The Wedding Clause Read online

  But she did harbor a vanity when it came to her sketches. She had always possessed a talent for capturing a scene or countenance with a stark honesty. Most would say too much honesty. She made no attempt to shadow or soften. Nor did she seek only beauty to capture. Instead she sought to evoke the feeling of the moment: happiness, terror, sadness, loss.

  At the moment, she was concentrating upon a maid she had witnessed standing beside the mews early that morning. For some reason the servant’s covert manner as she had huddled within the thick ivy had caught Molly’s fancy. There had been something very furtive in her expression, as if she were hoping to slip from her duties unnoted, or even to meet her lover on the sly.

  Barely noting the vague rustlings of the busy household, Molly fully lost herself within her bold strokes, capturing the expression of half dread and half elation that had illuminated the rather plain countenance. It was not until the door to the parlor was abruptly tossed open that she reluctantly set aside her charcoal and turned to confront her friend.

  In elegant style, Georgie was attired in a deep jade gown that emphasized the purity of her white skin and the silky gloss of her dark curls. Surrounded by the rich ivory and gold furnishings, she appeared every inch a lady of refined fashion. A far cry from the hoydenish young girl that had once preferred fishing and climbing trees to being a proper maiden, Molly thought with an inward smile.

  “Well, you have done it, my dear,” she announced in dramatic tones, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  Giving a blink of bewilderment, Molly wiped her fingers upon a damp cloth. “I suppose that is wonderful; however, I have not the faintest notion of what it is that I have done.”

  Georgie laughed as she swayed across the Parisian carpet. “All of town is speaking of your daring at the theatre last evening.”

  “Oh.” Molly grimaced as she tossed aside the cloth. Throughout the endless night she had recalled every moment of her time with Hart. The suspicion in the dark eyes, the edge in his voice, the threat of his coiled body. But oddly, it was the memory of the aching pleasure of his touch that had kept her pacing the floor. Blast it all. “And what do they say?”

  “That the Heartless Viscount has at last met his match.”

  Molly lifted her brows before abruptly tilting her head back to laugh with disbelief. If only they knew. They would not be nearly so impressed if they realized that it was sheer desperation, along with a large dose of foolishness that prompted her daring deeds.

  “I wish I could be so confident.”

  Georgie’s smile slowly faded as she regarded her friend with a measure of concern. “You are having second thoughts?”

  “And third and fourth.”

  Stepping closer, her friend reached out to grasp Molly’s hand in a firm grip. “There is no need to go through this, Molly.”

  She gave a slow shake of her head. “Unfortunately there is every need. And I am determined to see it through.”

  “I could just throttle Andrew for this.” Georgie’s pretty features flushed with the force of her emotions. “If it were not for him . . .”

  Molly sternly stepped back, her own countenance hard with determination. “No more, Georgie. I have warned you that I will not have you speaking ill of Andrew.”

  Georgie battled her inner demons before at last heaving a rueful sigh. “Oh, very well.”

  “Thank you.”

  With an obvious effort to restore her earlier good humor, the dark-haired beauty summoned a smile. “Instead let us decide what we shall do today. Although society is rather thin there are always any number of entertainments. What do you say we have luncheon and make our plans?”

  Under normal circumstances, Molly would have been delighted to devote her day to exploring London and enjoying the intellectual salons that she had only dreamed of attending. But these were far from normal circumstances. Wherever she might go, she would always be on guard. How could she possibly relax when she would know that Hart might be lurking about every corner?

  Still, she could not remain forever cowering in Georgie’s home. Not only would she go mad from boredom, but she could not bear the thought of appearing the coward.

  “If you wish,” she conceded.

  Before Georgie could respond the door to the parlor was once again pushed open. On this occasion it was the dignified butler who entered and offered a stiff bow.

  “Pardon me, my lady, but Lord Woodhart has arrived and is desirous of speaking with Miss Conwell.”

  Molly clapped a hand to her suddenly heaving stomach. Dear lord, she had not expected him to actually make an appearance at the elegant townhouse. Not unless it was to throttle her in her sleep.

  “Hart is here?”

  “Yes, miss. In the front parlor.”

  “How dare he?” Georgie muttered, turning toward Molly with a decided flounce. “We can easily send him on his way, Molly. There is no need to speak with him.”

  It was tempting. She would dearly love to witness the arrogant intruder tossed from the house. Oh, it would no doubt take several burly footmen, and perhaps a large stick, but it would surely be worth the mayhem.

  Then her pesky common sense returned and she heaved a sigh. There would no doubt be a measure of satisfaction in knowing she had bested the annoying gentleman, but it would only be fleeting. If she had learned nothing else of Lord Woodhart, she did know that he was quite the most stubborn of beasts.

  “I fear he would only return, Georgie,” she murmured.

  “Then we can send him on his way again.”

  Her lips twitched at her friend’s haughty tone. At the moment, she sounded every bit Lady Falker.

  “A most pleasant notion; however, he is quite capable of provoking an unpleasant scene in public if I refuse to meet with him,” she retorted with a wry smile. “I prefer whatever he might have to say be in private.”

  Georgie frowned. “You are certain?”

  Molly paused before giving a nod of her head. “Yes. He can hardly do away with me in your front parlor.”

  “Fah. I would put nothing beyond Lord Woodhart.”

  “All will be well.”

  Molly reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand before squaring her shoulders and following the rigid servant out of the room and down the long corridor toward the front of the townhouse.

  Absently, she noted the marble statues set in shallow alcoves and the various landscapes that Lord Falker had acquired during his long lifetime. But for once she did not halt to admire the numerous treasures that Georgie took so much for granted. Instead she battled the nearly overwhelming urge to flee to her bedchamber and barricade the door.

  Blast. She could not imagine what had brought Hart to the townhouse. Well, beyond the obvious desire for murder.

  Did he think to intimidate her? To threaten her? To toss her over his shoulder and haul her to the nearest cliff?

  “No. He cannot harm you Molly Conwell,” she muttered to herself. “Nor can he bully you unless you allow it.”

  Somewhat reassured, she smoothed the skirts of her pale lavender gown as the butler pulled open the door to the front parlor and she was left with nothing to do but sweep past him into the pretty room with yellow satin wall panels and pale green furnishings.

  Determined to appear indifferent to his unexpected intrusion, she refused to allow her steps to falter, at least not until the large male form stepped from the shadows near the bay window and offered an elegant bow.

  Her mouth went dry as she regarded his smoke gray coat and silver waistcoat that he had matched with black breeches. Bathed in the spring sunlight his countenance possessed a chiseled perfection, his eyes shimmering with a restless intelligence. Gads but he was so damnably . . . magnificent, she inanely acknowledged. From the glossy raven curls to the tips of his Hessians, he possessed a powerful beauty that was enough to make any maiden’s knees go weak.

  Even a maiden who thoroughly detested him.

  Pressing her hands together, she forced herself to igno
re the distinctly unwelcome awareness that shivered over her skin.

  “You wished to speak with me, my lord?” she demanded, quite pleased when her voice did not come out in a squeak.

  There was a moment of silence as he regarded her, his gaze oddly intense as he surveyed her pale countenance. Almost as if it had been weeks rather than hours since they had last encountered one another.

  “I have brought the remainder of your belongings,” he at last said, his hand waving toward the valise set upon a distant sofa.

  Molly frowned in decided puzzlement. “There was no need to bring them yourself. A servant could easily have delivered the case.”

  His lips twisted in a dry smile. “And deprive me of the opportunity to spend a few moments in the company of my beloved fiancée? Do not be absurd.”

  Her spine stiffened at his mocking tone. Not that she was in any way surprised. He had already made it painfully clear he intended to make this faux engagement as difficult as possible. Understandable perhaps, but decidedly unpleasant.

  “What is it you want, my lord?” she demanded.

  “A rather dangerous question.”

  “Beyond having my head upon a platter,” she clarified in dry tones.

  Without warning he prowled forward, not halting until he was towering over her in a most disconcerting fashion.

  “It is not a matter of what I want. But rather upon what you want, Miss Conwell.”

  Grudgingly tilting back her head, Molly forced herself to squarely meet the glittering black gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What is your price, my dear?” he demanded. “What will it take to put an end to this ludicrous situation?”

  Abruptly, she understood. He had not managed to humiliate her as he had hoped. Or at least not thoroughly enough to make her flee in horror. Now he was forced to once again return to plain intimidation.

  It was fortunate for her that she had been raised in a household with the sort of gentleman who used such tactics upon a regular basis. She had learned long ago how to stand her ground.

  Taking a step back so that she did not have to crane her neck, Molly folded her arms over her chest.

  “The truth, my lord?”

  He narrowed his gaze at her chilled tones. “If you are capable of uttering something that vaguely resembles the truth.”

  “There is nothing you can offer me.”

  A sharp silence descended as his arrogant nose flared in anger. “And what does that mean?”

  She gave a negligent lift of her shoulder. “I do not consider our engagement ludicrous.”

  “You must be mad,” he accused tightly. “You do not desire to be my wife. And I assure you I would rather be drawn and quartered than even consider the possibility of you ever becoming Lady Woodhart.”

  Drawn and quartered? Well. That was rather . . . explicit.

  Heaven help any woman foolish enough to truly desire Hart as a husband, she wryly concluded. As far as fiancés went, he was most certainly a wretched specimen.

  “It was your grandmother’s desire. I must respect her wishes.”

  “Fah. And what of mine?”

  “No one can force you to the chapel, my lord.” She carefully edged back another step. It seemed rather sensible to be out of easy reach as his eyes darkened with frustrated anger. “If you do not desire to wed me then there is nothing to compel you to do so.”

  “Nothing but thirty thousand pounds.”

  “A rather meaningless sum to you, I should think.”

  The warrior features tightened in a dangerous manner. “Is that what you tell yourself to ease your conscience?”

  Molly felt herself stiffen at the unexpected thrust. Dash it all. She did not want to consider her conscience. Not at least until Andrew was safe. Until then she could not bear to dwell upon her less than honorable behavior.

  “My conscience does not need any easing,” she forced herself to lie in light tones. “I never sought nor demanded anything of Lady Woodhart.”

  The dark gaze flicked a condemning glance over her rigid body. “Ah, but you are ready enough to grasp a fortune when it is offered.”

  “I have told you, I am merely complying with your grandmother’s last request.”

  “Of course.” He offered a disbelieving snort. “And you are perfectly content to become my wife?”

  “I would not say content. More . . . resigned.”

  For a moment he glared deep into her eyes, almost as if seeking to break her spirit with the mere force of his will. Then, as if sensing she was not about to be easily bullied, he at last stepped back and sucked in a deep breath.

  “Very well.”

  Molly regarded him with a wary gaze. She did not like that air of resolve that suddenly hardened about his large form.

  “If that is all, I should return to Georgie.”

  Far from attempting to halt her, Hart instead offered an elegant bow. “That is all, for the moment. But rest assured that we shall be seeing each other very soon, my love. Indeed you may depend upon it.”

  * * *

  “No, no. Far too dull.” Shrugging off the offending coat, Hart glanced in the mirror at the short, wafer thin valet with a shock of silver hair who stood behind him with a sour expression. “Perhaps the blue with silver stitching, Carter.”

  The sourness only deepened at Hart’s request. “My lord, you have already disdained the blue with silver stitching as being too frivolous.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes, as well as the claret for being too gaudy, the black for being too somber, the gray for having ridiculous buttons, the green . . .”

  Hart held up a slender hand with a sudden chuckle. As a rule he was not a demanding employer. Oh, certainly he possessed a few odd quirks. He demanded that his boots possess the gloss of polished glass. He demanded a hot bath with the scent of sandalwood the moment he awoke, and his meals served in the comfort of his library rather than the grand dining room. But overall he preferred to tend to his own needs without an army of servants constantly underfoot.

  “I take your point, Carter,” he retorted in wry tones. “Clearly I shall have to have a word with my tailor. He seems to have burdened me with an entire wardrobe of unsuitable coats.”

  The servant gave a lift of his gray brows. “Perhaps if you were to offer me your plans for this evening I could assist in choosing the proper attire.”

  Hart’s expression hardened as he met his servant’s curious gaze in the mirror. “My plans are quite simple. I intend to terrify my sweet fiancée into flight.”

  Carter gave a discreet cough. It was the closest he had ever come to revealing surprise in the near ten years he had been in Hart’s employ.

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “It is quite simple, Carter. Miss Conwell has made it obvious that she will not be bribed, bullied, nor humiliated into giving up her ridiculous game. The only option left is to terrify her into conceding defeat.”

  “I see.” There was the faintest hint of disapproval in the smooth tones. “And how do you intend to terrify her, my lord?”

  Hart’s lips twitched. “Do not regard me in that censorious fashion, Carter. As tempting as it might be to have her tossed into the Thames I have always considered any sort of violence toward women as reprehensible. I intend nothing more nefarious than becoming her most devoted suitor.”

  The brows rose even higher. “Forgive me, but is that not more likely to win her heart?”

  “If she possessed a heart.” Hart briefly allowed himself to consider Miss Molly Conwell. He intended to dwell upon her black soul, and greed-riddled heart, but instead the image of her countenance and slender frame rose to mind. Not only rose to mind, but with surprising ease and in shocking detail. From the precise shade of gold in her curls to the manner her sweet curves filled out her muslin gowns. He gave an abrupt shake of his head. Gads, she must be driving him batty. “Thankfully, Miss Conwell is without the more tender sentiments of most ladies. She is quite convinced that I shall ba
lk at arriving at the chapel and leave her free to claim her fortune. If I convince her that I fully intend to make her my wife, nothing will induce her to continue with this charade.”

  Carter gently cleared his throat, as if not overly impressed with Hart’s latest scheme. “And if she does continue?”

  His gaze narrowed. “Then I shall consider more drastic measures.”

  There was no mistaking the determination in his tones and the valet gave a slow nod of his head. “Very good, sir. Shall we see about the wine coat with gold buttons?”

  “Perfect.”

  * * *

  Standing in the shadows of Lady Hulford’s ivory and gold salon, Hart watched his prey with a lazy gaze.

  He supposed he should be angry. Not only had his scheme to shame Miss Molly Conwell into giving up this absurd engagement failed, but she had once again stubbornly stood up to his attempts at intimidation.

  Oddly however, he was not nearly as disappointed at having to change his tactics and continue the game as he should be.

  Well, perhaps not entirely odd. His lips twitched as he watched her move through the dull crowd.

  Even at a distance, Molly managed to appear startlingly beautiful in a pale pink gown with her golden curls threaded with satin roses. Indeed, she was utterly delectable. It was little surprise that any number of male gazes were trained upon her slender form with a decided hint of hunger.

  Whatever her sins, and they were numerous, she was a beautiful and desirable woman. Why the devil should he not enjoy teasing her in such a pleasurable manner?

  If he could taste of her sweetness and at the same time ensure that she learned a stern lesson in attempting to steal from him, so much the better.

  Slowly straightening from the wall, Hart began to circle the room. He was too wise to take a direct path to his victim. For the moment Molly was unaware of his presence at the tedious gathering. It seemed preferable to catch her off guard rather than be forced to chase her through the milling throng.