her oldest friend. ‘It’s only—it’s been suggested that I might seek another position. That you might not require my services any longer, after the project is finished.’
‘What?’ He reared back. ‘Who’s been spouting such nonsense?’ His shock and outrage were sincere, to her utter gratification. ‘Not Mrs Goodmond, I hope?’
Surprised, Chloe shook her head and placed her book on the table between them. ‘No, it was—’
She stopped, her mouth open, unable to continue, when the marquess took a seat directly across from her. He stared up at her with a kind expression of sympathy and understanding. ‘Your position must be an awkward one, Hardwick. You’ve talents that put you beyond a woman’s normal sphere. No doubt you will run into more than one narrow-minded fool who will push you towards a more accepted mould.’
He reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist. Chloe’s mouth dropped again in wordless shock, even though her coat covered the spot. Her bones felt small and fragile beneath his large hand. His grip was both firm and tender. Warmth radiated from his hand and she could not suppress the shiver that ran through her.
‘Don’t listen to them, Hardwick,’ he said, insistent. ‘Any woman can run a household or pop out a parcel of babes, but your skills are unique. You have a fine, clear mind, a gift for retaining and arranging information, and the damnedest ability to inspire people to meet your high standards.’ He shook his head. ‘This wing, this collection, they are incredibly important to me, and neither would be in so grand a shape were it not for you.’
He gave her arm a squeeze and, sitting back, let her go. Chloe flushed with surprise and pleasure. He’d given her compliments before, on a job well done, but this level of warmth and approval was new—and intoxicating.
‘Not everyone is meant for the intimacy of marriage or the rigours of child-rearing,’ the marquess reflected. He smiled at her. ‘Embrace your differences, Hardwick. Don’t allow anyone to make you feel inferior.’
Elation abruptly drained away. Stricken, Chloe blinked at the marquess. Inferior? She might have spent the last months moulding herself to best fit his needs, but she’d never considered that the process would render her unfit for anything else.
She cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood, my lord. It is not Mrs Goodmond, but a friend of mine who worries … He fears that there soon may not be enough work for me here.’
He leaned back. ‘What sort of friend?’ He frowned. ‘And what could he know of the state of my collection?’
Incredulous—and a little exhausted from the constant swing of her emotions—Chloe narrowed her gaze. ‘An old family friend. And he possesses the same scant information that the rest of the antiquities community does.’ Seeing his frown deepen, she leaned forwards, her hands on the table. ‘And no, I have not been talking out of turn.’ She raised a brow. ‘Surely you’ve realised the curiosity our work here has stirred? With tradesmen and specialists coming 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
