cleared his throat. ‘I’m looking for Hardwick.’
She raised her eyes, then—up and up, over the tall and powerful figure that dominated the small room—and stalled again.
He looked nothing like she expected—so much more than the portrait in the gallery downstairs. He was magnificent … and wrong. Broad of shoulder, wide of chest and sleekly muscled, Lord Marland looked as if he’d stepped from the pages of history. A Viking warrior, perhaps, or a knight of old, nothing like the few gentlemen of noble birth she’d had a glimpse of before. Even his hair bespoke of ages past: thick, chestnut locks left to grow just past his shoulders and caught up in a queue at his nape. Chloe couldn’t help herself. She ran her gaze over him, mentally stripping away the buff breeches and brown superfine. He belonged in leather, or armour. Perhaps a kilted plaid from across the nearby Scottish border. But, no, then he wouldn’t be wearing those wonderful boots …
He cleared his throat once more and Chloe started, yanking herself back to reality.
‘Hardwick?’ he repeated. ‘Where might I find him?’
Summoning every bit of willpower, each ounce of determination she possessed, she met his bold, black gaze and answered him. ‘I’m Hardwick, my lord.’
The marquess blinked. For a single, thrilling instant, he allowed his interested gaze to wander over her, as she’d just done to him. Then he blew out a breath, his impatience clear. ‘As fond as I am of games, Miss … whoever you are, I’ve no time for them today. I need to talk to Hardwick immediately. Mr George Hardwick. My Hardwick.’
Chloe wanted to look away from his dark eyes—even if only for another glimpse at his broad and powerful frame—but she didn’t dare. Everything she had worked for came down to this moment. ‘Mr George Hardwick—my adoptive father—grew ill right after you went abroad, my lord. He’s been confined to his bed and fighting a wasting illness ever since.’ She breathed deeply. ‘For all intents and purposes I am your Hardwick, sir.’
He drew himself up, impossibly straight. The scorching look he sent her way should have seared her skin. She met his burning gaze and braced herself for the explosion.
It didn’t come. Instead the marquess froze. His obsidian eyes flared wide for a second, then he whirled. In an instant he was gone. She could hear him sprinting down the stairs.
Chloe knew where he had gone, but for the life of her she couldn’t follow. Please, she sent the silent plea out. There was nowhere for her to go. She needed the safety of this position more than she would ever be able to admit out loud.
Her knees buckled. She dropped into her seat and let her head fall into her hands.
Braedon Denning, the seventh Marquess of Marland, pushed impatiently through the layers of tarpaulin separating the new wing from the rest of Castle Denning. His wing. The legacy that he meant to leave to the future—and his brother and father both be damned.
The breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding burst out of him. He sucked in a lungful of air tainted with sawdust, tinged with the acrid tang of paint, but tasted nothing more than sweet relief.
All looked as it should. His fury abating, he walked across the vast, grey-stone floor. The intricate, inlaid pattern of Italian marble was just as he remembered from the designs. Halfway across, he looked up, noting the curved niches spaced around him and the scaffolding running up one wall, reaching up to the first signs of the second-floor gallery.
‘Hell and damnation,’ Braedon whispered the words, just to hear the echo come back to him from the domed ceiling. He’d expected the worst, but it rather looked as if the wing was ahead of schedule. Even the separate entrance was in place, as he had specified. Eagerly, he strode through the pedimented door to examine the place from the outside.
It was perfect, each stone block a masterpiece of precision. Braedon walked every foot of the perimeter without finding a single flaw. His anxiety and irritation began to dissipate, leaving room for jaded curiosity to grow. When he circled back around to the entrance and found the unknown chit waiting on the top step, he was able to examine her with his usual, careful detachment.
Even that didn’t help. Here was a woman that did not fit into any of the usual classifications. She was tall, that much was clear. But every other womanly detail was hidden away. Trim figure or curves? Impossible to tell under the box-like garment she wore, cut in severe lines. Rather like a gentleman’s morning coat, without the cutaway front. The skirt was made of the same material, and hid just as much, although Braedon surmised the legs beneath must be mouthwateringly long.
Could she know that such a get-up merely made a man itch to know what was underneath? Was that her game after all? Braedon eyed her warily. He’d grown up in a ruthless and manipulative environment, and learned early that dark and dangerous gifts often came wrapped in shiny packages. Staring hard at this odd specimen, he couldn’t help but wonder if the opposite would hold true.
‘The Aislaby sandstone was a wonderful choice,’ she said as he drew near. ‘Nearly a perfect match for the rest of the exterior walls.’ She cut a glance in his direction and reached out to touch the golden stone. ‘Though we only narrowly avoided a disaster, when the quarry sent word that we would have to wait a year for enough stone to finish.’
Braedon watched her hand. She caressed the stone as if it were a living thing and could feel her approbation.
‘And yet all appears to be proceeding according to schedule,’ he said, gesturing about them. ‘Why is that?’
‘The quarrymen had heard of your departure for the Continent,’ she responded with a shrug. ‘Thus they judged your project to be a lower priority than some of their other customers.’ She turned and met his gaze squarely. ‘I convinced them otherwise.’
Braedon crossed his arms and regarded her with amusement. ‘So I’m to believe that you have been directing all of this …’ he paused and lowered his voice to a timbre that had set seasoned soldiers to shaking in their boots ‘… all of this, practically since the day I left?’
She dropped her arm and drew herself up straight. ‘Believe what you like, but it is simply the truth.’
‘I want to see Hardwick.’ It came out an order.
‘He’s awaiting you, somewhat anxiously,’ she answered calmly. Her eyes grew sad. ‘But I ask you to go softly with him. You’ll find him much … diminished.’
‘Why wasn’t I told?’
‘At first, I merely wished for a chance to prove myself. And we hoped that Father’s health would improve. A few months at the most …’ Her voice trailed off and she regarded him with irony. ‘Your trip was initially to be much shorter, if you’ll recall.’ She sighed. ‘And the longer your absence stretched, the more difficult it became to tell you the truth. I decided merely to do my best and confess my sins when I must.’
‘And now you have.’ Braedon strode past her through the large door.
She followed, right on his heels.
‘The columns of veined alabaster are due to arrive next week. Once they are in place, work on the gallery will begin to move quickly.’
He was moving quickly, but she kept pace with him and her clipped conversation outpaced them both. ‘Your arrival now is propitious. The plasterers
