Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick. Deb Marlowe

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?’

      ‘Braedon!’ It was a whispered cry of despair.

      ‘Think about it. You have some serious decisions to make. Make them here, if you wish. Stay as long as you like.’ He deliberately firmed his tone. ‘But I won’t have you making mischief.’

      ‘I wouldn’t.’ She sounded small now, as well.

      ‘Your mind will be busy enough. Look around, talk to the housekeeper, the vicar’s wife, perhaps. Find some project to keep your fingers occupied as well.’

      She did not turn to meet his eye. ‘Thank you, Braedon.’

      He fled. With a measured tread that belied his inner turmoil he strode quickly through the gloom. He felt for Mairi. It was never easy, coming home to Denning. Yet it was a damned sight easier than growing up here. He sighed. He was doing what he could to change things, but he and Mairi would always carry the burdens of their childhood. It was just a damned shame that her marriage must also be marked.

      He found himself in the soothing quiet of his weapons wing. Some instinct had him pausing beneath the vast glory of the dome. Braedon closed his eyes and let the empty silence of the place ease him, push him further away from the turbulence brought on by his sister’s distress. Yet her words echoed in his mind. She accused him of hiding? He snorted, thinking of Mairi’s histrionics and Hardwick’s manufactured, forbidding aspect. There were ways and ways of hiding.

      And suddenly it was Hardwick’s image filling his head and making inroads on his carefully maintained borders. Her earlier words sprang to mind. She’d been irritated—because he had not known of her preference for the sea? He tried to recall if he’d ever before seen Hardwick irritated. She was always calm, competent, serene. He’d grown used to—hell, he’d come to count on—her silent efficiency.

      Damn Mairi anyway, for her outlandish suggestion. Of course he’d wondered about his assistant. Occasionally he had surprised a delighted laugh out of her, or caught a glimpse of her hard at work, her lips pursed in concentration and her hair falling in tendrils about her face—and he’d