Hart rolled his eyes heavenward. No one could be more irritating than Thorpe when he put his mind to it.
“No, I do not intend to relinquish my fortune. Certainly not to Miss Conwell. I will see every handed over to the bloody Woodhart Charity for the Disadvantaged before that occurs.”
A short silence descended as his cousin studied his unyielding expression. It was an expression that could cowl the most hearty soul. Unfortunately, Thorpe was blithely indifferent.
“Then what do you intend to do?”
Hart discovered himself reluctant to confess his rather nefarious plans. Odd considering his conscience had never been a troublesome beast. Still, he could not deny the most trifling sense of unease.
“I have it well in hand,” he murmured.
“Of course.” A rather sardonic smile touched Thorpe’s lips as he continued to study Hart with a steady gaze. “What is she like?”
“Who?”
“Miss Conwell.”
Hart gave a lift of his shoulder. “What is she like? She is a fortune hunter. What would you expect of someone of her ilk?”
“Ah, no doubt a hardened hag with the face of a hatchet and the body of a drowned rat? Or perhaps one of those mousy types who always stir the heart of elderly ladies?”
Hart could not halt his sharp bark of laughter. “You could not be further from the truth.”
“She is beautiful?”
Hart dropped his gaze to study the cognac in his glass. “As beautiful as a Botticelli angel with eyes that lure a man to drown in their softness and a body that could tempt a saint to madness.”
“Good God,” Thorpe breathed. “I believe I shall have to make myself known to Miss Conwell.”
A wholly irrational flare of annoyance raced through Hart at his cousin’s casual words and he snapped his gaze back to the handsome countenance.
“You harbor a desire to be culled of your fortune?”
Thorpe merely smiled at the sharp question. “No, but I do harbor a very great desire for a Botticelli angel. Perhaps, unlike you, I shall consider her worth the cost.”
Miss Conwell being seduced by this consummate rake?
Never.
The word surged through Hart’s mind with shocking force and he shifted with a pang of discomfort. It was only that he was concerned for Thorpe, he hastily told himself. Molly Conwell would no doubt bleed him to his last quid. It was certainly not that he considered her delectable sweetness his own personal property.
On the point of warning his cousin to give a wide berth to Miss Conwell, Hart was abruptly distracted by a growing rumble of laughter and shouts from the outer rooms. Slowly rising to his feet, he glared toward the open door.
“What the devil is going on?” he muttered.
Thorpe also pressed himself upright, a hint of distaste upon his lean features. “No doubt a fight between the more reckless blades. Or a fool about to lose his entire inheritance upon a turn of the card.”
Hart grimaced. London could be a dangerous place for young gentlemen with too much wealth and too little experience. He had seen far too many ruined before they could acquire the wisdom of maturity.
“Yes, no doubt,” he agreed even as a tall, uniformed servant entered the room followed by a dozen boisterous noblemen upon his heel. His brows lifted at the unwelcome intrusion, and then he blinked in shock as he realized that the servant held a monkey attired in a ridiculous satin evening coat. “Good God above, what is going on?”
At his startled words, the servant gingerly lowered the monkey to the ground who promptly scrambled across the room to clutch at Hart’s dove gray breeches.
“Miss Conwell requested that I deliver you this charming pet, along with the answer to your question.”
Wondering if he had fallen asleep in his chair and stumbled into a nightmare, Hart gave a disbelieving shake of his head.
“What?”
“Yes, she does return the love you pledged with all her heart. And she would be honored to accept your gracious proposal of marriage.”
A sudden cheer from the drunken onlookers filled the air as Hart gazed down in horror at the monkey attempting to tug the buckle from his shoe.
Why the devious, unscrupulous, conniving . . . wretch.
Clearly, she had decided to have a measure of revenge for this morning. And in the same stroke convince the entire male population of London that he had begged for her hand in marriage.
Bloody hell. He was going to throttle her.
But first he tilted back his head to laugh with rich amusement.
* * *
“Ah, the dubious delights of the theatre,” the voluptuous, dark-haired Lady Falker muttered. “Where else can a lady of fashion be so easily preyed upon by the bolder rakes, her reputation shredded by the dragons, and her nerves in ever present danger of being dulled beyond repair by the portrayal of Hamlet by an actor as old and tedious as the play itself?”
Glancing about the ornate crimson and gold lobby of the theatre, Molly gave a faint chuckle. Unlike Georgie she had never enjoyed a London season, nor devoted her evenings to such frivolous pastimes. To her a visit to the theatre was a treat she fully intended to savor.
“Really, Georgie, I did not realize you held the theatre in such contempt,” she murmured.
As if recalling Molly’s stark lack of experience among society, Georgie wrinkled her nose in a charming manner.
“Forgive me, my dear. In truth my mood has little to do with the theatre. I have simply been bored and irritable of late.”
Molly blinked in shock at her friend’s confession. “How ever can you say such a thing?” she demanded. “You are young, beautiful and possess a life the rest of us poor females can only envy.”
Something that might have been loneliness darkened the golden brown eyes before Georgie was snapping open the satin peach fan that perfectly matched her elegant gown.
“Perhaps. In any event I am quite pleased that you have come to stay with me. I have dearly missed your companionship.”
Molly reached out to thread her arm through Georgie’s as they moved up the marble steps. “And I yours.”
“Of course, that does not mean that I fully approve of this dangerous game you seek to play with Lord Woodhart,” Georgie murmured in low tones.
A sudden shock of unease slithered down Molly’s spine, nearly making her stumble. Blast it all. She had badgered Georgie to come to the theatre tonight for the particular purpose of putting aside all thoughts of Lord Woodhart. After two days of pacing the floor and jumping at every knock upon the door, she could endure no more. If Hart intended to punish her for her rather impulsive and outlandish retaliation, then hiding in Georgie’s elegant home would not halt him. Indeed, she very much feared that nothing would halt him.
“No more, Georgie,” she said in what she hoped were decisive tones. “I have told you that my mind is quite set.”
“Yes, I know, but that does not halt my concern.” Glancing about the glittering crowd, Georgie leaned to speak directly into Molly’s ear. “Lord Woodhart was already infuriated by his grandmother’s will. I do not doubt he is ready for murder after you sent a monkey to his club.”
A sudden heat touched Molly’s cheeks. It had no doubt been a wretchedly childish prank, but she had been beyond reasonable thought after he had treated her to such a public insult. She did, after all, possess some measure of pride.
“Trust me, Georgie, I do not intend to underestimate Lord Woodhart,” she said wryly. “But neither do I intend to toss away the perfect opportunity to assist Andrew. This could be the answer to all my prayers.”
“Fah.” The beautiful widow gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “Really, Molly, that brother of yours should be . . .”
“No. I will not hear a word against Andrew,” Molly sternly interrupted. Gads, one of these days she intended to lock the two of them in a chamber and not release them until they settled this ridiculous feud. “Whatever his faults he is the only family I possess. And I
truly believe that he has learned his lesson.”
“For heaven’s sake, you have always been ridiculously naive when it comes to your brother.”
“Please, Georgie, I do not wish to argue.”
She could feel her companion stiffen before Georgie was at last heaving a faint sigh. “Neither do I. Shall we take our seats?”
With the ease of a skilled navigator, Lady Falker plotted a course through the mingling crowd, ruthlessly deflecting those gentlemen who sought to gain her attention, and assiduously avoiding those matrons who could not be readily dismissed. Eagerly absorbing the tingling excitement that filled the air and the elegant opulence of her surroundings, Molly allowed herself to be steered to the small box toward the back of the theatre. Once within Georgie heaved a sigh of relief and dropped onto one of the delicate seats, pulling Molly down next to her.
“Thank goodness we escaped before Lady Oberman could capture us,” Georgie muttered. “She considers her very distant connection to my late husband as carte blanche to forever badger me with complaints of my independent manner, my choice of gowns, my friends and even my servants. It is little wonder her three sons have chosen to flee to India. Were she my mother I would have been forced to gag and bind her in the cellar long ago.”
Molly smiled in sympathy. Having encountered Lady Oberman, she had to admit that her friend was indeed cursed with a most unpleasant relative.
“I have always believed that a good, stout cellar is essential when one is cursed with a number of unwelcome relatives,” she agreed.
“Indeed.” Casting an absent glance about the rapidly filling seats, Georgie gave a small jerk as her gaze lingered upon a box situated near the grand stage. “Oh dear.”
“What is it?”
Georgie turned to meet Molly’s curious expression. “It appears that your dutiful fiancé has decided to make a rare appearance in society.”
“Hart?” Molly felt a chill of dismay fill her heart. “Where?”
“In his family box.” Georgie discreetly tilted her head in the direction of the lavish box across the way. “Complete with another woman.”
It took only a moment for Molly to discover her treacherous fiancé. Her heart nearly halted as she studied his male form attired in stark black with a crimson waistcoat. Dash it all, but he was magnificent as he sprawled with negligent ease in his chair, the candlelight warming his pale skin and adding a satin sheen to his raven curls. There was not another gentleman in the theatre that could compare to his fierce, elegant beauty. Perhaps not in all of London.
But then he slowly shifted to whisper in the ear of his companion and Molly was brought abruptly back to her senses.
Her eyes narrowed as she swept a condemning glance over the titian-haired beauty who was attired in a gown that was a certain invitation to lung fever. Indeed, Molly was not at all certain that there was more than a token effort to cover the ample bosom that was deliberately thrust toward Hart. An obvious tart, she told herself. But one with the sort of beauty that was bound to stir the attention of gentlemen. Certainly every male gaze in the room was currently fixed upon her.
“Who is she?” Molly demanded.
“She goes simply by the name of Celeste,” Georgie reluctantly revealed. “Rumor has it that she is the most expensive courtesan in London.”
Well, at least the beast appeared to possess excellent taste, she wryly told herself.
“I see.”
Next to her, Georgie slowly opened her fan and waved it in an absent fashion. “It is odd. Lord Woodhart has always been a renowned rake, but he has never openly flaunted his numerous mistresses. Indeed, he has always been known for his discretion.”
Molly lifted her brows in surprise. “Discretion? Why he jilted poor Miss Darlington at the altar.” She recalled her friend to the disgrace that had shocked all of society near four years ago. “That is a far cry from discreet.”
“True enough, but over the past few years he has gone to great lengths to avoid having his name connected with any woman.” She shot Molly a speculative glance. “Which begs the question of why he would part with his usual habits on this evening.”
A rush of anger flared through Molly. It did not take a great deal of intelligence to realize precisely why Lord Woodhart would suddenly discover the need to flaunt his beautiful mistress.
“No doubt in the hopes of embarrassing me,” she gritted. “After all, the rumors that we are engaged are already making their way through town. No doubt he thinks to humiliate me by appearing with his mistress at the same night that I am in attendance.”
Georgie gave a flick of her fan. “But how did he know you would be in attendance?”
Yes, how did he know? It was not as if a crier walked the streets informing all and sundry of her plans. Molly pursed her lips in thought before giving a faint shrug of her shoulders. One vexing annoyance at a time, she ruefully decided.
“I will soon enough discover,” she swore, her gaze lingering upon that warrior profile. “For now, however, I must consider what is to be done with my treacherous cad of a fiancé.”
“You could always indulge in a delicious scene,” Georgie suggested in low tones.
“I fear that is precisely what he is hoping for.”
“What?”
With more effort than she cared to acknowledge, Molly wrenched her attention from the gentleman across the theatre to meet her friend’s puzzled gaze.
“Do you not see? For the moment Lord Woodhart has no reasonable means of contesting his grandmother’s will. But, if I were to prove I were somehow unhinged or unsuitable to take the place as Viscountess Woodhart, then I do not doubt he would easily discover a judge willing to abolish my claim upon my inheritance. I cannot risk having an ugly scandal attached to my name.”
Georgie wrinkled her nose in resigned agreement. “So you intend to do nothing?”
Molly paused. She could leave, of course. Or remain and pretend that she did not note that the gentleman who had presumably pledged his loyalty to her was currently mooning over another woman. A woman moreover who did not even possess the decency to cover all her parts properly.
Both choices, however, would ensure that by tomorrow morning she would be the source of spiteful amusement throughout London.
No. She could not bear that. It was simply not in her nature to meekly turn the other cheek. At least not when it came to bloody Lord Woodhart.
“Actually I believe I should join Hart and congratulate him on his fortune in claiming the attention of such a beautiful woman.”
Georgie gave a choked cough of disbelief. “Have you gone daft, Molly? You will be the talk of the town if you enter that box.”
A determined expression hardened Molly’s countenance. “It is obvious that Hart has already ensured that I will be the talk of the town.”
“Perhaps, but . . .”
“Listen to me, Georgie, I can either remain here and allow myself to be a pathetic source of amusement”—Molly surged to her feet, ignoring the absurd manner in which her knees trembled—“or, I can reveal that I am utterly indifferent to my fiancé’s obvious disdain.”
“Oh, lord.” Georgie gave a slow shake of her head. “This is bound to be a disaster.”
“Trust me, Georgie.”
Chapter Four
Even as Hart played the role of the skilled seducer, he was acutely aware of the moment Miss Molly Conwell entered the theatre. It was in the manner that his skin tingled with sudden awareness, and his heart added an additional beat. He could almost convince himself that he could feel the burning touch of her velvet brown eyes and catch the scent of sweet lavender.
A rather annoying whimsy, despite the fact that he had been impatiently awaiting her arrival. He was uncertain that he desired to be quite so responsive to a female he claimed to detest. Especially when he was utterly impervious to the woman seated so closely at his side. A woman considered to be the most beautiful, talented courtesan in all of England.
Hart shifted c
loser to Celeste, attempting to thrust aside his odd fancies. He even reached out a lazy finger to trace the line of her plunging bodice. Soon enough he would have Miss Conwell fleeing London.
Then he could put all thoughts of her behind him, he told himself.
Well . . . perhaps not completely behind him, he amended with an unwitting smile. She was, after all, responsible for the thoroughly disreputable monkey currently running amok in his household. Although it was an ill-mannered beast, Hart had discovered himself unable to toss the creature into the street despite the fact his servants were in near mutiny.
He found the monkey a source of amusement; he had informed his housekeeper of as much when she threatened to walk out the door. There was nothing more to it than that.
“You are comfortable, I trust, my beauty?” he at last forced himself to murmur, knowing that he could not continue to sit there in rather daft silence.
Celeste gave her curls a practiced toss even as she regarded him with a sultry warmth. “As comfortable as I can be with every gaze upon us.”
“Ah, but surely you are accustomed to attracting such notice? You are extraordinarily lovely,” he gallantly murmured.
She smiled, but there was a rather disconcerting glitter in the slanted green eyes. “I fear I cannot quite comprehend why you wished to come to the theatre, my lord.”
Hart offered a negligent shrug, not at all prepared to confess the truth. He did not believe the courtesan would be particularly pleased to discover she was only at his side to embarrass his fiancée.
“To strike envy in the heart of every gentleman in London, of course.”
He expected her to purr at his flippant words. Instead her gaze merely narrowed. “Very pretty, but I well know that you have no need or desire for notoriety. Every gentleman in London already envies you. Our evening could be much better spent alone. My . . . skills are better suited to a private setting.”
Hart readily believed her husky claim. From all reports Celeste was without peer in the world of debauchery. Unfortunately at the moment, he was not in a debauching mood. Not when his attention was determinedly centered upon the treacherous angel across the theatre.
The Wedding Clause Page 4
