Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick. Deb Marlowe

all that severe tailoring and daunting effectiveness. The more he’d come to value her skills, the less inclined he’d been to meddle. Now his interest had been piqued again and it had brought along the image, lush and vivid, of him starting with those damned buttons and peeling her layers away, one by one.

      Flushed and hot, he banished the vision and headed for the workroom and the blade he’d abandoned there. He grasped the hilt and lunged, stabbing a thrust through an imaginary opponent. What he needed was a bit of practice to conquer such wayward thoughts.

      And that was why Mairead was wrong. He’d no need to hide. He’d faced war, both at home and abroad, he’d swum through the murky waters of diplomatic intrigue and he’d survived social manoeuvring that made politics look like child’s play. And he’d yet to meet the obstacle he couldn’t conquer with determination and a damned good weapon.

      He glanced over at Hardwick’s empty desk. Surely this one would be no different.

      It had taken a couple of days, but Chloe had at last tracked down the hint she needed regarding Skanda’s Spear. She clutched the table in relief. She needed to maintain her usual impeccable work performance, for her attempts to attract the marquess’s attention in other ways were resulting in mixed success, at best.

      She’d thought that seeing him outside her usual sphere might be a good beginning, so she’d ‘arranged’ to run into him in different spots about the house and the grounds. Lord Marland had looked intrigued, the first time, and then increasingly resigned, but in each instance, he’d merely nodded, exchanged a brief nod and moved on.

      So she’d tried bringing up other topics of conversation. He’d followed easily when she’d asked about the estate, talking with enthusiasm about the improvements he was undertaking at his bailiff’s advice. But then he’d caught himself and cast her a measuring glance. Later he’d resisted speaking of his sister and flatly refused to discuss the weather, each time turning the conversation back to the collection or, repeatedly, the Spear of Skanda.

      Yesterday, though, she’d experienced a greater measure of success. She’d eschewed her usual, severe chignon and worn her hair loose down the back of her neck. She’d gone about other business as usual, but several times she’d looked up to find him staring intently from a distance. Near the end of the day they’d been debating the merits of open and closed cases for a set of ancient flint knives when his argument had stuttered to a stop. She’d glanced up in surprise to see his gaze fixed on the curl that had fallen forwards over her shoulder. Without another word he had stood and stalked from the workroom.

      She had grinned for the remainder of the evening and taken it as a sign, however small, that he did feel a degree of attraction for her. It gave her real hope. They were so compatible in other ways. And she certainly felt more than enough heat for him.

      But today she needed to focus on her work. She had a feeling that the marquess knew more about this mysterious spear than he was saying, but it wasn’t her place to ask. Now at last, in his vast library she’d finally discovered that Skanda was one of several names for the Hindu war god. She’d even found an illustration, complete with a depiction of his favoured weapon—a spear with a wide, spade-shaped blade. Her heart lifted. She knew of several experts who might be of immediate help for this sort of artefact. She’d just bent closer to study the image when she was distracted by several flashes of light dancing across the bookcase in front of her.

      She knew what that meant. Skanda was forgotten as she tore off her spectacles and made her quick and stealthy way to the large windows. She eased herself into position. See without being seen, that was the trick. There. One small step more … Her breath hitched. Her heart began to pound as if she was the one about to engage in combat.

      For combat it was to be. Lord Marland moved below, pacing the levelled bowling green that he had long ago appropriated for his more … unusual pastime. He gripped the newly restored cavalry sword in one hand, sunlight flashing with each restless slash of the blade. A predatory gleam lit his eye as he watched his sparring partner ready himself for their match.

      The twitching started up again, deep in the secret recesses of Chloe’s belly, a tympani that pulsed loudest between her legs and sent echoing tremors along all of her limbs. The thrumming began each and every time she saw the marquess like this—a hunter, a warrior clad incongruously in thigh-hugging breeches and high, worn boots. He’d cast his coat and waistcoat aside, leaving only thin linen and a few tantalising glimpses of browned skin and broad torso. Chloe’s mouth went dry.

      Lord Marland was warming to his task, each practised lunge and thrust showing her more. All those sculpted muscles and masculine planes and angles. She closed her eyes, wondering how they would feel beneath her fingers.

      The clash of steel signalled the opening of battle. Chloe took a risk and edged a little closer to the window. The combatants were engaged, their focus locked intently on each other. She allowed hers to fix on her employer. He was magnificent, a figure straight out of legend. He was an expert in his warrior’s dance of strength and strategy, and she was enraptured. She was …

      Caught.

      The weight of someone’s gaze rested on the back of her neck, growing more palpable by the second. The tiny hairs there rose high. Someone was staring at her as intently as she was watching the scene below.

      Grasping for a veneer of nonchalance, she turned. For the second time in as many days, she confronted Lord Marland’s sister poised on the threshold of a doorway.

      ‘I had wondered how you managed it.’ The countess’s expression was mobile, fading from surprise and interest into something that resembled mischief.

      ‘My lady?’ Chloe did not move from the window.

      ‘Living up here, tolerating the isolation. Getting along with my singularly uncommunicative brother. But now I see.’ Lady Ashton’s mouth quirked. ‘You fit right in because you are just like the rest of this family—gifted at hiding what you don’t wish to face.’

      Chloe stiffened. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘No matter.’ Still smiling, the countess stepped fully into the library. ‘I’m in no place to criticize, in any case. I heard the clamour and merely wished to see the show.’ She crossed the room to stand at the window by Chloe’s side. With considerable enjoyment she watched the fight below, but after a moment she leaned abruptly over the sill. ‘Braedon’s partner—is that Sir Thomas Cobbe?’

      Chloe realised she’d been edging away. ‘It is.’ She gave up and moved back to stand next to the countess. ‘He comes to train with Lord Marland as frequently as his schedule will allow.’

      ‘I heard he was the best. Knighted after he became sword master to the Prince Regent and his set, was he not?’ She winked in Chloe’s direction. ‘Of course that was years ago. He may be a bit older than Braedon, but I met him once in London. Poor as a church mouse, but I should say he’d be more than able to hold his own in battle. And he’s just as sword-mad as my brother.’

      Her eyes twinkled in good humour. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if we might find some common ground as well.’ She looked over her shoulder at the books Chloe had spread over a table and her spectacles lying conspicuously on top. ‘What was it you were working on, before you were so understandably distracted?’

      Chloe took another step back towards her work. ‘Lord Marland wishes to acquire an elusive weapon, a spear. I should perhaps—’

      She was interrupted by a clash of steel and a low grunt that echoed up from below. Lord Marland’s opponent had sunk to one knee. But the fight was far from finished. Though his sword was locked with the marquess’s, Sir Thomas suddenly held a wicked-looking dirk in his other hand. He aimed a vicious swing at Lord Marland’s knee.

      ‘Oh, that’s hardly cricket, is it?’ the countess cried.

      Her heart flopping like a fish, Chloe gasped as her employer jumped back, the blade missing him by a hair. Sir Thomas lunged to his feet and the battle raged on, as fiercely as ever.

      ‘They