She reluctantly turned back to meet his devilish gaze. It was that or reveal her simmering unease.
“Is demanding forfeits your only means of acquiring kisses, my lord?”
He regarded her with the blithe confidence of a gentleman who knew quite well that his kisses were sought after by every female who was not yet six feet under.
“Only when necessary, my love. As a rule my fatal charm is quite sufficient.”
“I have often considered you fatal, but never, I fear, charming.”
If anything his expression only became more smug. “That is only because I have never made the attempt in your presence.”
Her stomach quivered in sudden warning. “And now you intend to?”
Slowing the high-spirited team, he allowed his gaze to openly roam over her stiff form. Roam and linger, she realized as she unwittingly tugged the cape closer about her.
“What I intend is for the two of us to become better acquainted,” he at last clarified.
“Why?”
“I should think that was obvious. Christmas shall soon be upon us and while you may not quibble at wedding a near stranger, I assure you I do. A husband should know something of his wife, even if it is only her favorite color or whether she prefers the left or the right side of the bed.”
Wedding. Husband. Hart. Bed.
Her brain temporarily threatened to freeze before she was sucking in a deep breath.
No. This was just a trick. Just another means of attempting to steal away her inheritance. Hell would freeze over before he would take her as a bride.
“A stranger?” She smiled wryly. “I thought you had already concluded you know all there is to know of me. I am, after all, no more than a heartless fortune hunter who swindles old ladies and steals their money.”
His countenance hardened at her direct thrust, but with barely a blink he had managed to smooth his features and even summoned a faint smile.
“Since we are doomed to be wed, I must now hope that there is more than simple greed within that distant heart,” he murmured.
“Doomed?”
He gave a lift of his shoulder. “An appropriate word for our dilemma would you not say?”
“Not at all.” She met his gaze steadily. “Marriage is not inevitable. We both have a choice.”
His smile thinned. “A choice we have both seemingly made. Unless you have changed your mind?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then it appears we are trapped with each other. Would it not be preferable to be somewhat familiar before we say our vows?”
What could she say to that? To insist that she would far prefer to remain antagonistic enemies would be ludicrous.
“If you wish,” she grudgingly conceded.
“Good.”
With an unexpected motion, Hart pulled the bays to a slow halt. Then, with an elegant flare he tossed the reins to the groom who had promptly leapt to the paved avenue.
Molly regarded him with a surge of wariness. “What are you doing?”
“I thought you might enjoy a stroll. It is difficult to concentrate while controlling these brutes.” His smile dared her to refuse. “Now . . . shall we become better acquainted?”
* * *
Well, matters were progressing just dashingly, Hart assured himself.
Despite Molly’s seemingly calm demeanor as he handed her down from the carriage and led her along the remote lane of the park, he could not miss the faint shiver that raced through her body. The fact that he could not completely control his own shivers of awareness as her hand lightly clutched his arm was a complication he stubbornly attempted to dismiss.
Of course he shivered. And tingled. And tugged her closer than was strictly necessary.
He had already accepted the unpalatable truth. She was a woman, and most certainly he was a man. A very virile man. It was inevitable that such close proximity was bound to stir and rouse sensations.
Sucking in a deep breath gently spiced with lavender, Hart determinedly girded himself for battle. And that was what this was, he sternly reminded himself. Not seduction, but war.
“Are you cold?” he murmured.
“The wind is rather cutting,” she admitted.
“Here.” With an elegant flourish, Hart removed his heavy caped coat and gently draped it about her slender form. “This should keep you warm.”
She briefly stumbled, as if caught off guard by his thoughtful gesture, her head abruptly lifting to meet his searching gaze.
“But you will freeze.”
“I shall survive.” He deliberately smiled deep into her eyes. “Besides which, as your fiancé it is my pleasure to ensure your comfort.”
Her breath seemed to catch before she was determinedly forcing a smile to her lips. “Good heavens, Hart, you might almost convince me you are a gentleman.”
“Oh, I should never desire to attain such a tedious title.”
“You prefer being a dangerous rake?”
His soft chuckle echoed through the near silence that surrounded them. “I prefer living by my own rules, not those dictated by blithering idiots.”
Unexpectedly, her eyes darkened at his teasing words. Almost as if he had somehow distressed her.
“A fortunate thing that you are wealthy and titled and in the position to flaunt society. Not all of us are so lucky.”
Hart frowned at her peculiar reaction. “Do I detect a trace of bitterness, sweet Molly? Do you secretly long to dare convention and damn the consequences?”
“Actually, I fear I am quite conventional.” A rather wistful smile curved her lips. “I have never sought nor desired anything more than a peaceful existence in the country with a family to call my own. Rather boring, I know, but it seems like paradise to me.”
A disturbing urge to pull her close and assure her that her dream was not at all boring, but instead remarkably similar to one that he had harbored until Victoria had taught him such a bitter lesson in trust, was sternly squashed. Miss Molly Conwell would claim that she loved puppies, small children and butterflies if she thought it would undermine his suspicions.
“You must forgive me if I discover that difficult to believe,” he murmured.
Her expression hardened. “Why?”
“Because I have already offered you an ample sum to live quite peacefully in the country,” he pointed out. “If you only wished a tidy cottage and life of bucolic pleasure, you would have leaped at such an opportunity.”
“I . . .” She abruptly lowered her gaze as if wary of revealing her inner thoughts. “I cannot put aside your grandmother’s request so easily.”
The lie was obvious, but the stab of disappointment that shot through his heart at her deception was unforeseen. And entirely unwelcome.
“Of course not,” he muttered.
She stiffened at the edge in his voice. “She was very good to me.”
“Oh yes, thirty thousand pounds good to you.”
Her head ducked even lower. “Yes.”
Just for a moment, his gaze lingered upon the vulnerable curve of her exposed nape. Ridiculously, his fingers curled at his side. He was uncertain if he itched to test the softness of the pale skin or throttle her.
Perhaps both.
“You do realize that as my wife you will have to spend most of your time in London?” he abruptly demanded. “Parliament, as well as my business, keeps me here much of the year.”
There was a heavy silence before she was lifting her head to meet his glittering gaze with a tight smile.
“I thought I was to be banished to your hunting lodge?”
Hart sucked in a sharp breath as he came to a slow halt. Through the long, sleepless night he had been plagued with images of his hunting lodge and the damnable pleasure of having this woman at his mercy. Now he could no more halt his sudden stirring of desire than he could have halted the chilled wind.
And why should he? Wasn’t his scheme to convince her that he desired her enough to offer her marriage?
“I did not mean . . .” Her words trailed away as he slowly, but steadily began to pull her toward him. “Hart.”
“Yes?”
“You must let me go. Someone will see us.”
“And what if they do?” he murmured softly. “Surely engaged couples are expected to indulge in an occasional kiss?”
Her eyes widened in shock. “Not in the midst of the park.”
“It is somewhat public for my taste.” He offered a lift of his shoulder, even as a wicked glimmer of determination smoldered to life in his eyes. “Still, beggars as they say cannot be choosers.”
“Oh.”
His gaze dropped to the lush temptation of her lips. Within his mind, he was calculating precisely what sort of kiss he should offer. Stark and passionate, he concluded. Something designed to send a virgin into fluttering panic. At the same moment his head was lowering to cover her mouth with his own and any sensible thought was lost in a cloud of lavender pleasure.
There was no pouncing, no strategic effort to terrify her with lust. Instead his lips softened and with a tender care he cupped her face in his hands, tasting of her innocence with a slow thoroughness that made his heart pound. Dear lord. She tasted as he dreamed spring would taste. Pure and fresh and sweet as honey.
For endless moments he savored the velvet heat. A savoring that might have continued indefinitely if Molly had not suddenly stiffened and arched her back in his arms.
“Hart. Someone is approaching.”
Silently cursing the decidedly untimely intrusion, Hart lowered his arms and turned to glare at the nearby bushes that were rattling in an odd manner. For a moment, he presumed that it must have been a squirrel or stray dog that had startled Molly. Then with a sudden flurry a small, decidedly angry monkey scurried through the thick foliage and headed directly for a tall oak tree. Directly behind the beast was an equally angry groom who had considerably more difficulty in battling his way through the bush.
“Good God,” he breathed, his brows drawing together at the ridiculous farce. “Harrington, explain yourself.”
Red in the face and breathing hard the groom attempted to straighten his uniform. “I am sorry, sir. I turned my head only a moment and the beast bolted.”
“May I hope you have not also released my bays to the wild?”
“No, sir, they are properly secured.”
“Good. Please see to them while I attempt to rescue Brummel.”
Relief at having gotten off so easily rippled over the youthful countenance before the servant was offering a hasty bow.
“Very good, sir.”
Without bothering to watch Harrington’s rapid retreat, Hart moved toward the towering oak tree and regarded the chattering monkey in exasperation. Although the creature was perched on one of the lower limbs there was no possibility of retrieving him. At least not without an effort.
There was a whiff of lavender before Hart could sense Molly moving to stand beside him.
“Will he come down, do you think?” she demanded.
“The demon from the netherworld?” He flashed her a dry smile. “Not until hell freezes over.”
“He looks so frightened.”
“That is his stock in trade. He loves nothing more than luring you close with that pathetic expression so that he may toss something upon your head. He lobbed a bowl of custard upon my chef only yesterday.”
She turned those melting brown eyes upon him with an expression of concern. “You are not going to leave him up there, are you?”
He briefly found himself lost in those pleading eyes before he was sternly returning his attention to matters at hand. Dash it all. It was one thing to enjoy a woman’s kisses. What gentleman wouldn’t? It was quite another to moon over her eyes.
“It is no doubt what he deserves, but no, I will not leave him. He adds a bit of amusement to my days. If you would be so good as to hold these.”
Removing his hat and gloves, he placed them in her willing hands. Then he began rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt.
“You will take care?” she muttered.
With a lift of his brows, he flicked a gentle finger over her cheek. “Do not fear, my sweet Molly. I have no intention of missing our wedding night.”
“Fah.” She stepped away at his light teasing. “I could never be so fortunate.”
With a chuckle, Hart turned to make his way toward the towering tree. It took little effort to grasp the lowest branch and swing himself upward. Nor even to inch his way toward Brummel. He had, after all, spent his boyhood years climbing trees, fences and even the occasional building upon his father’s estate.
It was not until he had almost reached his unpredictable pet that disaster struck.
Reaching down to retrieve the monkey there was the sharp bark of a dog in the distance. The noise unexpectedly startled the high-strung Brummel and with a shrill cry he launched himself directly at Hart’s chest. There was a brief moment when he wavered and nearly caught his balance. But gravity, with its usual perversity, in the end won the battle.
He possessed the sense to clutch the monkey close as he tumbled through the air and to turn so that he landed upon his back rather than his face. Still, the frozen ground refused to give as he hit and the air was roughly jerked from his body.
With a groan, he closed his eyes and mentally judged his various aches and pangs to ensure that nothing was irreparably damaged. He had just concluded that all was relatively well when pair of soft hands were cupping his face and the warmth of Molly’s breath was brushing his lips.
“Hart. Oh, God. Are you injured?”
Startled by her frantic tone, Hart wrenched open his eyes to discover her kneeling beside him on the frozen ground. There was no mistaking the concern that tightened her features and darkened her eyes. He shifted uncomfortably, not at all accustomed to having someone fret over him.
“Nothing more than a bruised pride,” he muttered, turning his head to glare at the monkey who was currently pulling his hair. “You worthless creature. I should have left you to feed the local vultures.”
“You are bleeding,” Molly murmured, and then before he could halt her, she had pulled out her handkerchief and was pressing it to the blood seeping through the rip in the knee of his breeches.
His breath caught in his throat. Not from the wound. Or even the blood swiftly soaking her handkerchief. But quite simply from the gentle manner she tended his injury. A gentleness he had not experienced since the death of his mother.
“’Tis nothing, Molly,” he said huskily.
She continued to lightly dab his injury with the handkerchief, her expression one of concern. “It is quite deep. You must have hit it upon the limb.”
Against his will, Hart discovered his gaze lingering upon the purity of her countenance as she leaned over him. A warmth flared through him. Not the familiar heat of passion. But a deeper, more disturbing sensation that made him stiffen in sudden alarm.
“You will ruin your gloves,” he muttered, shifting away from her soothing touch.
Glancing at him in puzzled surprise, she offered him a faint frown. “They can be replaced. You must have the wound properly cleaned and bandaged.”
“Molly, it is just a scratch.”
“A scratch that could easily become infected unless given the proper attention.”
“I . . .” He gritted his teeth as he battled the urge to reach out and touch her cheek. Surely the fall must have rattled his senses? Or at least his brains. That could be the only excuse for longing to pull her into his arms to simply hold her close.
“Yes?”
Awkwardly holding Brummel in one arm, he scrambled to his feet. He had made fool enough of himself for one day. It was time to retreat before he did something even more absurd.
“We mu
st go.”
Chapter Seven
Hart paced from one end of the vaulted library to the other.
He refused to concede that his restless, continuous circuit might have anything to do with his encounter with Miss Molly Conwell the day before.
Why should he?
A man had the right to pace his library if he might want. When he was bored. Or had some trouble upon his mind. Or even when awaiting a visitor. The fact that he had never before paced his library, not even when he had discovered the treacherous truth of Victoria, was not allowed to enter his thoughts.
He desired to pace, and that was precisely what he would do.
Or at least what he desired to do until his butler was ill-mannered enough to thrust open the closed door and announce that a visitor had arrived.
Coming to an abrupt halt, Hart turned to inform the servant that he was not receiving callers only to be outmaneuvered when his cousin bullied his way through the door and offered a sweeping bow.
“Ah, Hart. I hoped to find you at home.”
With a rueful wave of his hand toward the startled butler, Hart waited until the door was once again closed before regarding his guest with an expectant expression.
“Thorpe, and at my humble abode, no less. Has the sky fallen or are you simply lost?”
With a shrug, the handsome nobleman tossed aside his high beaver hat and gloves. “This is hardly the first occasion I have called upon you, dear cousin.”
“True enough.” His lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “There was the occasion when you were foxed and terrorizing the streets of London until the Watch dumped you upon my doorstep. And of course, the charming evening you hid in my cellars after Lord Stanford threatened to castrate you with a dull spoon.”
Lifting his quizzing glass, Lord Thorpe peered at Hart in an imperious manner. “Good God, I begin to recall why I do not visit. Surely you do not dredge up the past sins of all your callers, Hart? Otherwise I should think you are a very lonely gentleman.”
“Only my favorite cousins,” he admitted with a chuckle, moving to a side bar to pour them both a healthy measure of brandy. Returning to Thorpe, he pressed one of the glasses into his cousin’s willing hand. “Here.”
The Wedding Clause Page 8