even out the numbers.’
A mad surge of disappointment froze Chloe to the spot. ‘I cannot, my lady.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I have no dress to wear. All of my garments are …’ She made a small gesture down the length of her protective coat and heavy skirt.
‘What, all?’ Shock had apparently robbed the countess of further words.
Chloe nodded.
‘How can this be? No—never mind.’ Lady Ashton was already across the room and pulling the chord to summon a maid. She appeared to become more agitated by the minute.
Chloe instinctively moved to soothe her. ‘Don’t fret, please. No one here will fuss over uneven numbers. Or perhaps I can send a footman with an invitation to one of the other neighbourhood ladies …’
‘Stop right there, Miss Hardwick!’ The countess’s tone was firm. ‘How efficient you are. No wonder my brother values you so highly. You step right in and do what needs to be done, don’t you?’
‘That is a basic, if sweeping, description of my duty, my lady.’ Chloe’s mouth twisted wryly.
‘Not today it isn’t.’
A soft knock sounded on the door. Daisy entered, but the countess waved her out. ‘No, I need Brigita, please. Have her come at once.’ She crossed the room to close the door behind the maid, but her dresser was already hovering outside in the passage. ‘Brigita! Come in, I am in dire need of your wisdom.’ Her foreign serving woman entered and the countess firmly shut the door on the befuddled maid even as she swept her hand in Chloe’s direction.
The pair of them took up a side-by-side stance, identical expressions of displeasure on their faces.
Chloe took a step back. ‘What is it?’
‘What do you think?’ the countess mused. ‘Jewel tones, I should think.’
The formidable Brigita nodded.
‘The dark purple, then.’
‘No, my lady—not with that pearlescent skin and dark hair. She needs the ocean-blue.’ This was said with heavy Germanic finality.
Chloe began to understand what was going on. She took another step back. ‘No, my lady …’ But she paused. Changing her hair had had a measurable effect on the marquess. What might happen if she changed … everything? She looked down at her costume. Could she do it? Step outside of the disguise? Leave herself vulnerable?
Her eyes closed. Images sprang to life in her mind. Lord Marland at practice, all muscle and might. Leaning over her desk, eyes glowing over a renovation. Sitting across the workroom in companionable silence. Gripping her arm and smiling up with warmth and support.
She nearly trembled with sudden yearning. She could do it. Because she wanted all of that again—plus the promise of more. Not so long ago she’d thought that she was grateful to have landed close to happiness. Truly, she was changing inside—because now close wasn’t enough. She wanted to be happy—she wanted to wallow in it. And she quite desperately wanted to make Lord Marland happy, too.
She thought they had a chance at it. A spark did exist between them. She knew it. Just as she knew he had been ignoring it nearly as diligently as she had been urging it to life. A complete change of appearance might be what she needed to blow his resistance to shreds, to obliterate the barriers he’d placed between them from the beginning.
Only one thought gave her pause. To what end? He was a marquess. Would he even consider a relationship with his assistant? She bit her lip. He’d never exhibited any need to live by any strictures except his own. His words to her the other day had certainly encouraged her to look beyond society’s expectations.
‘Oh, yes, Miss Hardwick.’ The countess was waiting, all kindness. ‘This is a momentous day. Not only has my taciturn brother offered me advice, but for perhaps the first time, I am taking it. Today you have been of invaluable help to me.’ Her voice softened. ‘Today you have given me hope.’
All of her new feelings whirled inside of her, urging her on. ‘But what of—?’
‘No.’ Lady Ashton raised a hand. ‘Now I am going to go start my own preparations. You are going to put yourself in Brigita’s hands.’
Chloe wanted to do it. But all of her old instincts still had a voice, too. She might be risking the safety that she’d worked so hard for. ‘What if Lord Marland doesn’t approve?’ It came out in a whisper.
The countess grinned. ‘Approve?’ She ran a practised eye up and down Chloe’s long form. ‘I think that my brother is going to thank us. In fact, I believe he’ll be on his knees before us both.’
Whoosh went her insides, roiling again. That mental image crowned all the others and drowned her worries in a flood of excitement.
‘Come, Miss Hardwick.’ The countess beckoned. ‘It is time for you to step out of the shadows.’
Her words resonated through Chloe, as sharp and loud and long as the strike of a bell. She met Lord Marland’s sister’s eyes and nodded.
Chapter Three
The vicar’s lady was excessively fond of her cats. At least, her incessant ramblings about them made it sound that way to Braedon. Her obsession could not be healthy—he’d learned the hard way, as a child, the dangers of emotional dependence on something so fragile.
On Mrs Goodmond’s other side, Thom tossed back another drink. Unobtrusively, Braedon changed position, trying to wiggle his toes. He couldn’t begrudge Mairi her dinner—not as he’d been the one to suggest both a project and an acquaintance with the vicar’s wife—but he couldn’t help pining for his favourite boots and a pint down at the Hog’s Tail.
He’d just shifted again, seeking relief for his cramped toes, when he saw Thom’s eyes alight. Ah. Mairi must have arrived. He turned towards the door. Now they could be seated and he could rest his aching …
Tight shoes were forgotten as he realised Mairi wasn’t alone. She stood poised just inside the parlour door, another female—a tall, slender beauty—at her side.
Mrs Goodmond fell silent. Thom stepped up close beside him.
‘I thought I was going to have to change your nickname to the Mouldering Marquess, stuck as you’ve been up here, with no opponents or conquests to speak of, but I see that you’ve been holding out on me.’ His sparring partner nudged him with an elbow. ‘Who is she?’
Braedon opened his mouth to inform Thom that he had no idea who the strange woman might be, when his sister drew her forwards to greet the vicar. Just the smallest thing, a change of expression, the fading of nerves into a gentle smile of greeting—but it tilted Braedon’s world right off its axis.
‘Hardwick,’ he breathed. The earth rolled beneath his feet. No. It jerked to a halt, leaving him stumbling on alone.
‘Hardwick?’
