Hart nearly leaped from the mattress at the outrageous words. Molly married to another? Over his dead body, he assured his clenching heart. He had not found the woman destined to be Viscountess Woodhart to lose her to another.
But even as his hands clenched upon the coverlet, he noted the covert amusement glittering in the blue eyes. It was obvious that Lord Canfield had deliberately been baiting him.
With an effort Hart conjured an aloof smile. “It was my skull that was injured, Lord Canfield, not my wits. I know what you are attempting to do.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“To prod me into making a declaration for your sister. It would certainly solve all your troubles to possess a wealthy brother-in-law.”
The amusement was abruptly banished as a stark determination hardened the handsome features.
“I would not accept a grout from you, my lord. Molly has sacrificed enough. When she weds it will only be to a gentleman who loves and respects her. As you say, she deserves no less.”
Suitably chastised, Hart could only nod his head in slow agreement. “Yes.”
Holding himself stiffly the offended lord gave a small bow. “When you are feeling well enough, my carriage will be at your disposal to return you to London. Until then please be assured you will not be bothered.”
With a sigh, Hart watched the bristling Andrew stride from the room. Well, he had managed to vent his annoyance. And to discover that Lord Canfield appeared determined to mend his ways.
Now he could only hope he hadn’t so offended the young man that he would stand in the way of Hart’s desire to win his sister’s heart.
Chapter Thirteen
Pacing the cramped parlor, Molly fretted and fumed as the shadows grew ever darker. Why the blazes had she allowed Hart to convince her to leave? Although the two had managed to pretend a civility in her presence, she would have to be blind and deaf to have missed the crackle of male belligerence that filled the chamber.
Not surprising, of course. Hart had been attacked and undeniably kidnapped, while Andrew was determined to play the role of the possessive older brother. It was inevitable that the two would desire to cross swords.
But while she had long ago learned the futility of attempting to talk sense to a man when his pride was ruffled, she desperately wished she were standing between them. How else could she be certain that neither would do something foolish?
Back and forth she paced, pausing occasionally to glare at the narrow staircase and to strain for any sound that might drift from above.
What could possibly be taking Andrew so long? It could not take more than a moment to explain that this had all been a horrible mistake and to assure Hart that he would soon be returned to London. Beyond that they could surely have little to discuss?
Her stomach was tied in knots and her head more than a little light-headed from lack of food when at last she heard the sound of footsteps descending. Rushing to the steps, she regarded her brother with a conflict of relief and annoyance.
“At last,” she chided as Andrew swept past her and headed directly to a hidden cabinet to pour himself a large measure of brandy. “What on earth were you discussing?”
Sipping the fiery spirit, Andrew turned to lean against a crumbling wall. “That is a private matter between two gentlemen.”
Her brows snapped together at his condescending tone. “Balderdash.”
“Molly.”
She folded her arms over her chest, not about to be treated as a simpleton. A matter between gentlemen . . . fah.
“I want to know what was said.”
“Why?”
“Because I wish to be assured you did not upset Lord Woodhart,” she retorted before she could fully consider her words.
Andrew cast her a searching glance over the rim of his glass. “Would it matter if I did?”
“Of course it would. It is entirely my doing that he was injured. I could not live with myself if he were to become seriously ill.”
Polishing off his drink, Andrew set aside his empty glass. “I assure you that he has suffered no more than a mild bump upon the head. Nothing that he might not have received taking a tumble from his horse, or falling down after a night of carousing. He will recover soon enough.”
Molly blinked at his offhand callousness. Good heavens, they had been party to a criminal assault upon a nobleman, followed by hauling the poor victim to this decrepit and decidedly damp cottage. Surely Andrew should reveal some regret, or even guilt for their behavior?
“You are remarkably indifferent, Andrew,” she accused.
“And you are remarkably atwitter. Especially over a gentleman that you claimed to detest mere weeks ago,” he countered in soft tones. “Could it be that your feelings have altered?”
Altered? They had undergone nothing short of an utter revelation.
Not that she was yet willing to confess as much. Not when she was still struggling with the truth of her emotional entanglement herself.
“He is . . . less detestable than I first presumed him to be,” she cautiously confessed.
For some odd reason her words made Andrew’s lips twitch with amusement. “Ah.”
“What?”
“I am not a fool, Molly.” Pushing himself from the wall, her brother stepped toward the center of the room. “’Tis obvious that you have developed an affection for Lord Woodhart.”
Molly was unprepared by the sudden pain that ripped through her heart. Or the sense of loss that clutched at her stomach. Or even the bleakness of a future stretching forward without Hart being a part of it.
Whirling about she struggled to maintain her composure.
“What does it matter?” she muttered.
“I should think it would matter a great deal,” Andrew retorted in tones of puzzlement.
“No. Lord Woodhart will soon be returning to London and I am determined to seek a new position far from the City.”
“Actually, I believe I have a position in mind for you.”
Molly turned about with a sudden frown. “Not with Cousin May?”
“Certainly not.” Andrew thankfully set her fears at rest. “But I have a sense that Lord Woodhart will not be quite so willing to simply allow you to disappear from his life.”
Although she was quite certain that her brother meant well, his words only deepened her pain. To dangle such impossible dreams beneath her nose could do nothing more than lead to ghastly disappointment.
“Nonsense. He will be delighted to see the back of me.”
Andrew offered a wry chuckle. “Oh yes, that is no doubt the reason I was just raked over the coals for having ruined your life, and nearly called upon the field of honor when I suggested you might one day wed another.”
Molly’s breath faltered. “You discussed me?”
“Indeed.” Andrew folded his arms over his chest. “I had expected a furious reprimand for having caused him injury and instead was treated to a litany of my failings toward you.”
“He is no doubt delirious from his head injury,” she muttered.
“Say what you will, the gentleman is not indifferent to you, Molly.”
Molly lifted her hands to press them against her aching temples. How tempting it was. How glorious to believe it could all be so simple. Her and Hart together for eternity.
But if the past few years had taught her anything, it was that nothing could ever be simple.
“And what if he is not?” she said starkly, refusing to recall the tenderness of his touch or the strength of his arms when they encircled her. Such thoughts would only lead to madness. “He will still return to London to have his pick of the ton and I shall still be a penniless spinster with nothing to offer.”
Andrew stiffened in outrage. “Do not say that.”
“Why not? It is the truth.”
“No, it is not,” he gritted. “Penniless you may be, but you possess far more than any giggling debutante.”
She forced a stiff smile to her lips. “If you say
maturity, I shall box your ears.”
“There is nothing shameful in maturity.”
“Andrew,” she warned.
His expression ruefully softened. “Be at ease, Molly. I was about to say that unlike too many maidens you are sensible, absurdly courageous and blessed with a generous heart. All the things a gentleman desires in a wife.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. Only a devoted brother could spout such foolishness.
“Fah. What a gentleman desires is beauty, a spotless reputation and a large dowry. Precisely the things I shall never be able to offer.”
Taking a step forward, Andrew gave a shake of his head. “For such an intelligent female you can be remarkably stupid.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that Lord Woodhart has had every proper, beautiful, wealthy debutante in London tossed at his feet and all know that he has never so much as given them a glance.”
“That is because . . .” Molly broke off her words, realizing that she could not betray Hart’s secret past. “Believe me there were reasons.”
The golden brows lifted in curiosity. “Such as not discovering the woman of his heart until now?”
“Andrew,” she said in sad tones.
About to respond her brother slowly stilled his head turning toward the door. “What was that?”
“I heard nothing.”
Ignoring her assurances Andrew slipped toward the window, his smooth movements revealing his hard-earned skill no doubt learned during his months as a smuggler. For all his skill, however, he had barely managed to crack open the shutter when the door flew open and a large, obviously angry man charged directly toward him.
“Andrew,” Molly cried, rushing toward the intruder even as he grabbed Andrew by the lapels of his jacket.
“Where is he?” the man demanded, giving Andrew a violent shake. “What have you done to my cousin?”
Determined to rescue her brother from the crazed attacker, Molly discovered her steps faltering as she belatedly recognized the raven hair and fiercely elegant countenance.
Lord Thorpe.
A Lord Thorpe who was clearly aware that Hart was in their care and not a bit pleased about it.
But how could he know? How could anyone know?
The answer to her dazed questions came hurtling through the door a moment later as Georgie rushed into the cabin and with a squeal of anger launched herself directly onto the back of Lord Thorpe.
* * *
Hart was standing before the mirror fussing with his cravat and ensuring his hair lay smoothly when he heard the noise from below. At first he ignored the vague sounds, ridiculously intent on ensuring he appeared his best before seeking out Molly. But when the decidedly feminine scream echoed through the air, he forgot everything but dashing out the door and down the steps.
The sight that greeted him might have been straight out of a French farce.
Molly stood alone in the center of the room, safe thank God, but near the window Lord Canfield was being held off the floor by a belligerent Lord Thorpe while Lady Falker beat upon his back with tiny fists.
Decidedly startled by the spectacle, Hart halted at the bottom of the stairs. In truth he was not certain whether to rush into the fray or simply laugh at the absurdity of it all.
“Thorpe, what the devil are you doing?” he demanded in a voice loud enough to carry over the chaos.
The tableau briefly froze before every gaze in the room swung in his direction. Thorpe’s eyes widened as he dumped his captive onto the floor.
“Hart. Thank God. Are you harmed?”
Hart grimaced with a hint of embarrassment. It was not pleasant to admit he had been taken off guard by a common ruffian. His highly paid fencing instructor, along with Gentleman Jackson would be heartily ashamed of him.
“Nothing beyond a thick skull and wounded pride,” he admitted. “What are you doing here?”
Thorpe flashed him a jaundiced glare. “Obviously, I am attempting to rescue you.”
“Ah, and are you succeeding?”
“Blister you, Hart,” his cousin growled, turning about to grasp Lady Falker who continued to hit him wildly and shove her into Andrew’s startled arms. “Here, do something with this vixen,” he demanded, before moving forward to regard Hart with a frown. “Have you or have you not been kidnapped?”
Hart gave a lift of his hands. “I have been assured that it is all no more than a misunderstanding.”
“Being held captive in this cottage is a misunderstanding?” Thorpe growled. “Either you have lost what little remained of your senses, or you are delirious.”
Belatedly noting the haggard expression that spoke of his cousin’s deep concern, Hart swiftly moved forward and placed his hand upon Thorpe’s shoulder. “Forgive me for my levity. Why do we not step outside and I will attempt to explain?”
“You can explain this madness?”
Hart smiled ruefully as he steered his relative toward the still open door. “I did say I would attempt an explanation.”
* * *
Molly watched Hart leave the cottage with a sense of doom.
Oh, she did not believe he would use the excuse to speak with his cousin to launch an escape. He must know she would never allow him to be held here against his will.
But while he might return long enough to take his leave, she was well aware that within moments he would be preparing to return to London. Preparing to leave her life forever.
Casting a glance toward Andrew who appeared remarkably satisfied to have Georgie in his arms as he softly comforted her, Molly slipped from the parlor and entered the small kitchen to put a kettle on to boil. Under normal circumstances she might have been very curious at the seeming accord between Georgie and Andrew. They had after all been at each other’s throats for long enough. She would also have a few stern questions for her friend. Such as why Georgie had sent her to the stables just when Andrew was waiting to whisk her from London, and how she had known to bring Lord Thorpe to the cottage to discover Hart.
These were not normal circumstances, however, and while she might half-heartedly contemplate the strange events of the day, and the vast amount of meddling that had occurred, her thoughts refused to remain focused.
Instead her mind was filled with images of Hart.
Hart as he had so lovingly tended to his grandmother. Hart risking his neck to rescue his frightened monkey. Hart brushing his fingers over her cheek as he gazed at her with smoldering desire.
Every moment in his company seemed engraved upon her heart. Even after she had sipped her tea and forced herself to eat a slice of cold ham, she continued to brood upon all that she was about to lose.
At last annoyed with her uncharacteristic bout of self-pity, she forced herself to rise and retrieve an old shawl hanging in the corner. Quietly, she let herself out of the cottage by the back door. She had been cooped up in the cottage for hours as she had fretted over Hart and a breath of fresh air seemed far preferable to continuing her futile brooding.
She had always been the sort to confront whatever troubles came her way, and to do so without wasting her emotions on regret. Now more than ever she needed that inner strength. There were too many decisions to be made for the future to dwell upon the past.
Barely aware of the icy breeze, she stepped upon the narrow path that led toward the nearby river. She was not, however, so lost in thought that she did not hear the sound of approaching footsteps.
Whirling about she recognized the tantalizing form of Hart a mere moment before he audaciously scooped her off her feet and continued down the path.
Molly’s heart lodged in her throat, not only in surprise by Hart’s strange behavior, but by the fierce pleasure that raced through her blood at the warm strength of his arms.
“Hart, whatever are you doing?” she forced herself to protest despite the deep knowledge she was precisely where she desired to be.
His wicked smile flashed in the silver shadows. “I shou
ld think that was obvious. You kidnapped me, now I am returning the favor.”
“But your head,” she fretted.
“Indeed. It is still quite tender so I must insist that you not struggle.”
Despite her confusion of emotions, his words brought a militant glitter to her eyes. She had been independent far too long to be commanded by anyone.
“Insist?”
His low chuckle echoed through the silent night. “Perhaps a poor choice of words.”
Her heart clenched at the sound of his laughter. It was yet one more thing she would miss.
“Hart, you really must put me down,” she said in husky tones. “Andrew . . .”
“Your brother seems to be suitably occupied at the moment.”
Something in his tone made her eyes widen. “Good heavens, he is not fighting with Lord Thorpe, is he?”
“Actually, my cousin is currently on his way back to London after warning me that he has utterly washed his hands of the lot of us,” he said wryly. “And your brother is quite devotedly attempting to calm the ruffled nerves of Lady Falker. Which leaves the two of us blessedly unchaperoned for the moment.”
Any chill she might have felt from the frosty air was banished as her blood heated with a forbidden excitement.
Unchaperoned. A romantic moon overhead. Masculine arms carrying her through the dark. Anything could happen.
Oh, she was wicked. Very, very wicked to hope that he would use their moments alone to steal a kiss.
“Where are you taking me?” she at last managed to demand.
“Just far enough from the cottage to ensure a measure of privacy.”
“Why?”
His expression became somber as he met her searching gaze. “Because it is long past time that we put a halt to our foolish games and discuss what has occurred between us.”
That was not at all the response she had been expecting and Molly stiffened in alarm.
No. She did not want to discuss their inevitable parting. Not when it was still so painful.
“I do not think that is at all wise, Hart,” she muttered.
“Actually, I believe it might be the first wise thing either of us have done,” he retorted sternly, halting next to a large oak tree and slowly setting her back on her feet. Resting his hands upon her shoulders, he regarded her with obvious determination. “Now, we are going to talk.”
The Wedding Clause Page 16