check back with you then, if there isn’t anything else.’
He stood, the scrape of his chair sounding loud in the quiet room. He clearly expected that there would not be anything else. And why wouldn’t he?
He turned to go without another glance and Chloe marvelled at the differences that existed between them. For her, isolation was a necessity—the price she was willing to pay for the security of a respectable position and the blessed feeling of safety. Lord Marland, on the other hand, seemed to revel in his solitude—and to actively encourage and increase it. Chloe didn’t know if this behaviour originated with some pain in his past or from simply never having experienced otherwise. Either way, her heart ached for him.
But she would never break his trust by allowing him to know of it. The marquess was an intensely private man, she’d discovered, and nothing displeased him more than someone—anyone—trying to edge past the barriers he kept firmly in place. So instead, she did what she did best. She watched him closely, learned all that she could and became exactly what he needed most. She took on his burdens and eased his mind about the project closest to him. In short, she became the absolute best Hardwick she could be.
Sneaking another glance at him, she suppressed a sigh. Sometimes being Hardwick was very hard indeed.
‘Lord Marland—wait!’
He pivoted on a heel, brow arched in surprise. She knew how he felt. She’d shocked herself.
‘Ah, could you wait a moment? There is something, actually.’ She twisted her fingers around each other to keep them away from her buttons.
He waited.
‘It’s just … the new wing is so nearly complete … and the collection is in splendid shape … and I know you are not interested in opening the collection to outsiders …’
‘No. I am not,’ he said flatly.
‘I didn’t mean to argue the point.’ Chloe ducked her head. Reaching into her pocket, she touched the letter from her oldest friend. ‘It’s only—it’s been suggested that I might seek another position. That you might not require my services any longer, after the project is finished.’
‘What?’ He reared back. ‘Who’s been spouting such nonsense?’ His shock and outrage were sincere, to her utter gratification. ‘Not Mrs Goodmond, I hope?’
Surprised, Chloe shook her head and placed her book on the table between them. ‘No, it was—’
She stopped, her mouth open, unable to continue, when the marquess took a seat directly across from her. He stared up at her with a kind expression of sympathy and understanding. ‘Your position must be an awkward one, Hardwick. You’ve talents that put you beyond a woman’s normal sphere. No doubt you will run into more than one narrow-minded fool who will push you towards a more accepted mould.’
He reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist. Chloe’s mouth dropped again in wordless shock, even though her coat covered the spot. Her bones felt small and fragile beneath his large hand. His grip was both firm and tender. Warmth radiated from his hand and she could not suppress the shiver that ran through her.
‘Don’t listen to them, Hardwick,’ he said, insistent. ‘Any woman can run a household or pop out a parcel of babes, but your skills are unique. You have a fine, clear mind, a gift for retaining and arranging information, and the damnedest ability to inspire people to meet your high standards.’ He shook his head. ‘This wing, this collection, they are incredibly important to me, and neither would be in so grand a shape were it not for you.’
He gave her arm a squeeze and, sitting back, let her go. Chloe flushed with surprise and pleasure. He’d given her compliments before, on a job well done, but this level of warmth and approval was new—and intoxicating.
‘Not everyone is meant for the intimacy of marriage or the rigours of child-rearing,’ the marquess reflected. He smiled at her. ‘Embrace your differences, Hardwick. Don’t allow anyone to make you feel inferior.’
Elation abruptly drained away. Stricken, Chloe blinked at the marquess. Inferior? She might have spent the last months moulding herself to best fit his needs, but she’d never considered that the process would render her unfit for anything else.
She cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood, my lord. It is not Mrs Goodmond, but a friend of mine who worries … He fears that there soon may not be enough work for me here.’
He leaned back. ‘What sort of friend?’ He frowned. ‘And what could he know of the state of my collection?’
Incredulous—and a little exhausted from the constant swing of her emotions—Chloe narrowed her gaze. ‘An old family friend. And he possesses the same scant information that the rest of the antiquities community does.’ Seeing his frown deepen, she leaned forwards, her hands on the table. ‘And no, I have not been talking out of turn.’ She raised a brow. ‘Surely you’ve realised the curiosity our work here has stirred? With tradesmen and specialists coming and going—not to mention the aggressive number of acquisitions we’ve made—it’s caused a stir.’
‘I don’t like to think of people speculating about me.’ He shot her a conciliatory glance. ‘Or you.’
‘Well, I’m afraid a certain amount of speculation is unavoidable, my lord.’
He sighed and climbed to his feet. ‘In any case, tell your friend that his concern is premature. Such a notion is absurd. Put it from your head, Hardwick. No one could display this collection like you will—you’ve designed half of it yourself, for God’s sake. And the collection is far from complete.’ He gave a curt nod. ‘There’s plenty more work to do here.’
Uneasy, she watched as he nodded a dismissal and left the room.
She bit down on her lip hard to quash her wildly fluctuating feelings. Forcibly, she unclenched her fists and turned back to her illustration. She should be thrilled. She was thrilled, she told herself firmly. Against all odds, this position had given her exactly what she wanted: a perfect blend of safety and responsibility, anonymity and respect. Truly, she was grateful that there was no need to contemplate leaving it.
She sneaked a peek over her shoulder, after the marquess.
Yes. She had exactly what she wanted.
And if she were wise, she would keep reminding herself of the fact.
‘Skanda’s Spear? Do I have that right?’ Chloe asked, nearly a week later. She tossed a book onto a pile of others, already discarded. ‘I can’t find a mention of it in any of my journals or references.’
Something was off again today. She dug her fingers into her temple, trying to sort the odd sensation. Something in the air, perhaps.
No. Chloe might deceive the world—after all, what were her spectacles, her dress and all that which made up her odd persona, if not for deception and evasion? But she did make it a policy to be honest with herself. And that was the rub. Reluctantly, she had come to the conclusion that whatever strangeness had been haunting the place lately … was coming from her.
Tranquillity had deserted her. The unflagging energy she normally focused on her work had begun to unravel. Since she’d spoken with the marquess in the library, she’d been beset with unfamiliar doubt, yearning and the rolling echo of his words in her head. Marriage. Babes. It wasn’t that she’d never contemplated such things for herself. It was just that she’d been so intent on finding a place and position of safety and security, that they had always felt very far away. Now Lord Marland’s words had jerked them right to the front and centre of her mind.
Did she want such normal, feminine things? The part of her that melted at the thought knew she did, but the pragmatic side of her couldn’t find a scenario in which it could happen, while the dark, doubting bit of her soul threw out the marquess’s other words—words like unusual and inferior.
She rubbed a hand against her brow. She was awash in conflicting new feelings and desires—and suddenly unceasingly aware of an older one.
Bracing herself, she glanced over at her employer.
She couldn’t ignore the truth any longer, any more than she could ignore the jolt of longing and resignation she felt every time she looked at the marquess. When had it begun? Irrelevant, she supposed. Some time in the months since her stepfather’s death she’d allowed grief to inevitably loosen its hold on her heart. She’d grown comfortable with Lord Marland, had begun to esteem his dedication and reserved humour just as she’d always admired his broad shoulders and incredible strength. Yearning had escaped the realm of fantasy and daydream while want had awoken and swirled up and out of her, tiny tendrils, reaching for the marquess, seeking to bind him to her.
She ducked her head, worried that he might catch a hint of her shifting feelings, but another quick glance showed him still occupied and oblivious. Straightening, she stared at him outright for several long moments.
Still nothing. Lord Marland’s barriers worked both ways, she realised. They, together with her mannish attire and severe coiffure, had succeeded in making her invisible. To Lord Marland she was Hardwick, more function than flesh and blood. He no more noticed her breath catching or her heart pounding than he would suffer such afflictions himself—which was to say, not at all.
Today they sat together in the workroom, she at her desk, while he—an artist’s vision of a warrior tamed—bent over a rusty cavalry sword, painstakingly cleaning the pierced guard.
‘You won’t find Skanda’s Spear in any reference books,’ Lord Marland chided her.
‘Then how do you know of it?’ she asked carefully. His attention still hadn’t wavered from his task, so she eased her spectacles off and allowed her gaze to roam over him.
Though he sat still and focused, the marquess loomed large in the enclosed space. From corner to corner, the air pulsed with the energy of leashed strength, of capable male. He had, as usual, lost his coat some time earlier in the day. Beneath the linen of his shirt, muscles bunched and flexed as he worked. The old, scuffed cavalry boots, his favourite and hers, were planted wide on either side of his chair as he worked. His hair—good heavens, the fantasies that she’d built around that hair—had begun to pull loose from his queue. One long strand hung before his eyes as he leaned in close to his work.
He sat back suddenly and grinned at her. She whipped her gaze back to her desk and pushed her spectacles back onto her nose.
‘Whispers,’ he answered. ‘The Spear of Skanda has been but a myth, a legend spoke of in whispers trickled down through the ages.’ His eyes flashed in the candlelit room, nearly as dark as the elaborate black embroidery on his waistcoat. ‘Lately the trickle has become a river. People are talking about it once more. I’ve heard more than one report saying that the Spear has been brought to England by an unknowing nabob.’
She looked up again, and cocked her head at him. ‘What doesn’t he know?’
‘The extreme value of what he holds, it is to be hoped,’ he answered sardonically. ‘And if he’s unaware of just what he has, then it’s unlikely he’s aware of the curse.’
Chloe groaned. ‘It’s cursed, too?’ Heart thumping, she returned his grin. ‘Bad enough you charge me with finding a will-o’-the-wisp weapon that may or may not exist, but must it be cursed as well?’
The marquess’s expression grew suddenly stern and unexpectedly intent. ‘I want that spear, Hardwick.’ He slapped down the oiled cloth he’d been using with a muffled thump. ‘If it has indeed surfaced, then I must have it. No other weapon could be a more perfect centrepiece for my collection.’
Mesmerised, Chloe stared. Since the day he’d agreed to let her stay on, Lord Marland’s manner had been cool, unflappable and frustratingly distant. As passionate as she knew him to be about his weapons collection and the elaborate wing they were constructing to showcase it, she’d seen evidence of it only in his unending dedication to the project. He’d never given her so much as a glimpse of what lay behind his obsession or how he truly felt about it and she had learned not to ask. This sudden flash of emotion set her to blinking. She felt as if she’d caught wind of something far more rare than Skanda’s alleged spear.
‘You’ve amassed a network of sources that puts even your father’s to shame. Use it. Track it down,’ he ordered, retreating into bland politeness once more. He gestured towards the papers on her desk. ‘I know you’ll find it. You’ve never failed me yet.’
He turned back to his weapon, running slow fingers over the length of the curved blade. A shiver of longing skittered up Chloe’s spine, tightening her nipples and setting her insides to sizzling. She suffered a vision of those big hands touching her with such precision.
