Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

by Deb Marlowe

  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 bo
th 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.’

  Madame’s brow furrowed. ‘You wish to become a confectioner?’

  ‘No,’ Chloe said slowly. ‘At least, I don’t think so. But a businesswoman—yes, I think that I might enjoy that, very much. I would like to learn, and perhaps to ask you a few questions.’

  The confectioner’s face softened. ‘In that case, miss, let us get you out of that long-sleeved spencer and into an apron.’

  * * *

  Three hours, two cramped hands and a sore back later, Madame’s order was complete and at least a few of Chloe’s questions were answered.

  ‘Well?’ The older lady’s eyes danced as she tied up the last box and raised a brow at Chloe. ‘You wished for an experience. I think we have given you one, non?’ She smiled. ‘How do you feel?’

  Chloe set down her pastry bag. She licked creamy filling off the back of her hand and considered. ‘I feel pleasantly tired,’ she answered. ‘And incredibly sticky,’ she continued, looking down at herself with a rueful eye. ‘And reasonably sure I could handle the running of a business—provided I found one that evoked the sort of interest and passion that baking clearly does for you.’

  One of Madame’s assistants, silent until now, made a coarse, heavily accented remark about Mademoiselles who made it a practice to combine experience and passion.

  Madame Hobert gaped. The other assistant gasped. Chloe giggled—and before long the lot of them had dissolved into fits of helpless laughter. Thoroughly tickled and grateful for the release, Chloe laughed until tears came to her eyes. It wasn’t until the repeated clearing of a masculine throat finally broke through the noise that any of them regained a measure of control.

  ‘Bon soir, monsieur,’ Madame called. She moved toward the dark form filling the doorway to the kitchens. ‘I am so sorry, but we have closed for the day.’ She continued to chatter as she went. Still giggling, Chloe wiped flour from her chin and turned to watch.

  Laughter died away. About her, the kitchen grew hot, then abruptly and inexplicably cold. Time slowed and her heartbeat with it. Yet something else within her quickened. Hidden deep, tucked somewhere behind her heart, a small and withered hope plumped suddenly with life.

  Chloe straightened—and met the stormy gaze of the Marauding Marquess.

  Chapter Five

  For well over a year, Braedon recalled irritably, he’d never had to think twice about finding Hardwick. Half the time, it had seemed, he’d merely had to think of her and she’d appear, springing out of the Northumberland mists as if summoned by his want of her. The other half she’d been either in the new wing or in the workroom, right where he expected—and needed—her to be.

  They were a far cry from there now, weren’t they?

  Bad enough he’d had to follow her to London, but she hadn’t been safely ensconced in Cavendish Square with his sister. No—he’d had to trek through Town to find her covered in flour and playing at patisserie.

  A Frenchwoman—the owner of the shop, he assumed—hovered before him. Her nattering might as well have been the buzzing of a gnat. For Braedon was caught, held fast by Hardwick’s great blue eyes, locked in place as her gaze met his and he wondered how the hell he had ever missed the shards of gold that turned her eyes molten and reached out to stab him straight in the heart.

  Every other damned person in the world wore spectacles to see. Oh, but not Hardwick. She’d worn them to keep others from seeing her.

  The Frenchwoman still talked unceasingly, trying to shoo him away. He should listen to her. Hadn’t he learned long ago to rely on himself? He’d discovered with brutal clarity that it was best not to ask or expect anything of others.

  But there was the stalled construction of his wing. And the strange silence or half answers from his usual correspondents and contacts whenever he tried to raise the topic of Skanda’s Spear.

  He wanted that artefact, with an urgency that had begun to burn deep in his gut.

  So he waved the buzzing Frenchwoman off. ‘Not to worry, madame,’ he said. ‘I have not come for something sweet. I am here for Hardwick.’

  That broke the spell. Hardwick blinked, frowned and looked away. Manfully, Braedon stiffened his spine and told himself that there was no need to slump in relief.

  It was short-lived relief, in any case. For Hardwick was crossing the room. Her cheeks were flushed and her chin smudged. Her hair, arranged in another, softer style, had begun to tumble loosely down to frame her face.

  ‘Lord Marland.’ Her tone was as cool as the slow, curious look she slid over him.

  He heated up anyway, from the abruptly tingling top of his head to the soles of his shining Hessians.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve come for you,’ he repeated irritably.

  One of the women behind her let loose an incredulous, undeniably Gallic snort. The Frenchwoman shushed her.

  ‘Mairi sent me,’ he said, swallowing a curse. ‘My sister, Lady Ashton,’ he said in an aside to the shop owner. ‘She received the message that Miss Hardwick would be delayed and did not wish for her to walk home alone at this hour.’

  ‘How very thoughtful.’ Hardwick’s voice was muffled. She was occupied in unwinding the apron that enveloped her. ‘But would not a footman have sufficed?’ With a sigh of relief she pulled the thing over her head and dropped it on a nearby table.

  Braedon experienced a sudden and fervent longing for her old attire and its marching line of buttons. Surely they had been charmed, those glossy, gold buttons. They had to have possessed some sort of supernatural power, to have for so long and so effectively hid the graceful swell of that bosom. They’d done the job a damned sight better than the gown she wore now, in any case. Though most conservatively cut, with long sleeves and a high neckline, the rich druggett clung to her ample curves from shoulder to hip and displayed the smooth, feminine curvature of her arms.

  ‘I volunteered,’ he said past the unexpected dryness at the back of his throat.

  ‘How kind you are.’ Without meeting his gaze, she turned to take her leave.

  He waited at the outer door, fiercely recalling his purpose and watching as she spoke to the women. He was drumming impatient fingers when she finally quit the kitchens, pausing in the shopfront to don a spencer against the evening chill. That garment possessed a line of buttons in the front, but they were no damned use. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak, and there was no going back.

  Damn it all to hell, but he wished to go back. He’d like nothing more than to lock Hardwick back behind her stark, bulky clothes, heavy spectacles and severe hairstyle and back into her position as his assistant. Everything would be so much simpler. He’d just snap his fingers and order her to quell the chaos at home and to find that spear here in
Town. Instead he must stand here and pretend not to notice her unveiled charms. He was going to have to go against his every inclination and strike up a conversation with her. And somehow he was going to have to find a way to ask her to do what she’d already promised to deliver.

  ‘Shall we?’ Her goodbyes accomplished, she approached him with a tight smile.

  He made his bows and they set off. The sun hung low in the west, setting the sky ablaze. Evening made its advance and all along the Strand shopkeepers either barred their doors or lit their lamps in welcome, depending on the nature of their business and the needs of their clientele. From the direction of the river crept tendrils of fog, curling languidly around their feet as if to hold them back.

  Ignoring it, they pushed on in silence and Braedon grumped inwardly at yet another discomforting change. He could not count the times he’d sat silent and relaxed with Hardwick in the past, but the ease was gone and the quiet between them felt…heavy, perhaps. Fraught with the expectation of…something.

  Clearly she felt it, as well. For the first time in their acquaintance, Hardwick was the one to break the silence. ‘What brings you to London, my lord?’

  ‘The collection does.’ He breathed a sigh of relief. There. The subject was broached. Now things could begin to progress normally.

  ‘I see,’ she answered.

  He waited. In vain. She made no further comment or question.

  Braedon was flabbergasted. At a loss. He’d felt sure that mention of the collection would set things back on to an even keel between them. The collection was what they had talked about—all that they had talked about.

  ‘I hope that everyone at Denning is well,’ she ventured at last.