The Wedding Clause

by Alexandra Ivy

  Molly heaved an inward sigh. Why had she not simply stayed in her chambers as she had been wont to do? Goodness knew that after yet another sleepless night plagued by thoughts of a tall, deliciously dark gentleman she could have used the rest. And as an unexpected windfall, she could have entirely missed this unwelcome sermon upon the dangers of her chosen path.

  Unfortunately, she knew Georgie all too well. If she sensed even a hint that Molly was attempting to avoid her, she would have harangued and bothered her until she knew every sordid detail. And the last thing she wanted was her friend discovering that Hart had been skulking in the gardens last night.

  Gads, she was nearly livid at the mere thought that Molly had taken an innocuous carriage ride with the man. If she knew that Molly had met him in the dark without a chaperone in sight, there was no telling what she would do.

  Her heart gave a renegade flutter before she ruthlessly squelched her absurd reaction. No. She would not dwell upon memories better left forgotten. Last night Hart had been cast to the wind. And like any sodden male he had babbled a lot of nonsense. Only a mooncalf would think being called an angel and nearly kissed in the moonlight by a foxed nobleman as thrilling.

  That was even if it hadn’t all been a part of his ruthless scheme in the first place.

  Squaring her shoulders, she returned her attention to the woman currently regarding her with an anxious frown.

  “Lord Woodhart has no intention of ever wedding me, Georgie,” she said in patient tones. “This is nothing more than his latest ploy to frighten me.”

  Dark brows arched in disbelief. “And how can you be so certain?”

  Molly smiled wryly. “Do you honestly believe he would tie himself to a scheming fortune hunter?”

  “If it keeps you from his inheritance.”

  “Nonsense.” Molly gave a humorless laugh. “He is far too proud to tarnish his name with a penniless maiden who has been forced to labor as a mere servant. Besides which, I do not doubt when Hart does finally wed it will be to a timid, biddable creature he can keep firmly upon his leash.”

  Georgie gave a slow shake of her head. “You are presuming a great deal, Molly. What if you are mistaken?”

  Molly stubbornly jutted out her chin. Georgie was becoming as ridiculous as Andrew. How could either one possibly imagine that Hart would ever lower himself to taking a wife that would be no more than an embarrassment to him? It was absurd.

  Almost as absurd as the ill-mannered pang that flared through her heart.

  “I am not mistaken,” she retorted in disgruntled tones.

  “And if you are not?”

  Molly heaved an exasperated sigh. Gads, what did she have to do? Put Hart on the rack so that he would admit he would rather be . . . what had he said . . . drawn and quartered before taking her as his bride?

  “Please, Georgie, let us not argue,” she pleaded.

  Georgie’s expression swiftly softened. “Forgive me, Molly, but I cannot help but be concerned. You can be very naive in regards to gentlemen.”

  “Fah, you have no need to remind me. No one knows better than I that I have never even had a suitor. Still, having a brother has given me some insight. I know that gentlemen enjoy tossing about orders and making a show of their masculine pride. I also know that they will do anything to protect their family and their reputation.” Molly’s expression unwittingly hardened with a hint of bitterness. “Hart would not wed me even if he did not believe I was a money grubbing tart.”

  Georgie slowly wrapped her arms about her waist as she regarded Molly with an arrested frown.

  “Molly.”

  “What?”

  “You . . .”

  Molly lifted her brows at her friend’s odd manner. “What?”

  “Lord Woodhart has not . . . turned your head, has he?”

  “Turned my head?”

  “Are you infatuated with the man?”

  A surge of crimson heat stained Molly’s cheeks even as she abruptly rose to her feet. “Why ever would you say such a thing? You must know that I detest Lord Woodhart.”

  “I also know he is charming, handsome and overly blessed with the sort of male allure that make the most sensible female a bit noddy.”

  As improbable as it might be, Molly felt her cheeks flame even hotter. Botheration. Yes, Hart was charming and obnoxiously handsome and oozing with allure. And there were moments last night when he gazed at her with such a haunted need that it made her heart leap. But . . . infatuated?

  That was impossible.

  Was it not?

  “Georgie,” she muttered in protest.

  “Do you deny you are developing feelings for Lord Woodhart?”

  “I do not even like Hart.”

  A rather grim smile touched Georgie’s lips. “Liking and wanting have nothing to do with one another. On this subject I know all too well.”

  Molly blinked in surprise at the strange words, but even as she opened her mouth to question her friend more closely the door to the parlor was thrust wide and a chamber maid entered the room with a small curtsey.

  “Beg pardon, my lady.”

  With obvious reluctance, Georgie turned to regard the servant with a hint of impatience. Clearly, her lecture was far from over.

  “What is it, Daisy?”

  Holding out her arms the maid revealed a long box tied with pretty yellow ribbon. “A package has been delivered for Miss Conwell.”

  Molly gave a start of surprise. “For me?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  With an unexplainable wariness Molly moved to take the package from the waiting servant. “Thank you.”

  “Who ever is it from?” Georgie demanded as Molly crossed to lay the package upon the sofa and struggled with the ribbon.

  “I haven’t the faintest notion.”

  “There is no note?”

  “No, I . . .” Having at last pulled the bow free Molly tipped off the lid of the box and felt the breath being squeezed from her body. “Oh.”

  With a rustle of silk, Georgie was peering over Molly’s shoulder and giving a shocked sigh of pleasure at the dozens of elegant gloves that had been revealed. And no wonder, Molly acknowledged in dazed puzzlement, her fingers reaching to lightly touch a pair of ivory kidskin gloves.

  “Good heavens, they are exquisite,” Georgie murmured.

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Who could have sent them? Andrew?”

  An unknowingly secretive smile touched Molly’s mouth as realization bloomed within her. “Hart.”

  “Lord Woodhart?” Without warning, Georgie was moving to stand before her, an expression of disapproval marring her pretty features. “Molly, I want the truth from you.”

  Startled by the sudden attack, Molly could only shake her head in bewilderment. “The truth about what?”

  “Why would he send you such a lavish gift if he is determined to be rid of you?”

  Molly shifted uneasily. “I ruined my gloves while tending to his wound. This is no doubt his absurd means of revealing his appreciation.”

  Even to her own ears the explanation sounded lame, and it was no surprise when Georgie planted her hands upon her hips in obvious disbelief.

  “Indeed?”

  “For goodness sake.” Molly hastily moved to return the lid to the box and gathered it into her arms. “’Tis nothing to make such a fuss about.”

  “Then why are you flushed?”

  “Perhaps because you have been fussing over me like a mother hen,” she retorted in exasperation. “There is nothing to concern you in regards to Lord Woodhart. I assure you that all will be well.”

  Georgie’s features only hardened in determination. “I intend to make very sure that it is.”

  Feeling oddly vulnerable and not at all inclined to be badgered further, Molly clutched the box tighter to her chest. “If you will forgive me, Georgie, I believe I shall lay down for a bit.”

  Not waiting for a response, Molly swept from the parlor. Blast Hart. Someday soo
n she would stop allowing him to unnerve her with such ease.

  Someday very, very soon.

  * * *

  Hart waited nearly a week before once again searching out Molly.

  He assured himself that he was merely allowing the vixen to stew and brood upon the dangers of her present course. It was, after all, a sound ploy. Every military man knew that to attack and then retreat without warning often undermined the courage of the opponent.

  Unfortunately, an evil voice continued to whisper in the back of his mind that his reluctance to seek out Molly had nothing to do with military strategy. Instead it had every thing to do with his stunningly ridiculous behavior in her moon-drenched garden.

  Even days later he cringed at the memory of his brandy sodden behavior. He had been an utter fool to give into his impulse to linger outside Molly’s window as if he were some sort of moonstruck schoolboy. And an even bigger fool not to flee the moment she had entered the shadowed garden.

  But with his blood heated by strong spirits and a clamoring ache to taste of her lips once again clouding his mind, he had been unable to walk away. He had to be near her no matter what the danger.

  It was not until this morning that he had at last arisen with a newfound determination. Christmas was creeping ever closer and he was still not rid of his unwelcome fiancée. It was time to remind himself of precisely why he could not allow Molly to arrive at that chapel.

  And he knew the perfect means of doing so.

  Attiring himself with care in a black coat matched with dove gray breeches and silver waistcoat, he called for his Tilbury and headed for Lady Falker’s townhouse. It was far too early for a social call, but conveniently when he pulled onto the elegant cul-de-sac he discovered Molly just entering the street.

  With a tidy flourish Hart tugged his anxious grays to a halt and gave a tip of his beaver hat.

  “Ah, excellent timing, my dear,” he murmured, refusing to allow his gaze to dwell upon the precise manner the ivory spenser hugged her slender form or how the chilled breeze tugged the jade skirts to reveal an enticing curve of her leg.

  Stiffening at his abrupt appearance the delicate angel offered a grudging curtsey rather than bolting as she so obviously desired to do.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Please, Molly, no ‘my lords’ so early in the day,” he protested.

  Rising, she forced herself to meet his amused gaze with a cool composure. Only the hint of color upon her cheeks revealed her inner apprehension. An apprehension that should have pleased Hart but instead made his chest tighten with an unexplainable regret.

  “Have you come to call?”

  Giving himself a mental shake, Hart hardened his resolve. He was here with one purpose and one purpose only. And that was to prove to himself once and for all that Molly Conwell was nothing more than a fortune hunting tart.

  “Actually I have come to collect you,” he informed her in clipped tones.

  “Collect me?”

  “You did mention the need to acquire a trousseau,” he reminded her. “We had best begin the fittings if you wish it completed before the wedding.”

  She frowned in confusion. “You wish to accompany me shopping?”

  “Well, you are not yet familiar with my preferences. How can you hope to please me if I do not help you choose your gowns?”

  The stiffness threatened to settle permanently in the slender body as she offered him a frozen glare. “It appears you have wasted a trip across town, my lord. I choose my gowns to please myself, no one else.”

  He lazily lifted his brows. “At least I should be allowed to select your night attire? There at least you will wish to please me. I possess a decided weakness for black silk and lace.”

  “Certainly not,” she snapped.

  His low chuckle drifted through the empty streets. “Why, darling, I begin to wonder if you are truly as anxious as you pretend to be my bride.”

  “Not anxious enough to attire myself as a tart.”

  “Oh, we shall see.”

  With athletic ease, Hart vaulted from the carriage and before she could even guess his intent he had spanned her tiny waist with his hands to lift her onto the padded seat he had so recently vacated. It seemed like a good, solid plan until an unmistakable jolt of awareness shot through his body at the lavender heat that briefly surrounded him. Dear God, he thought in dazed amazement, how could he possibly desire this woman with such intensity? Not just lust but a raw, primitive wish to claim her as his own.

  The force of his need was nearly enough to bring him to his knees and for a crazed moment his hands lingered as he battled the urge to pull her close and glory in her sweetness. It was Molly who hastily pulled away and scooted along the bench to put a much-needed distance between them. Muttering a low curse, Hart returned to his place and grimly gathered the reins to set the horses in motion.

  Gads, someone should take a shovel and hit him over the head. It seemed the only certain means of keeping him from reacting like a lovesick idiot whenever this woman was near.

  Allowing the silence to linger until he was certain he was once more in control of himself, Hart at last slowed the team to glance at the woman sitting in stiff annoyance at his side.

  His earlier flare of ill humor faded at the delicate profile marred by a decided grimace about the full lips. Molly was not a female to enjoy a gentleman who used such high-handed methods to achieve his goals and he did not doubt she was currently envisioning him stretched upon the rack or roasting over a fire.

  “I trust you received the gift that I sent?” he at last murmured.

  Rather surprisingly, her icy expression slowly softened and she turned to offer him a rueful smile.

  “Yes, indeed and I owe you my thanks. It was very generous of you,” she said.

  That tightness returned to his chest as he gazed into the melting brown eyes. “It was my foolishness that led to ruining your gloves. The least I could do was replace them,” he retorted, unable to keep the faint huskiness from his voice.

  “I would say you did more than simply replace them. I have never possessed such beautiful gloves. It was very thoughtful of you.”

  Hart choked back the urge to reveal just how long and painstaking the process of picking out the numerous gloves had been. That was something he would share with no one beyond his valet who had been prepared to choke him before the matter was all settled.

  “I intend to be a very thoughtful husband. As well as generous,” he retorted. “As you will soon discover.” Pulling the carriage to a halt, Hart gave a nod of his head toward the discreet dress shop just down the street. “Madame Juliet.”

  Half expecting a squeal of delight at the notion of being adorned by the most famous modiste in London, one who moreover was as rigidly snobbish as her clientele, Hart blinked in surprise when Molly rounded on him with a decided scowl.

  “This is not my dressmaker.”

  He hastily suppressed the urge to smile at the ridiculous comment. He would have to be daft to suppose Juliet was responsible for the sturdy, frustratingly modest gowns that Molly possessed.

  “She should be. She is considered the finest seamstress in all of London.”

  “No doubt she is very talented, but I prefer my own modiste.”

  Hart’s brief flare of amusement faded as he regarded her stubborn expression. What the devil was the matter with her?

  “Why?”

  There was a moment of silence before Molly grudgingly squared her shoulders. “If you must know, I cannot afford Madame Juliet.”

  “Afford?” Hart gave a startled frown. “I never presumed that you could. Naturally I will pay for your trousseau.”

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I cannot allow you to pay for my clothing.”

  Hart blinked. And then blinked again. It was a . . . a charade. It had to be. No chit would willingly turn away an entire wardrobe made by the most famous dressmaker in the country. Especially not on
e who possessed a heart blackened with greed.

  “Why ever not? Soon enough I shall be in charge of all your bills.”

  “Not my trousseau,” she insisted.

  He gave an impatient click of his tongue. “You are being absurd, Molly.”

  “Because I know my duty?”

  “Because I wish to offer you this as a gift.”

  Her chin managed to jut out even farther. “It is very generous of you, Hart, but no.”

  He clenched his hands, quite certain that this woman was simply placed upon this earth to plague him to death.

  Dammit, why was she not giddy with joy? Why was she not tumbling out of the carriage in an effort to reach the dress shop? Why was she not doing all the things that would reassure him precisely why he was behaving as a suspicious cad?

  “Surely I deserve an explanation?” he demanded tightly.

  She folded her hands in her lap as she turned to gaze down the narrow street rather than meet his smoldering eyes.

  “Just because I am a heartless fortune hunter does not mean that I cannot possess my share of pride, my lord.”

  Was that what this was? Simple pride?

  “I do not mean to offer you insult, Molly,” he said carefully. “I merely desire to please you with pretty gowns and baubles. Most women would be delighted.”

  “I believe we have already established that I am not at all like most women,” she retorted dryly. “Can we please continue down the street? My modiste possesses a small shop upon the corner.”

  His jaws snapped together. Very well. She was determined to play the role of the innocent. He would simply have to sweeten the bait.

  “Perhaps it would be best to order your wardrobe after we are wed, my dear,” he announced with a wry smile. “That way there can be no arguments as to who will pay the bills.”

  Something that might have been relief rippled over her pale features. “If you wish.”

  “Good.” He forced a smile to his lips. “Then we shall continue onward.”