Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick by Deb Marlowe

perhaps. A young woman who had discovered in the last weeks that she loved a ride in a fast phaeton and that she hated stewed herring. Who had found only today that she enjoyed baking—when it was confined to an afternoon’s activity.
    Lord Marland didn’t know this girl—and Chloe wasn’t at all sure that she wished for him to do so. Having just discovered her, she was feeling rather protective.
    She looked up at the marquess and suddenly it was easier to give him her answer. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I will not.’
    ‘It is a matter of money, then?’ he growled. ‘A problem easily solved, then. Consider your salary doubled.’
    She felt her face colour furiously. ‘It is not a financial matter.’
    ‘Then what?’ he demanded.
    She cut her glance away for an instant. ‘I fear that is my business, sir.’
    Frowning, he slumped backwards. Several conflicting emotions showed on his face before he settled on one of contrition. ‘I suppose I should beg your forgiveness.’ She jumped as he suddenly pounded his fist on the stone. ‘Damnation, you must know I hated to ask!’
    She considered. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’ She’d never known him to ask for help—or anything else—from anyone. Denning must indeed be in disorder for him to take such a step. The image in her head gave her pause for a moment, before she pushed it away.
    ‘Yet I had to try. The situation demanded it.’
    Her own patience began to wear thin. ‘Lord Marland, are you attempting to convince me to apologise? Because I assure you, I shall not. I have every right to leave a situation I am no longer comfortable in—even yours. And I beg you not to ask again, for I have no intention of going backwards.’
    She skidded back in alarm as he suddenly launched himself from the pedestal. In a blur of strong, smooth motion he went from reclining beside her to towering above. Chloe stared in astonishment as he began to pace in ever-lengthening strides before her.
    She couldn’t help but flinch when he halted abruptly and pierced her with his fierce gaze. ‘Very well, then. Enough about Denning. But you must brace yourself, or prepare to forgive me. For I’m determined to importune you about another matter.’
    He stepped forwards and crouched down. He was so close—enough so that she could feel the heat emanating from him and see the need conflicting with pride in his expression. He reached for her hands and clutched them tightly together in his.
    She made a sound, of shock perhaps, and he dropped them immediately. They fell to her lap and he leaned in further, bracing himself on the stone on either side of her.
    ‘It’s the Spear, Hardwick. Skanda’s Spear. It’s here. In London.’
    That caught her attention. ‘You’ve had it confirmed?’
    His eyes shifted. ‘Nearly.’
    ‘More whispers,’ she said, suddenly impatient.
    ‘The whispers have turned to shouts. I had several letters of elation and jubilation. Everyone interested in antiquities was abuzz with the news. And then—silence. My further inquiries have gone unanswered or ignored.’
    Chloe understood. ‘It will be a race, then. They will all be after it.’
    ‘Yet I mean to have it.’ His voice had grown rough. ‘There are no words to explain how much I need to have that spear for my collection.’
    She stared in wonder. She’d never seen him like this, so open and raw. She felt trapped by his arms and the urgency of his emotions, yet she felt no urge to escape.
    ‘It won’t be easy,’ she whispered.
    ‘That’s why I need your help. You have amassed a web of connections that would put a spider to shame. I know I’ve no right to do this. And you have no inclination to listen, perhaps. But I’m asking for your assistance anyway.’
    And she discovered with some surprise that she wished to give it.
    He’d always been so far away when she had been Hardwick. The distance between them had come by unspoken, but mutual agreement. She’d broken that silent pact when she had