The Wedding Clause

by Alexandra Ivy

  Pressing onward, Molly kept her head lowered as she passed through the gate and toward the stables. She had managed to take half a dozen steps before she heard a rustle behind her and then without warning a pair of ruthless arms wrapped about her.

  Her scream ripped through the air until a thick hand clapped over her mouth and muffled her cry for help. At the same moment she was lifted from her feet and smoothly hauled toward the black carriage she had ridiculously failed to notice.

  Consumed by a wave of fear and more than a hint of anger, Molly struggled against the firm grip. A futile gesture, of course. Her attacker was not only large, but possessed the sort of bulging muscles that could easily squash her.

  Who the devil could be responsible for such an outlandish kidnapping?

  She had no money to offer. She was not even wearing jewels that might have tempted a desperate criminal.

  Blithely ignoring her desperate kicks and attempts to sink her teeth into the beefy fingers, her captor relentlessly carried her forward, only pausing when he reached the side of the carriage. There was a moment’s pause before the door was pushed open from within and she was being bundled into the shadows of the vehicle.

  Landing upon the padded bench, Molly shakily brushed back the curls that had tumbled into her eyes and regarded the male form seated across from her. With the windows covered it was difficult to make out more than a vague outline, but even as she shuddered in fear the man leaned forward and her breath caught in disbelieving shock.

  “Andrew . . .” She pressed a hand to her racing heart. “Dear God, you nearly scared me out of my wits.”

  “I am sorry, Molly,” her brother retorted although there appeared to be a startling lack of contrition upon his shadowed countenance. “But I preferred to handle the situation without any tedious wrangling.”

  More than a bit disgruntled by her rough treatment and the fright she had been given, Molly flounced back in her seat. She would have further to say on her brother’s wretched behavior, but for now she was more concerned with why he would risk exposure to come and see her.

  “What situation? What has occurred?”

  His brows drew together as he regarded her with a stern expression. “You know quite well what has occurred. I warned you to have nothing to do with Lord Woodhart, but you chose to flaunt my commands.”

  Molly gave a small jerk of surprise, certainly not expecting this. “How did you discover . . .”

  “Does it matter?” Andrew interrupted.

  “As a matter of fact it does.” Molly frowned peevishly. For a woman who had been left to fend for herself over the past two years, she was forced to endure a great deal of interference from arrogant gentlemen lately. “I am becoming weary of others somehow knowing my private concerns.”

  “Perhaps others would stay out of your private concerns if you possessed enough sense to stay out of trouble.”

  The sheer injustice of the charge made Molly’s jaw drop.

  “You are hardly in the position to lecture me, Andrew Conwell,” she snapped in annoyance.

  His expression hardened. “It is precisely because I have made such a muck of my life that I do dare. I will not allow you to sacrifice your future on this dangerous scheme.”

  “You will not allow?”

  The blue gaze swept over her stiff features before his expression softened an he reached out to gently grasp her hand.

  “Molly, I do not have much left, but I do have my pride. How do you think it makes me feel to know you are risking everything because of my own stupidity? That because I cannot solve my own problems you are constantly forced to sacrifice yourself?”

  Her bristling anger disappeared as swiftly as dew beneath a morning sun. Biting her bottom lip, she battled back the unexpected threat of tears.

  Gads, how difficult and confusing this all was.

  All she had ever wanted to do was help.

  Instead she had only seemed to cause pain and distress for all involved.

  “Actually, you need not have risked coming to London, Andrew,” she said softly. “I have already begun to have second thoughts.”

  Expecting him to pleased, or at least relieved, Molly was caught off guard when her brother merely gave a slow shake of his head.

  “I wish I could believe you, Molly.”

  “What?”

  He met her gaze steadily. “You have lied to me before concerning Lord Woodhart.”

  A flare of heat touched her cheeks at the accusation. An accusation that scraped dangerously close to the truth.

  “I did not lie,” she attempted to hedge. “I . . . simply did not confess my intentions.”

  Not surprisingly, Andrew appeared spectacularly unimpressed with her logic. A typical male. He could twist the truth any way he desired, but heaven help her if she attempted to skirt it a tad. Well, perhaps she had skirted it more than a tad, she had to concede. Maybe it was more like a wide, gaping berth.

  Still, her heart had been in the right place. Hadn’t it?

  “You know quite well that you led me to believe you would not pursue your reckless plan.”

  “Perhaps,” she grudgingly conceded. “But I assure you that on this occasion that . . .” Molly broke off her words as the carriage suddenly swayed as if it were being pushed from the side, followed by the distinct sound of a scuffle just outside. “What was that?”

  Andrew snapped his brows together as he reached for the door. “I haven’t the least notion.”

  His hand had barely reached the handle when the door was thrust open from without and a familiar dark-haired lord was visible in the sudden flood of sunlight.

  “Hart?” Molly breathed in disbelief.

  Half leaning into the carriage, Hart reached out a hand toward her. “Dear God, Molly, are you harmed?”

  “No, of course not. What are you doing here?”

  His dark gaze sliced toward the silent Andrew with an icy threat. “I saw you being forced into this carriage and I . . .”

  With attention directed upon her brother, Hart did not notice the burly gentleman that slid behind him holding a large cudgel above his head. Not even when it came whizzing through the air and landed directly across the base of his neck.

  “Caleb, no,” shouted Andrew a second too late as Hart slumped forward to land at Molly’s feet.

  “Hart.” With her heart lodged in her throat, Molly slipped off her seat to kneel next to Hart’s unconscious form. Then with tender care, she ran her fingers through his thick hair to discover the bump already swelling. Glancing up at her brother, she glared at him with a tide of fury. “My God, what have you done?”

  * * *

  There was a decided lump in the pit of Georgie’s stomach as she restlessly paced the floor of her parlor. Well, perhaps not so much a lump, she decided. It was more like a heavy chunk of granite that was making her feel more than a bit ill.

  Had she made a mistake in sending for Andrew?

  It had seemed utterly necessary last evening when she had seen Molly so distraught.

  As a woman who had suffered the pangs of a broken heart, she knew the signs of impending doom when she witnessed them.

  The barely suppressed tears. The overwrought nerves. The desire to flee from the pain and hide herself from the world.

  Whatever happened between Molly and Lord Woodhart had nothing to do with money or pride or even fear, and everything to do with wounded feelings.

  Still, now that she had deceived Molly and set her off to Andrew’s carriage that would whisk her away from London and Lord Woodhart, Georgie could not help but worry.

  Molly was bound to be furious. She was so determined to save her brother that she had willingly blinded herself to the dangers that swirled about her. Dangers she could never have foreseen and was far too naive to protect herself from. And she would no doubt hold Georgie to blame for bringing an end to her ridiculous scheme.

  Would Molly ever forgive her? Would she ever understand that Georgie had only wanted to do what
was best for her?

  The bothersome unease plagued Georgie throughout the long day, and foregoing the numerous invitations that might have tempted her to leave behind the vast, empty house, she continued her futile pacing as the hours passed.

  How many hours she did not realize until the door was pressed open and for the first time she noted the thick shadows that filled the parlor. Expecting one of the maids come to light the candelabras, Georgie slowed her steps to a halt as her butler stepped into the room and offered a bow.

  “My lady, forgive me for intruding but a Lord Thorpe is below and demanding to speak with you.”

  “Lord Thorpe?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Georgie’s brows snapped together in surprise. She, of course, was vaguely acquainted with the handsome, devilishly charming son of the Duke of Harmond. What female with red blood in her veins was not? Despite her preference for golden-haired rapscallions, not even she was utterly immune to his wicked beauty and more than once his flashing smile had made her heart give a small jolt.

  But tonight it was his close relationship to Lord Woodhart that made her heart give a small jolt, and not in a pleasant manner.

  “Did he say what he desired?” she demanded of her disapproving servant.

  “No, ma’am.” Malroy offered a faint sniff. “Although I must say he appeared quite agitated.”

  Dear Lord, this was the last thing that she needed.

  “Please tell him that I am indisposed.”

  “That is unfortunate, Lady Falker, because I do not intend to be brushed aside,” a male voice drawled as Lord Thorpe thrust his way past the bristling butler and regarded her with an icy glare.

  Instantly alarmed by the dark cloud of danger that swirled about the looming gentleman, Georgie took a hasty step backward.

  “How dare you simply barge your way into my home?”

  His smile could have frozen the Thames at the height of July. “Oh, I will dare a great deal as you will soon discover.”

  Was the man foxed? Or worse, unhinged?

  “Malroy, call for the Watch,” she commanded, never allowing her gaze to waver from the very large, very angry intruder.

  Expecting at least some distress at the thought of being carted off by the authorities, Georgie was caught off guard when his smile merely widened.

  “Please do.”

  “What?”

  “I am quite certain that they will be very interested in the mysterious disappearance of Lord Woodhart.”

  Well, at least she now knew his trouble. He was indeed unhinged. Utterly and completely looby.

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “Do not play the innocent with me,” he growled.

  “I am not playing at anything.” She planted her hands upon her hips. “I have not seen Lord Woodhart since the last evening. And I most certainly have no knowledge of his disappearance, mysterious or otherwise.”

  “That might be more convincing, my lady, if I did not know for a fact that Hart came here this morning.”

  “Here? That is absurd. Why would he come here?”

  The dark eyes narrowed in obvious anger. “To investigate a carriage that was hiding in your mews. He never returned.”

  Georgie nearly stumbled to her knees, her mind whirling the unmistakable beginnings of panic.

  How the devil would Lord Woodhart ever have known of the carriage? Not even her own servants had been aware of its presence. And worse, what had occurred when he had stumbled across Andrew?

  “A . . . carriage? In my mews?”

  The nobleman was not at all amused by her futile attempt to gain much-needed time to think.

  “As you well know,” he snapped, taking a deliberate step forward. “Tell me, was it a deliberate trap or did you merely take advantage of the fortuitous situation?”

  She swallowed heavily. What could she say? She had no notion what might have occurred if Lord Woodhart had indeed discovered Andrew in the mews.

  Oh, Andrew would never harm the gentleman. At least not deliberately. He had never been violent whether rake or smuggler. But if there had been a tussle, or if Lord Woodhart had threatened Molly in some manner . . . well, who could say what mischief might have happened?

  “You have taken leave of your senses,” she at last attempted to bluster, just wanting to be rid of Lord Thorpe so that she could contact Andrew and discover the truth of what occurred in her mews. “Why would I desire to trap Lord Woodhart?”

  The gentleman’s features hardened with visible disdain. “Miss Conwell appears remarkably eager to become Viscountess Woodhart. I would put nothing beyond her, or you, in an effort to achieve such an ambitious goal. Including kidnapping.”

  Georgie stiffened in anger. She would endure many things. Slights, petty offenses, unwelcomed advances and ill-concealed jealousies. As a woman on her own in London such things were inevitable. But never would she endure an insult to her dear, beloved friend.

  “That is quite enough, sir,” she retorted in icy tones. “I will not endure your vile accusations. I want you to leave my home.”

  The dark brows arched in an impervious motion that clearly spoke of his ducal ancestry. “If I do walk out that door, Lady Falker, it will be to go to Carlton House. Hart is quite a favorite with the Prince and I assure you they will leave no stone unturned in an effort to discover his whereabouts.” There was a strategic pause as he stabbed her with a fierce glare. “Beginning with that mysterious carriage.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Are you attempting to threaten me?”

  “Absolutely,” he retorted without apology. “Now, do you tell me what I wish to know or do I fetch the Prince?”

  For a moment Georgie considered daring him to do his worse. After all, there was no means to prove that a stray carriage near a public alley had anything to do with her, or the disappearance of Lord Woodhart. But thankfully common sense came to her rescue.

  How could she risk such an investigation?

  Regardless whether Andrew was connected to Lord Woodhart’s disappearance or not he was still living the life of a criminal.

  Dear God, if it should become known that he was a smuggler, not even his powerful position could save him from ruin.

  Or Molly.

  Squaring her shoulders, Georgie sucked in a deep breath and glanced toward the servant who still hovered protectively in the background.

  “Malroy, please close the door.”

  Chapter Twelve

  He had died.

  And worse, he had gone to hell just as so many had predicted he would.

  What else could explain the infernal pain shooting through his head?

  Certainly no amount of brandy or endless nights of dissipation had ever created such a dull throbbing. Not even after one particular night when he had foolishly allowed an acquaintance to lure him to a cheap gin house that had served the worse rotgut known to mankind.

  Of course, there was something odd about this hell of his, he groggily acknowledged.

  Not only did he seem to be lying upon a soft feather mattress, but the hand of an angel was gently stroking his forehead in a soothing motion. An angel that smelled of lavender.

  Lavender?

  He struggled to wade his way through the clinging darkness. There was only one angel who possessed the scent of lavender.

  “Molly?” he muttered.

  “Hart?” Warm, sweet breath brushed Hart’s cheek. “Can you hear me?”

  Wrenching open his heavy lids, Hart regarded the woman hovering above him. It was his beautiful angel, just as he had suspected. But there was something wrong.

  He took a long dizzying moment to pinpoint the trouble.

  Her eyes were not flashing with anger and her lips were not tight with displeasure.

  Instead there was a soft vulnerability to her expression and a darkness to her eyes that spoke of concern.

  Instinctively he attempted to lift himself upward to reassure her that all was well only to fall ba
ck onto the pillows with a rasping groan.

  “Bloody hell.”

  The soft hand returned to his forehead as Molly shifted closer to his reclined form. “No, you must not move,” she commanded.

  Hart smiled wryly. Her warning was astonishingly unnecessary. He could not move if his life depended upon it.

  And in truth he had lost all desire to. Not only did her sweet touch offer a soothing relief to the pain, but she had shifted upon the mattress until her hip pressed firmly into his thigh. A most tantalizing sensation he was not eager to come to an end.

  Still, for all his pleasure in Molly’s presence, he could not ignore the fact that he was lying in an unfamiliar room with an aching skull. He might be a blind fool when it came to this woman, but he was not an utter idiot.

  “Where am I?” he demanded.

  There was a brief pause before she reluctantly met his searching gaze. “At a cottage just outside of London.”

  Hart frowned. Well. He had not expected that.

  “Was there an accident?”

  “No.” Her hand shifted to his cheek, threatening to undo his concentration completely. “You were hit over the head outside of Lady Falker’s townhouse. Do you not recall?”

  It was a struggle, but slowly the memories began to return. His valet’s warnings of a strange carriage, his hurried flight to investigate the potential threat and his disbelieving horror when he had witnessed Molly being so roughly abducted.

  Gads, his heart had refused to beat as he had rushed down the narrow alley. He had been terrified that the carriage would take off before he could reach Molly, which perhaps explained his shameful lack of caution when he had managed to wrench open the door and discovered that she was seemingly unharmed.

  Blast it all. He had allowed himself to be taken from behind, now he could only pray that his stupidity hadn’t landed both himself and Molly in some sort of danger.