The Wedding Clause

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Onward to where?”

  “Naturally we must choose a ring for our engagement. My thought was a diamond, but perhaps you prefer rubies?” He reached out to lightly touch her cheek. “And of course a matching necklace and bracelet as a wedding present. I desire you to shimmer with gems as only proper for the Viscountess Woodhart.”

  He dangled temptation like the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, then waited for her to place the noose about her neck.

  And waited. And waited.

  At long last, she licked her lips and glanced uneasily over her shoulder. “Actually I think it best that I return to Lady Falker’s.”

  “Return? Why?”

  “I . . . I just recalled that I promised to accompany her to visit Mrs. Summerfield.”

  With a motion that was perilously close to petulant, Hart tossed himself back into the pads of the carriage and glared at his beautiful companion. Well, that was that. He had played his trump card and still the minx refused to reveal her true self.

  Either she was the most proficient actress in the world. Or . . . or what? She wasn’t a fortune hunter out to steal his inheritance? Despite all evidence to the contrary?

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered as his head began to ache.

  She regarded him in surprise at his less than gentlemanly language. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You truly are the most maddening of females.”

  “Well.” Her lips thinned in annoyance. “Is that not rather like the pot calling the kettle black? I will have you know that you are quite maddening yourself.”

  His gaze skimmed her pale, angelic features, lingering a long moment upon the satin temptation of her mouth. “I will know you, Molly,” he swore in low tones. “Before all this is said and done, I will know the very depths of your heart.”

  There was no mistaking the guarded expression that abruptly shuttered her countenance. “I . . . think we should be on our way.”

  She was hiding something. There could be no doubt about that.

  The question was, what.

  Chapter Nine

  At precisely midnight, Georgie slipped from the house and made her way through the garden. More than once she paused to hide in the shadows and ensure that there were no servants lurking about to notice her peculiar behavior. She even scrambled behind a bush when she heard the distant call of the Watch.

  It was only when she was certain her passage had gone unnoted that she at last let herself through the mews and entered the shadowed stables.

  She was being ridiculous, of course. There was no need to act as if she were a thief slipping about her own property. After all, if she decided to visit her stables in the midst of the night it was certainly her right. And to creep about in such a covert manner was bound to create far more suspicion than simply marching through the mews with her head held high.

  Unfortunately, she possessed a stunning history of acting the fool. At least when it came to Andrew Conwell, Lord Canfield.

  Grimly hiding herself beside the door, Georgie peered into the dark alley.

  She had not desired to send her servant to that horrid hovel that Andrew secretly called home. And she certainly had not desired to request that he meet with her in private. Not when they could barely be in each other’s presence without that prickling urge to come to blows.

  Or kisses . . .

  A shiver raced over her skin as she wrapped her arms about her waist. No. She would not allow such dangerous thoughts to even enter her mind.

  She had requested Andrew to meet with her for precisely one purpose.

  Molly.

  There was simply no one else she could depend upon. Despite her best efforts, she had been unable to convince her naive and reckless young friend of her folly. No one dared to cross Lord Woodhart. No one with any sense at least. And now with the added concern that Molly was becoming increasingly fascinated with the wicked gentleman she knew she had to take more drastic measures.

  Surely Molly would listen to reason from the older brother that she adored?

  “Ah, Georgie. As beautiful as ever.” A soft, honey voice whispered from behind.

  Already on edge, Georgie nearly leapt from her skin as she whirled about to confront the gentleman leaning negligently against a nearby stall.

  In the gloom of the stables it was nearly impossible to make out more than a hard, lean form that was decidedly male. Georgie, however, had no trouble placing her guest. It was in the manner her skin abruptly tingled with goose bumps and in the erratic beat of her heart.

  Who needed light to know that the gentleman’s hair was the shade of morning sunlight? Or that his features were gratingly perfect from the noble brow and slender nose to the blue eyes that shimmered with mischievous humor. Such things were engraved into her mind and haunted her dreams.

  “Andrew.” Georgie determinedly gathered her tattered composure. This encounter would be difficult enough without her nerves leaping and jumping like a drunken ballerina. “You startled me.”

  Shoving himself upright, Andrew slowly strolled to stand directly before her. A shaft of moonlight tumbled over his face to reveal his beautiful male features taut with inner emotions.

  “You did send your servant to request that I meet you here this evening, did you not?” he demanded.

  “Of course.” She smoothed her shaky hands over her skirts. “I simply expected you to appear through the alley.”

  “Over the past few years I have discovered it far safer to choose the less expected path.”

  Unwittingly, Georgie’s expression thinned with disapproval. “I suppose you have.”

  Andrew’s lips twisted as he folded his arms over his chest. “Ah, there is that rigid condemnation that always warms my heart. You cannot know how I have missed it, darling Georgie.”

  A pang shot through her heart at the bitter edge to his words. Ridiculous, of course. There was no earthly reason to blame herself for Andrew’s downfall. She had been perfectly reasonable two years before to demand that he become the sort of responsible, trustworthy gentleman she desired. What female would wed a rash, impulsive husband that might very well bring them both to ruin?

  The fact that he had taken her requests as an insult to his pride and promptly rushed off to London to wallow in his own stupidity had nothing to do with her. Indeed, it only proved she had been right to question his steadfastness.

  Unfortunately, it did not keep her from wondering what might have been. What if she had not tossed his proposal back in his face? What if he had stayed in Surrey? What if . . .

  She abruptly wrenched herself back to the present. Blast but there was no other man in all of England who could rattle her so.

  “I requested that you meet me here to discuss Molly,” she reminded him in chilled tones.

  He gave a lift of his shoulders. “Well, I did not presume that it was out of any overwhelming desire to resume our torturously ended affair.”

  She flinched despite her best intentions. “Andrew.”

  “Forgive me. It is just seeing you . . .” Breaking off his dark words, Andrew shoved his hands through his golden curls and turned to pace across the width of the door before collecting himself enough to face her. “You assured me in your note that Molly was not ill, nor injured. I must presume that she has acquired an unlikely addiction to the gaming tables or she has formed an attachment to some unworthy male.”

  Forcing herself to concentrate sternly upon her friend and not the tight knots lodged in her stomach, Georgie sucked in a deep breath.

  “Perhaps you will not be quite so flippant when you discover she is currently engaged to Lord Woodhart.”

  There was no mistaking the sharp disbelief that hardened his features. “What?”

  “She is determined to get her hands upon Lady Woodhart’s inheritance.”

  “Bloody hell. I warned her. I told her not to even consider playing such a dangerous game.”

  “She is attempting to help you,” Georgie could not resist pointing
out.

  He gave a low growl at the unnecessary reminder. “Would you like to thrust the dagger a bit deeper, Georgie? I know precisely why my sister is risking her foolish, stubborn neck. It is to save my worthless hide from the consequences of my own stupidity.”

  Georgie possessed the grace to blush. She was not by nature a spiteful person. Not even toward those who had managed to break her heart.

  “I am sorry,” she muttered in low tones. “It is only that I am concerned for Molly.”

  “As am I.” An air of purpose settled about him. “Is Lord Woodhart treating her ill? Has he threatened her?”

  “Oh, he made a few attempts to bully and frighten her, but Molly refused to be intimidated.”

  Andrew gave a short, humorless laugh. “That sounds like my Molly.”

  Georgie gave an unconscious shake of her head. “But now . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “He claims that he is perfectly prepared to have Molly as his bride.”

  A thick, disbelieving silence filled the stables before Andrew took a stiff step forward.

  “Hart desires Molly as his wife?” he rasped.

  “So he says, although Molly is certain that it is nothing but a ploy to ensure she balks. She is quite convinced he will never arrive at the chapel for the ceremony.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  Georgie was caught off guard by his abrupt demand for her opinion. Although she had been in charge of her own household and maintained a rare independence, it had been some time since a gentleman had desired to actually listen to what she had to say. Certainly Lord Falker had never cared what was upon her mind.

  Indeed, if she were perfectly honest with herself, she would acknowledge that Andrew was the only man ever to make her feel as if what she had to say mattered.

  Forced to clear the lump forming in her throat, Georgie met his concerned gaze.

  “I believe that Molly is extraordinarily naive when it comes to gentlemen such as Lord Woodhart. And even more naive when it comes to her own heart,” she confessed.

  “What do you imply?”

  “Whatever his sins Lord Woodhart is a very handsome and charming gentleman. Moreover he knows precisely the means of stirring a young lady’s emotions.”

  His brows snapped together. “You believe she is falling in love with the scoundrel?”

  Georgie recalled her friend’s blushes and fluttering confusion whenever the name of Lord Woodhart was broached. Such reactions were not those of a maiden who detested or even feared a gentleman.

  “I think it is a distinct danger.”

  Andrew gave a slow shake of his head. “No, surely not. She is too intelligent to be swayed by a handsome countenance and charming smile.”

  “Intelligence rarely has anything to do with love.”

  Andrew seemed to still in the shadows, his expression unreadable as he allowed his gaze to sweep over her stiff form.

  “I suppose that is true enough, as we know to our sorrow.”

  A hallow pang of loss wrenched at her heart. “Andrew.”

  He stepped forward, his fingers reaching out to touch her cheek before she could guess his intentions.

  “Do you have any notion of how hard it is to be with you here?” he murmured in husky tones. “To see you and speak with you and yet know you are forever beyond my reach?”

  This time her heart did not just wrench, it nearly shattered. Oh Lord, but she would give her soul to turn back the hands of time. To return to the magical days when love had been everything and the future was nothing but a rosy dream.

  An impossible, futile dream.

  “Please . . . do not,” she whispered, unable to force herself to move from his touch.

  “I almost did not come. I knew how much it would hurt to be alone with you.” His eyes darkened. “Or at least I thought I knew. Nothing could have truly prepared me.”

  Georgie’s lashes fluttered downward as she breathed deeply of his warm, male skin. “Andrew, we are here for Molly.”

  Just for a moment she half feared, half hoped that he would ignore her soft plea for sanity. Then, with a rasping sigh, his fingers were slipping from her face and he was taking a firm step backward.

  “You are right.” Scrubbing his hands over his face in a weary motion, Andrew at last lifted his head to regard her with a grimly determined expression. “Do not fear. I will ensure that Molly is not harmed.”

  Georgie resisted the urge to reach out and trace the lines of worry that marred his features.

  “Will you speak with her?”

  His lips hardened to a thin line. “I have spoken with her. And warned her. And even threatened her. I shall have to take more drastic measures.”

  She blinked in surprise at the sudden glimpse of ruthless resolve behind the boyish charm. It reminded her that this was no longer the lighthearted companion of her childhood, but a dangerous stranger who risked his life every evening.

  “What will you do?”

  “I do not yet know.”

  Against her will a surge of concern raced through Georgie. Whatever their painful history, she could not forget what they had once meant to one another.

  “You must be careful,” she warned, reaching out to lightly touch his arm.

  Golden brows lifted in obvious surprise. “I am not so far sunk that I would harm my own sister.”

  She gave an impatient click of her tongue. “I did not believe you would. I merely meant that Lord Woodhart is quite clever. If he should discover your disguise, he might very well ruin you.”

  In the dim shadows, his features slowly softened and a warm hand shifted to cover her own.

  “I will take care,” he promised softly.

  Sweet, nearly forgotten awareness raced through Georgie’s blood. A dangerous awareness she had not felt in a very long time.

  Swallowing heavily, she took an abrupt step back. “I must go.”

  “Georgie.” His hand reached out as if he would attempt to halt her, but as he encountered her wary gaze he slowly allowed his arm to drop. “Of course. Good night and good-bye, my dear.”

  With the elegance that was so much a part of him, Andrew swept her a deep bow before turning on his heel and disappearing in the darkness between the stalls.

  For long moments, Georgie stood by the door in troubled silence. She had known this meeting would be difficult. Even painful.

  What she had not expected was the bittersweet pleasure of simply being near the gentleman she still loved.

  * * *

  The modest gathering at Lady Sinclair’s should have proven to be a welcome distraction. It did, after all, have the good fortune to attract several of the more brilliant political figures and war heroes. There were even a spattering of poets and explorers among the glittering throng.

  Oddly, however, despite the intellectual conversations and charming flirtations, Molly discovered herself restless and even a tad bored.

  It had nothing to do with the fact that Lord Woodhart was not in attendance, she was swift to reassure herself. Of course it wasn’t. The man was a plague and a pest.

  It was only that her nerves were ravaged by her dangerous game. And of course, the fact that Hart was clearly attempting to drive her batty.

  Why else would he behave as a bully one day, a seductive charmer the next and then without warning a vulnerable suitor who desired nothing more than to please her?

  Worse of all he had once again disappeared, leaving her in constant dread of when he might suddenly slip up behind her and toss her world into chaos.

  Who could blame her for skulking in the shadows and counting the moments until she could politely take her leave?

  At last disgusted with herself, Molly covertly edged her way past the mingling crowd and slipped through the door to the wide terrace. Perhaps a few moments alone would allow her to thrust aside the unwelcome thoughts of her fiancé and allow her to endure the remainder of the evening with a measure of peace. If nothing else, she would be a
way from the chatter that was beginning to make her head ache.

  Avoiding the handful of couples bracing the winter breeze to enjoy a few moments alone, Molly paused beside a flickering torch. It was a reasonably isolated spot to gather her thoughts.

  Or at least it seemed reasonably isolated.

  She had barely managed to draw in a deep breath when there was the sound of approaching footsteps and a very large, very male form was hovering beside her.

  “Hair of spun gold, eyes of a Mediterranean night and the features of an angel,” a dark voice whispered near her ear. “You must be Miss Conwell.”

  With a startled jerk, Molly was spinning about to glare at the gentleman who was standing far too close for propriety. Just for the briefest of moments, she thought it was Hart and her breath caught in her throat. Then, the torch flickered and she realized that while the hard, beautiful features were very much like Hart’s there were enough subtle differences to prove that this was indeed a stranger.

  “Sir.” Conjuring her most disapproving expression, Molly took a deliberate step backward. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”

  “Ah, a tragedy that must be corrected at once,” the man drawled, offering a half bow. “I am Thorpe.”

  Her brows drew together. “Thorpe?”

  He waved an indolent hand. “Oh, I do possess a ponderous list of titles and names that are far too tedious to rattle off. Thorpe is far more . . . intimate.”

  Sensing a danger prickling in the air that she did not understand, Molly clutched her fan in a tight grip. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was the only one she possessed. And she wasn’t afraid to use it.

  “Too intimate for mere strangers, sir.”

  A hard, rather unpleasant glitter entered his midnight eyes. “But we are not strangers, my dear. At least we very soon will not be. After Christmas we will be family. Does that not just send a shiver of delight through your heart?”

  It sent a shiver of something through her heart, but she was fairly certain it was not delight.

  Swallowing heavily, she attempted to disguise her racing heart. “You are related to Lord Woodhart?”

  “Devoted, if sometimes rather testy and bloodthirsty, cousins.”