The Wedding Clause

by Alexandra Ivy

“Brandy?”

  She gave a vague shrug. “Why not?”

  “Indeed.” Pouring two glasses he turned to trace his way back to her rigid form. “Here you are.”

  “Thank you.” Molly accepted the brandy, unnervingly aware of his piercing gaze as she took a small sip.

  “I suppose you think you have been very clever, my dear?”

  She took a moment to stiffen her courage before lifting her head and slipping into the dangerous role she had cast for herself.

  “Clever? Yes, I believe that I have always been reasonably clever.”

  In the flickering candlelight, his warrior beauty was enticingly potent. Even with his rigid expression of disdain.

  “I am sure you have. Women such as you usually possess some cunning. For once, however, I fear you have met your match, my sweet Molly.”

  “You are referring to yourself, no doubt?”

  “Precisely.” Lifting his glass in a small toast, he downed the amber brandy in one swallow. “And I can assure you that whatever your ability to deceive my grandmother, you have never deceived me for a moment. I had your measure from the moment you enticed your way into this household.”

  “Bully for you, my lord,” she muttered.

  His lips curled in a humorless smile. “Which is the reason when I learned of my grandmother’s outrageous will my first inclination was to simply throttle you and be done with it.”

  Her gaze did not waver. Whatever his endless list of faults, Molly knew that he would never physically harm a woman. No matter what the provocation.

  “Well, you are nothing if not predictable, my lord. I believe you have threatened to throttle me upon any number of occasions over the past months.”

  The arrogant nose flared at her deliberate taunt. “However, with the opportunity to contemplate the distasteful situation, much against my better judgment, I have decided to be generous.”

  “Then I am not to be throttled? You cannot know the depths of my relief.”

  Just for a moment his hands curled as if he would indeed throttle her, and then with a coiled control he set aside his glass and regarded her with cold, glittering eyes.

  “I am willing to offer you one thousand pounds in return for you leaving London and promising never to trouble my family again.”

  The offer, as well as the undoubted threat in his tone was precisely what Molly had been expecting and she was able to conjure a faint smile as she nonchalantly strolled toward the ivory marble chimneypiece.

  “A thousand pounds?”

  “Far more than you deserve, but for the sake of my grandmother who possessed a rather ghastly fondness for you, I am willing to make the sacrifice.”

  “I see.”

  There was a short, tense silence during which she could feel his gaze boring into her back. “Well?” he at last gritted.

  Slowly turning, she gave a lift of her brows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What is your answer?”

  “Oh, forgive me. I did not believe that you truly expected a response to such an absurd offer.”

  His jaw knotted as he sought to contain his fury. Molly unwittingly stepped back, feeling as if the very air was pulsing with danger.

  “You are a fool if you think to cross me, Molly,” he rasped.

  She swallowed heavily. “No, I would be a fool to accept a thousand pounds when I shall soon possess thirty thousand.”

  “Never.”

  “The only means to halt me, my lord, is to wed me.” She gave a tilt of her chin. “And we both know that is as likely as Napoleon being crowned King of England.”

  His nose flared as he slowly, relentlessly prowled toward her. Despite her best intentions, Molly discovered herself abruptly backing until she was flatly pressed against the satin wall paneling. Even then he did not halt but continued until his hard form was nearly touching her own, his hands braced against the wall on either side of her head.

  “If you think to force my price up, my love, you are playing a dangerous game. My offer is more than fair.”

  Molly bit the inside of her lip as he loomed above her. Good heavens, she had never had a gentleman stand so close. At least no gentleman beyond Andrew. She should no doubt be terrified, but instead she discovered herself shivering as the oddest tingles raced through her blood.

  “No, it is an insult,” she forced herself to mutter. “Now, if that is all . . .”

  “I was mistaken, Miss Conwell.”

  Her heart skittered as his warm breath brushed her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you were clever. It is obvious you are no more than a fool.”

  Well, Molly could hardly argue with his logic. Certainly, no one but a complete fool would defy this large, decidedly furious male who could no doubt break her in two without a blink of the eye. But for all her stupidity, she could not smother the thought of Andrew in that horrid cottage, in ever present danger of being caught or killed.

  She would face Lucifer himself to rescue her brother.

  “I suppose we shall discover, my lord.” Gathering her nerve, Molly abruptly ducked beneath his arm and swiftly charged toward the nearby door before she could be halted. She had endured quite enough for one evening. “For now you must excuse me. I must have my rest if I am to begin shopping for my trousseau.”

  She heard him growl her name as she rushed out of the room and down the hall. Thankfully, however, he did not follow and she was allowed to reach the front door relatively unscathed. Still, it was not until she was in the awaiting carriage and traveling toward Georgie’s townhouse that she at last heaved a sigh of relief.

  Oh, sweet heavens. She was in the fire now.

  * * *

  “You understand what I require of you?” Hart demanded, offering the young maid the sort of quelling frown that made the stiffest of resolves falter.

  “I . . .” The awkwardly plain maiden with frizzy brown curls and protruding front teeth shifted uneasily. When Hart had first approached her in the marketplace, she had been giddily pleased to have caught the notice of such an elegant, heart-achingly handsome gentleman. Surely only in her most treasured fantasies was such a wondrous event possible? Now, she desperately wished that he had blithely ignored her, as every other gentleman was wont to do. “I suppose I do, sir.”

  Only with an effort did Hart manage to smother his burst of impatience. After nearly a week of brooding and scheming to put an end to his unwelcome engagement, he would be a fool to ruin all now. It was imperative that he win the cooperation of this maid if he were to succeed.

  “Is something troubling you?” he asked in what he hoped were soothing tones.

  The servant grimaced as she shifted the heavy basket of bread to her other arm. “Well, it ain’t hardly proper to be spying upon my lady’s guest.”

  “Spying? Nonsense. I merely request that you keep me informed of my fiancée’s various plans. She is not at all accustomed to London society and I wish to ensure that she does not make any unfortunate errors that might bring her embarrassment.” He summoned his most potent smile. “Besides which, if I am perfectly honest, I will admit that I am besotted enough to regret being away from her for even a moment. At least with your assistance I shall be able to adjust my own schedule so that I may be with her whenever possible.”

  The hapless maid blinked beneath the power of his lazy, utterly seductive smile. “Oh.”

  Hart gave a lift of his slender hand. “You no doubt consider me a romantic fool?”

  “Aye, most romantic,” she sighed.

  “Then you agree to be my partner?”

  She bit her lip in confusion. “What of Lady Falker? If she were to discover what I am about she would likely have me thrown out of the house. I cannot afford to lose me position.”

  “Do not fear,” he murmured softly. “No one shall ever know.”

  “But . . .”

  “Besides which, I intend to handsomely reward you for whatever information you might have to offer. More than enough to c
ompensate for any risk you might be taking.”

  An unmistakable glitter of greed entered the pale blue eyes, and Hart silently congratulated his devious valet who had been the one to select this maid as his most likely ally in the Falker household.

  “I suppose it would do no harm,” she slowly convinced herself.

  “Certainly not. In truth, you shall be of great assistance to Miss Conwell, even if she is not to know that you are her secret guardian angel.”

  “Me a guardian angel?” The maid gave a shrill giggle. “Lor’, what would me ma say?”

  Hart sternly kept his smile in place. “Do not forget that this . . . agreement is between the two of us. No one else must know.”

  “Oh, aye, I shall not be forgetting.”

  Knowing that he could not linger without attracting unwelcome notice, Hart offered a faint bow of his head. “Good. My valet will contact you each morning to discover what you have learned. He will also bring your reward. Is that satisfactory?”

  She gave a faint pout. “I shan’t be seeing you?”

  “No doubt we shall encounter each other upon occasion,” he murmured vaguely. “Now I must be on my way. Do not fail me.”

  “I won’t,” the maid promised, heaving a soulful sigh as Hart abruptly turned upon his heel and melted into the rather ragged crowd.

  Walking with confident strides and a steely expression that intimidated even the most desperate of pickpockets, Hart made his way through the maze of cluttered streets toward the more fashionable neighborhoods. Although the chilled November breeze tugged at his greatcoat and threatened to send his high beaver hat tumbling from his head, he felt considerably more in charity with the world than he had since his disturbing confrontation with Miss Conwell at his grandmother’s home.

  The minx thought she could steal a fortune from beneath his very nose? A fortune that rightfully belonged to him? Well, she would soon enough discover that no one bested the Viscount Woodhart. And certainly not a cold-hearted vixen who would blatantly take advantage of a confused old woman.

  Unfortunately, bribery had not swayed her. Nor did it seem she could be bullied into conceding defeat. Blast her annoying arrogance. It had taken several brandy sodden days to at last hit upon his current solution.

  Women were unpredictable, cunning creatures. But he was well aware that they all possessed one weakness. One certain weakness.

  Vanity.

  Miss Conwell might not be bribed or bullied, but with the proper amount of public humiliation she would be happy enough to accept his generous offer and disappear from society. It was as inevitable as the sun rising in the morning.

  The faintest smile touched his lips as he continued onward and at last turned the corner onto Bond Street. Then, as his gaze lazily drifted over the handful of ladies and maids that swayed along the pavement, he jerked to a sudden halt. Bloody hell. Miss Molly Conwell. Standing before an elegant millinery as bold as brass.

  Narrowing his gaze, he studied the delicate form attired in a sturdy blue gown and the rather plain chip bonnet. She should have easily been overlooked as a dowd with her pale coloring and lack of sophistication. But as always, whenever she was near, Hart discovered his gaze lingering upon the purity of her elegant profile, the determined jut of her chin and golden curls that lay like the softest satin against her porcelain skin.

  It was not that the minx fascinated him; he was always swift to reassure himself. He did not shadow her movements and covertly stare at her because her features held a sweet innocence that was a balm to a gentleman jaded by far too much experience. Or because the startling dark eyes held an intelligence that was all too rare.

  It was quite simply the irony that a maiden who possessed the appearance of an angel could harbor a heart as black as the netherworld that attracted his attention.

  And the knowledge that only a fool would turn his back on the deceitful chit. Not unless he desired a knife stuck in it.

  Yes, that was most certainly the answer, he sternly told himself, willing the odd tautness of his chest to ease and determinedly stroked his justifiable anger to full flame.

  She might look like an angel on the surface, but within she was a ruthless jade who would steal his inheritance if he faltered for even a moment.

  With a deep breath, he squared his shoulders. Although his schemes had not taken into account bumping into Miss Conwell in the midst of Bond Street, there was no reason he could not use it fully to his advantage.

  The sooner he began his campaign of humiliation the sooner she would be fleeing back beneath whatever rock she had crawled from, he told himself sternly.

  Assuming the bored nonchalance of a true gentleman of style, Hart strolled forward, making a point to tip his hat at the various females and shopkeepers who openly gawked at his large male form. For once he did not abhor the swarm of excitement his presence always managed to stir. The more attention he could gather, the better.

  As if sensing the sudden flutter of excitement behind her, Molly slowly turned to regard Hart’s relentless approach. Even at a distance he could detect her eyes widening in alarm and her slender form stiffening. He allowed his lips to curve into a small smile. It was obvious that she was preparing herself for yet another battle.

  Well, she was about to endure one, although it would not be the sort she was anticipating.

  Hart slowed his steps as he neared his unwanted fiancée, deliberately snaring her uncertain gaze. Ever closer he approached, keeping her gaze locked with his own until at last she was forced to sweep a reluctant curtsey.

  It was the moment he had been awaiting and even as she straightened Hart arrogantly turned his head and with firm steps swept past her without the least hint of acknowledgment.

  He heard her gasp of outrage at his deliberate cut, but oddly it was the sweet scent of lavender that seemed to cling to the air that he noted. Dash it all. He had always possessed a weakness for lavender. Especially when it was warmed by soft porcelain skin . . .

  No. Keeping his feet moving forward he sternly chastised his ridiculous flare of awareness. What did he care if the woman drenched herself in lavender from morning till night? Or that those soft brown eyes had darkened with something that might have been pain? All that mattered was that he had delivered his first blow.

  By this evening every drawing room in London would be filled with the tantalizing gossip that Lord Woodhart had given Miss Conwell, a woman quietly whispered to be his own fiancée, the cut direct. She would be the source of undoubted speculation and amusement for days.

  Precisely what he desired.

  Oh yes, a most satisfactory beginning, he told himself, urging a smile to his stiff lips.

  Chapter Three

  It was several hours later when Hart arrived at his club for a quiet dinner. When he had first prepared for the evening, he had considered making his way through the various London soirees and assemblies. It would be the perfect opportunity to discover if his insult earlier in the day was making the usual rounds.

  But even as he called for his carriage, he had grimaced at the thought of enduring hours of banal chatter and the relentless pursuit of the more predatory females. Gads, what a sorry waste of an evening. And for what? The gossip would spread whether or not he made an appearance. Perhaps even more swiftly if his presence were not there to stifle any stray rumors.

  His decision made, he had commanded his driver to the discreet club where he avoided the more boisterous gaming rooms and instead settled himself in a shadowed corner. He had just finished an excellent beefsteak and was about to enjoy a fine cognac when his privacy was abruptly invaded.

  “Ah, Hart,” Lord Thorpe drawled as he audaciously deposited his lean form in a nearby seat and stretched out his long legs. “What a delightful surprise.”

  Hart regarded the eldest son of the Duke of Harmond with a wry expression. In truth, it was rather like looking in a mirror. As maternal cousins they both shared the same raven hair, dark eyes and powerful features of their distant
ancestors. They also shared more than a fair measure of the same pride and arrogance. Which no doubt explained why they had devoted their early years to being fierce competitors. It did not matter if it were sports, cards, horses or women; they battled for supremacy in all.

  Thankfully, maturity had managed to mellow their relationship to one of easy friendship, as well as deepening the bonds of loyalty. Thorpe was perhaps the only person left in the world that Hart truly trusted.

  Lifting a hand toward the uniformed servant, Hart waited until his cousin was served with a glass of cognac before responding.

  “I would hardly think my presence is much of a surprise, delightful or otherwise,” he drawled. “I do spend any number of evenings here.”

  The dark eyes, so similar to his own, glittered with wicked amusement. “Ah, but that was before you managed to acquire a fiancée, dear cousin. Surely now you are expected to attend those tedious society events so that you might trail behind your intended like a devoted hound and snarl when another gentleman might stray too close?”

  Hart stiffened. Although he knew that there had already been whispers of his grandmother’s absurd will, Thorpe was the first to actually confront him with rumors.

  “Presuming that I did possess a fiancée, I can assure you the last place I would ever be is trailing behind her at tedious society events, or anywhere else for that matter.”

  A raven brow arched at his edged words. “Presuming? Do you not know if you possess a fiancée or not?”

  His lips thinned in annoyance. “If you have heard the rumors, then you know quite well that my grandmother’s inheritance hinges upon my wedding Miss Conwell.”

  “Then you do possess a fiancée.” Thorpe leaned his head against the leather of his wing chair, a speculative expression upon his lean countenance. “I must say I am rather hurt. How much effort could it take to scribble me a missive of your impending nuptials?” He abruptly widened his eyes. “Good God, I am invited to the wedding am I not?”

  “Do not be more of an ass than you need be, Thorpe. There is not going to be any wedding,” Hart snapped.

  “Then you have decided to relinquish your inheritance? A rather generous stroke of fortune for Miss Conwell. And a decidedly uncharacteristic display of nobility for you, Hart.”