Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick. Deb Marlowe

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.

      Abruptly the marquess flourished the sword he’d been working on, slashing bites out of the air with practised ease. ‘This is interesting,’ he said, caressing the pommel. ‘A hodge-podge of a piece, with the lion’s head and the fancy basket guard. A cavalry sword,