The Wedding Clause

by Alexandra Ivy

  “I suppose it might help to soothe my wounded sensibilities.”

  “It usually does.”

  Thorpe raised his glass in a silent toast before tossing the fiery spirit down in one gulp. “Ah . . . French.”

  “But of course.” Polishing off his own brandy, Hart set aside his glass and crossed his arms over his chest. He was quite certain that Thorpe was not here for a social call. “Now tell me what brings you here, Thorpe, beyond my extraordinary wit and charm.”

  Strolling casually across the patterned carpet, Thorpe lowered his tall frame onto one of the numerous leather chairs scattered throughout the room and stretched out his legs in a negligent fashion.

  “Actually I heard the most amusing tale that I simply had to share with you.”

  Hart narrowed his gaze, sensing that he was not going to find the tale nearly as amusing as his cousin.

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, it seems that a certain Viscount, who shall remain nameless, was noted yesterday lying on his back in the middle of the park with a monkey perched upon his chest and a lovely young maiden making very bold advances upon his leg.”

  Well, he had been correct. He did not find it nearly so amusing.

  Oh, it was not his concern at having made a spectacle of himself in the park. For the past four years, he had refused to trouble himself with what the gossips might have to say. Why would any man of sense be troubled by the innuendoes and half-truths that ran rife through society? Besides which, his position and wealth ensured that he was immune to being ostracized by even the most priggish of hostesses.

  No, it was not scandal that troubled him, but the memory of soft hands tenderly nursing his wound, and velvet brown eyes dark with concern.

  His gut twisted even as he attempted to smother the unwelcome memory.

  “How peculiar,” he at last drawled.

  “My thought precisely.” Thorpe allowed his lips to curve into a small smile. “One would only expect to view such an exhibition at the theatre. Or that rather naughty brothel next to the docks.”

  “Very amusing.”

  “So . . . tell.”

  Hart managed an annoyingly bland expression. “Tell what?”

  Thorpe tapped impatient fingers upon the arm of his chair. “Hart, I am not above giving you a well deserved thrashing if you do not tell me precisely what was occurring in that park.”

  “You believe that you are capable of thrashing me?”

  “I have proven it often enough.”

  Hart tilted back his head to laugh with sudden enjoyment. This bantering was a familiar balm to his current state of unease.

  “I believe the numerous occasions that I beat you senseless has rattled your memory, old chap.”

  “If it pleases you to think so.” Thorpe pretended to smother a yawn before leaning slowly forward with a determined expression. “Now come, Hart. I am not leaving until you have confessed all.”

  “Do you know, the older I grow the more I realize the benefits of being an orphan?”

  “Hart.”

  Hart heaved a sigh. His damnable cousin was just stubborn enough to perch upon that chair until they both keeled over in old age. Besides which, it was not as if he had anything to hide, did he?

  “Oh, very well.” Moving toward Thorpe, he took a seat in a matching chair. “Brummel managed to escape from my groom . . .”

  “Your groom was holding Brummel hostage?”

  “My monkey.”

  “Monkey? Ah . . . the nasty creature that Miss Conwell sent to the club.”

  “Yes.”

  A rather disturbing expression descended upon the lean countenance. “You kept him?”

  Hart discovered himself shifting uncomfortably upon the leather. “Do you wish to hear the tale or not?”

  “Forgive me.” Thorpe offered a wave of his slender hand. “Do please continue.”

  “As I said, Brummel escaped and being a monkey his first instinct was to climb the largest, most inconvenient tree about.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I had little choice but to attempt a rescue.”

  Thorpe widened his eyes at the clipped words. “Good God, do not tell me that you fell out of the tree?”

  The most embarrassing urge to blush was sternly quashed. “Yes.”

  There was a moment of silence and then without warning, Thorpe doubled over as he laughed with rich amusement at Hart’s public mishap. Watching his cousin’s merriment with a lift of his brow, Hart waited for him to regain his composure.

  After what seemed to be an excessive length of time, Thorpe at last straightened and wiped his eyes.

  “Oh . . . forgive me.”

  “No, please,” Hart drawled. “My wounded dignity was only in need of your unfettered amusement to ensure it is destroyed beyond repair.”

  The dark eyes twinkled with unrepentant humor. “Even you must admit that a peer of the realm tumbling from a tree clutching a monkey in a satin coat is somewhat humorous.”

  Reluctantly, Hart leaned back in his seat, his own lips twisting in dry amusement. He supposed that aggravating relative did have a point. Certainly, he would have taken great pleasure in discovering Thorpe in a similarly ridiculous situation.

  “If it had been any other peer beyond myself,” he grudgingly conceded.

  “I only wish I could have been there to witness the spectacle.”

  “All right, Thorpe, you have had your little jest. Was there anything else?”

  Settling back in his seat, Thorpe casually smoothed his dove gray coat and adjusted his cuffs before regarding Hart with a searching gaze.

  “As a matter of fact my curiosity was only mildly stirred by your reclining position in the park and the monkey upon your chest,” he revealed in low tones. “My true interest is in the female who was openly fondling your leg. Who was she?”

  For a moment Hart wavered. It was not that he desired to protect Molly from scandal, he hastily reassured himself. Or to keep her from being harmed by those sharp-tongued harpies who fed upon such gossip. It was just . . .

  What?

  Abruptly, he squared his shoulders. He was being absurd. They had clearly been seen in the park. Her name was destined to be making the rounds with or without his discretion.

  “Miss Conwell.”

  A dark brow arched. “The mercenary angel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she attack you while you were incapacitated?”

  “Of course not.” He frowned at the ridiculous accusation. “I injured my knee when I fell and like every female she felt the need to flutter over a spot of blood as if I had lost a limb.”

  “Fluttered, did she?” Thorpe tilted his head to one side. “Rather odd for a harridan who cares for nothing beyond wealth.”

  The very fact that Thorpe had hit precisely upon what had troubled him for the past hours only deepened his unease. He did not want to think of Molly as tender or caring or vulnerable. Not when he was determined to brand her a thief.

  “No doubt she was in shock,” he forced himself to mutter. “She must have seen her ill-gained fortune disappearing before her very eyes when I tumbled from the tree.”

  “Is that what you truly believe?” his cousin prompted.

  Hart lifted a hand to rub the tense muscles of his neck. “Bloody hell, I do not know what I believe. The woman is destined to land me in Bedlam.”

  Thorpe appeared far from comforted by his reluctant confession. In fact, his features hardened in a manner Hart knew all too well.

  “Hart, I think you should take care.”

  “Do not fear. I have no intention of climbing any more trees in the foreseeable future.”

  “I was referring to Miss Conwell.”

  Sensing the lecture that was in the offing, Hart attempted a smile. The last thing he needed was a warning upon handling women by his rakehell of a cousin.

  “Miss Conwell? I am hardly in danger from a female who barely reaches my shoulder and who I could crush with
one hand.”

  Thorpe narrowed his gaze at Hart’s light tone. “A woman’s danger is never her size. Indeed, the more fragile and vulnerable she seems the more lethal she becomes.”

  Lethal? Hart abruptly rose to his feet, pacing toward the marble chimneypiece. He was immune to coy flirtations, flattery and even practiced seductions. Surely to goodness he could be immune to kindness?

  Yes . . . yes, of course he could.

  He jutted out his chin in determination. “What are you implying, Thorpe? That I am ridiculous enough to be taken in by a heartless fortune hunter?” he demanded, as much for his benefit as for his cousin.

  Thorpe slowly rose. “Not as long you recall that she is heartless.”

  “I am not a fool.”

  “No, you are a man and, from your own lips, she is a beautiful and desirable woman. A combination that has started wars and brought down empires for centuries.”

  Hart blinked at the fierce words. It was distinctly out of character for a gentleman who rarely troubled himself over anything.

  “Do you not think that you are being somewhat melodramatic?”

  Thorpe at least possessed the grace to smile with a wry humor. “Perhaps, but I did gain your attention.” Stepping forward, he reached out to grasp Hart’s shoulder. “Listen to me—I recall the last occasion you tumbled for pretty blue eyes, and while I thoroughly approve of you discovering a sweet, proper maiden to offer you the necessary heirs, I do not desire to witness you wallowing in black grief once again.”

  Hart grimaced, well aware he would have never made it through that ghastly betrayal without Thorpe’s incessant refusal to leave him to his misery. He surely owed his cousin the assurance that he was not once again to play the fool.

  “You have made your point,” he said softly.

  Thorpe regarded him steadily. “As difficult as it might be to believe, I do care for you, cousin. I want only what is best.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.” Thorpe abruptly slapped him on the back, nearly toppling Hart onto his face. “Then what do you say to the notion of toddling ourselves off to the club and drinking until we are both too bosky to stand?”

  * * *

  After nearly two hours of tossing and turning in her bed, Molly at last gave up all pretense. Blast. It was obvious that she was not about to tumble off to sleep any time soon. In truth, she was accomplishing nothing more than rubbing her skin raw upon the linen sheets. Surely, she would be just as comfortable pacing the floor as continuing her futile bid for rest?

  Rising she reached for a light robe to cover her night rail and without bothering with a candle, she slipped through the silent house. She had no particular destination in mind, but somehow her feet carried her through the darkened halls and out the French windows to the back garden.

  Perhaps it was the soft scent of roses that called to her, she mused. Or the beauty of the silver-drenched paths. Such things reminded her forcibly of her beloved home. A home that seemed so far away at the moment.

  Whatever the reason, she discovered herself drifting farther into the shadows as if she could somehow lose herself in the dark peace that surrounded her.

  A hopeless task, she slowly discovered. With a grimace, she at last paused beside the ivy covered gate that led to the mews. Even alone in the isolated garden, she could feel an odd tension clenching her stomach and a tingle of awareness steal across her skin. She could even smell the tantalizing scent of male cologne.

  Damn, Hart.

  How could he cause her such unease when he wasn’t even near?

  Or at least he shouldn’t be near.

  Once again catching a distinct whiff of familiar cologne, Molly stiffened as the gate was slowly pressed open and a large, male form stepped into the garden.

  Her eyes widened as she took a hasty step backward. “Good God . . . Hart.”

  Leaving the gate open, Hart briefly paused before he moved toward her, his gait less than steady. Not until he was standing far too close did he come to a halt.

  “You should not be out here,” he muttered, his voice oddly thick as he reached out to touch one of her golden curls.

  “What?”

  “It is very late, and all know that the night is the time for sinners. Angels should be safely tucked in their beds.”

  Pressing a hand to her racing heart, Molly allowed her gaze to sweep over the unexpected intruder. It was undoubtedly Hart. There was no mistaking the fiercely handsome countenance and muscular body. No other gentleman could claim such perfection.

  Still, there was something . . . different about him.

  It was in the manner his hair was tousled to tumble onto his wide brow and the undoubted hint of dishabille of his elegant clothes. There was an untamed rakishness about him that made a shiver of warning inch down her spine.

  “What are you doing here, Hart?” she demanded in suspicious tones.

  “The truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “I do not know.” A self-derisive smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I should be with Thorpe enjoying a night of revelry. That was my plans, after all. But it did not seem to matter how much wine I consumed, or how many hands of cards I might win, I could not keep myself away.” His fingers drifted to her pale cheek. “Perhaps you are not an angel at all, but rather a siren that calls to me.”

  Her breath quickened at the dark, husky tones. Oh heavens. She had thought his smooth seduction skills were dangerous. But tonight he was not the practiced rake. He was pure male predator.

  “I think perhaps you are a bit foxed,” she retorted.

  “More than a bit,” he agreed.

  “You should go to your home.”

  His smile twisted as his fingers softly brushed her lips. “Home? What home?”

  She frowned. “You do not recall where you reside?”

  “Oh, I recall that I have grand estates and elegant townhouses and even magnificent hunting lodges that strike envy in the hearts of my friends. And I could no doubt locate them blindfolded if need be. But what home do I have?”

  Molly stilled as she regarded the countenance that appeared unexpectedly vulnerable in the soft silver light.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you were right,” he husked. “I have no one. No close family. No one I truly trust. And there are times when I rattle about in those vast houses and feel as if I am a stranger there.”

  Unwelcome tenderness rushed through Molly at his unwitting confession. Blast it all. She did not want to feel sorry for this gentleman. Not when she was so very close to saving her brother from his horrid fate.

  “Hart, you are not at all yourself this evening,” she murmured softly. “I think it best you leave.”

  He did not even seem to hear her words as his gaze drifted over her upturned countenance. “What of you, Molly? Do you have some place to call home? Some place where you know you belong?”

  Her breath caught as her heart twisted with a sudden ache of loss. “I did.”

  “But not now?”

  “No.” She swallowed heavily. “Not now.”

  “A lost angel, is that what you are, Molly?” he whispered in distracted tones, his thoughts seemingly consumed by the manner his fingers continued to caress her lips. “Or are you a temptress sent to deceive and torment?”

  Deceive and torment? Her? He was the one sneaking into private gardens and making her shiver with his warm touch. He was the one who made sleep impossible and plagued her with thoughts better left unthought.

  Botheration. He was an utter devil.

  “Hart, it is very late,” she managed to rasp, unnerved by the sensation of her lips brushing his gentle fingertips.

  “And yet here you are, roaming through the darkness,” he murmured. “Tell me why, angel. What haunts your dreams?”

  “Nothing.”

  He offered a click of his tongue. “Oh no. You would be nicely tucked in your bed if something did not trouble you. Innocents are allowed to
sleep the sleep of the just. It is the wicked who seek the night.”

  He struck far too close to the truth and Molly stiffened with a flare of guilt. “If that is true then you must be wicked as well.”

  “But, of course.” His lips twitched. “I have never claimed to be a saint.”

  “A wise choice since no one would ever believe it of you.”

  “No doubt. Still, it has never bothered me. Being a saint must be a tedious business.” His gaze drifted over her countenance, lingering a long moment upon her lips. “’Tis far more pleasant to seduce beautiful maidens in the garden.”

  “Indeed? And I suppose you have seduced any number in the garden?” she demanded in tones far more sharp than she had intended.

  Expecting a flippant retort Molly was caught off guard when his features seemed to become gaunt in the silver shadows. As if he were harried beyond bearing.

  “Not for longer than I care to admit,” he muttered. “I have not even thought of another woman. Not since I have been plagued and haunted by a lavender-scented angel. God, but you torment me.”

  A swift, perilous heat rushed through Molly as his eyes darkened with unmistakable intent. Oh lord. He was going to kiss her. And worse, she could already feel her body swaying toward his welcome heat.

  “Hart, you should not be here,” she forced herself to say. “You must leave.”

  The male fingers abruptly shifted to cup her chin and lift her countenance to his smoldering gaze. “Is that what you want, Molly? To be alone in the moonlight?”

  No, it wasn’t what she wanted, blast it all. She had been alone for so terribly long. And to be held in warm, strong arms for even a few moments was a temptation that was making her ache.

  “Hart . . . please. Go.”

  He sucked in a deep breath as his head lowered until his forehead rested against her own. “Very well. I will go, but we both know that I will return.” He gave a low rasping laugh. “I cannot seem to help myself. Until then . . .” His lips trailed sweetly over her cheek. “Sleep well, my angel.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I do not like this, Molly.” Clasping her hands together Georgie paced back and forth through the back parlor. With every turn, she deliberately glanced at the silent Molly seated upon a brocade sofa as if to ensure that her stern lecture was not falling upon deaf ears. “It was horrid enough when Lord Woodhart was stomping about and breathing threats. But for him to now insist that he is prepared to go through with the wedding . . . well, it simply does not bear contemplating.”