thick was the congestion of her thoughts and emotions. She drew a deep, steadying breath. Forced herself to focus. ‘I’ve had several notes and cards from various connections in antiquities since I came to Town. I told them all I was only here for a short time and on other business. Except one.’
He waited.
‘An old acquaintance that I must see.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘As luck would have it, he’ll also be the one we should start with.’
‘When?’ He was all impatience.
She understood. They had reached Ashton House again and she felt a similar need for peace and the time to reflect on all that she had just got herself into—and everything further that she had yet to consider.
‘Tomorrow,’ she answered. ‘Your sister will be at home to visitors in the afternoon. Call then and we will begin.’ She started up towards the door, but paused, suddenly struck by inspiration. ‘Lord Marland,’ she called as she turned back. ‘Do you, by chance, own a phaeton?’
He frowned. ‘I do.’
‘Then please do drive it tomorrow when you come to fetch me.’ She smiled confidingly at him. ‘I do love a fast phaeton.’
Chapter Six
S triding away from Cavendish Square, Braedon reached for a fleeting sense of anticipation, lost hold of contentment, failed to keep a grip on even a feeling of satisfaction at eliciting Hardwick’s promise of assistance.
It made no sense. He’d just greatly increased his chances at obtaining Skanda’s Spear, and although she’d declined to come back to Denning, he’d just assumed that he’d have time and opportunity to convince her otherwise. He should be elated. Or pleased, at least.
And he would be, if it were not for the near certainty that he might have traded it all for the chance to touch her. His hands flexed again, remembering the slight span of her waist and the urge to slide higher, to explore lush curves and anchor in her mussed hair.
Hell and damnation. He’d struggled with feelings of betrayal and now they intensified a hundredfold. His old Hardwick had fit so smoothly, easing all the facets of his life. This Hardwick was a danger to his every long-held conviction. She tempted him with soft words and blue eyes shot with gold, until he forgot distance and thought only nearer. Until he forgot to be watchful and instead only watched her—and the sweet turn of her smile and the sway of her hips as she walked.
And so every positive feeling faded with each step he took away from her and from Ashton House. They stood on uncharted and uneven ground now. No longer the employer, he was no longer in control.
Oh, he in no way suspected her of angling to compromise him or any such thing. This was Hardwick he was dealing with and she had too much integrity for him to even entertain such a thought. But she was human—and female. It was conceivable—probable—that she might come to expect something in return for her assistance. Something universally mundane, but singularly unsafe, such as conversation. His fists curled. The chance to ask questions.
He abhorred questions. Hated to be poked at or prodded. For such a thing as a truly innocent question did not exist, did it? Like her seemingly innocuous query about sunsets. There was no answer that did not reveal some ugliness, dredge up a memory that he’d laboured to bury deep. Was he supposed to tell her that he met the sunset with a ritual that had begun as a boy? That he marked the moment as a victory that he’d survived another day—not always intact, but eager for the respite of a few hours when his brother and father would be occupied with food and drink and women?
Denial and frustration roiled in his gut. He glanced about, eager for an excuse to release it. He’d reached Piccadilly and its more raucous evening crowds, but his size had always decreased the chances of being accosted, even in London’s most dismal neighbourhoods. Tonight, though—he shook out his arms and stamped his foot to feel the
He waited.
‘An old acquaintance that I must see.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘As luck would have it, he’ll also be the one we should start with.’
‘When?’ He was all impatience.
She understood. They had reached Ashton House again and she felt a similar need for peace and the time to reflect on all that she had just got herself into—and everything further that she had yet to consider.
‘Tomorrow,’ she answered. ‘Your sister will be at home to visitors in the afternoon. Call then and we will begin.’ She started up towards the door, but paused, suddenly struck by inspiration. ‘Lord Marland,’ she called as she turned back. ‘Do you, by chance, own a phaeton?’
He frowned. ‘I do.’
‘Then please do drive it tomorrow when you come to fetch me.’ She smiled confidingly at him. ‘I do love a fast phaeton.’
Chapter Six
S triding away from Cavendish Square, Braedon reached for a fleeting sense of anticipation, lost hold of contentment, failed to keep a grip on even a feeling of satisfaction at eliciting Hardwick’s promise of assistance.
It made no sense. He’d just greatly increased his chances at obtaining Skanda’s Spear, and although she’d declined to come back to Denning, he’d just assumed that he’d have time and opportunity to convince her otherwise. He should be elated. Or pleased, at least.
And he would be, if it were not for the near certainty that he might have traded it all for the chance to touch her. His hands flexed again, remembering the slight span of her waist and the urge to slide higher, to explore lush curves and anchor in her mussed hair.
Hell and damnation. He’d struggled with feelings of betrayal and now they intensified a hundredfold. His old Hardwick had fit so smoothly, easing all the facets of his life. This Hardwick was a danger to his every long-held conviction. She tempted him with soft words and blue eyes shot with gold, until he forgot distance and thought only nearer. Until he forgot to be watchful and instead only watched her—and the sweet turn of her smile and the sway of her hips as she walked.
And so every positive feeling faded with each step he took away from her and from Ashton House. They stood on uncharted and uneven ground now. No longer the employer, he was no longer in control.
Oh, he in no way suspected her of angling to compromise him or any such thing. This was Hardwick he was dealing with and she had too much integrity for him to even entertain such a thought. But she was human—and female. It was conceivable—probable—that she might come to expect something in return for her assistance. Something universally mundane, but singularly unsafe, such as conversation. His fists curled. The chance to ask questions.
He abhorred questions. Hated to be poked at or prodded. For such a thing as a truly innocent question did not exist, did it? Like her seemingly innocuous query about sunsets. There was no answer that did not reveal some ugliness, dredge up a memory that he’d laboured to bury deep. Was he supposed to tell her that he met the sunset with a ritual that had begun as a boy? That he marked the moment as a victory that he’d survived another day—not always intact, but eager for the respite of a few hours when his brother and father would be occupied with food and drink and women?
Denial and frustration roiled in his gut. He glanced about, eager for an excuse to release it. He’d reached Piccadilly and its more raucous evening crowds, but his size had always decreased the chances of being accosted, even in London’s most dismal neighbourhoods. Tonight, though—he shook out his arms and stamped his foot to feel the
Similar Books
