“What?”
“Miss Darlington is the fool, not you,” she informed him sternly. “You offered her an honorable position as your wife and she chose to behave in a manner befitting a tart.”
It was the same words he had heard from Thorpe over and over. Still, he had certainly never expected to hear them from a woman who was supposed to be without a heart or conscience. One who moreover confessed from her own sweet lips that she considered him the enemy.
“I was the blind idiot who refused to realize that her affections were not sincere.”
“You cannot blame yourself.”
“Actually, I can. Quite easily.”
Her frown eased slightly as she tilted her head to one side. “Is that the reason you allowed others to believe you jilted her rather than explaining the truth?”
Hart shifted uneasily, not certain why he was even discussing his past with this maiden. Certainly, he had never shared his thoughts or emotions of that horrid time before. But for once it seemed important to make someone understand.
No, he wryly conceded. Not someone. Molly. Just Molly.
He sighed as his hand shifted to rub the back of his neck. “It was preferable to having the entire ton chuckling over the fact I was a gullible romantic.”
There was a brief silence before Molly stepped forward, her gaze sweeping his tense countenance.
“She harmed you a great deal,” she said softly.
His heart gave an odd leap. “It is all in the past.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It still haunts you. Otherwise you would not be so wary of others.”
Slowly, so as not to alarm her, Hart reached out to lightly brush a golden curl that lay against her temple.
“Do you refer to yourself?” he demanded. “Do you seek my trust?”
She appeared caught off guard by his question as she abruptly pulled from his touch and turned her back upon him.
“I . . . no. I do not ask for your trust,” she muttered.
Hart frowned, feeling as if he were standing upon a quagmire. With every step he took closer to this female he discovered himself being pulled further away.
“Molly?”
She pressed her hands to her face. “This is wrong.”
“What is wrong?” Moving forward, he firmly turned her about and pulled her into his arms. There was something deeply troubling her. Something that was making her behave in a manner that was contrary to her true self. He was now certain of it. And he had to discover what it was. If only for his own sanity. “Tell me.”
“I cannot.” She placed her hands upon his chest but did not attempt to break his hold. “Please, I must go.”
His eyes briefly closed at the sweetness that raced through him at having her so near. To even think that he might soon never know such pleasure again was nearly unbearable.
“No. Tell me what it is you are hiding.”
“Hart,” she whispered in broken tones.
He summoned a faint smile as he studied her pale countenance. “I bared my sordid secrets. And in truth it was surprisingly painless.”
She licked her lips as a tremor swept through her slender form. “My secrets . . . they . . .”
“What?”
“They are not mine to share.”
Hart stilled. Who was she protecting? Her parents were dead and her brother playing the libertine in Europe. A friend? Or . . . could it be a lover?
No. She was too innocent to have given her heart or her body to another, his heart fiercely whispered. Far more innocent than Victoria could ever have hoped to be.
“But these secrets do include the reason you are determined to hold onto my grandmother’s fortune?”
Something that might have been pain darkened her eyes as her hands unwittingly clutched at the lapels of his coat.
“No more,” she pleaded. “We must leave before we are discovered.”
Her words should have sent a jolt of panic through him. Engaged or not the tattlers would delight in spreading tales of them locked alone together in a darkened room. Tales that would demand a swift marriage.
What he felt, however, was only a deepening need to keep her close to him.
“If we are discovered, then it will only ensure that our marriage will take place,” he pointed out. “That is what you desire, is it not?”
Her agitation was nearly palpable as she turned her head to gaze into the shadows. “I no longer know what I desire. It was so clear in the beginning, and now you have managed to confuse and befuddle me until I cannot gather my wits.”
“Good,” he said with undeniable relish.
Her gaze sharply returned to study his pleased expression. “Good?”
“I should not wish to be alone in my befuddlement.”
“You befuddled?” She offered a disgruntled tsk. “Fah. You are always in utter command.”
He reached out to take her hand and placed it against his racing heart. It was one truth she could not deny.
“If I were in utter command, then why would Thorpe risk my wrath to corner you in the garden?”
A sad expression flitted over her expressive features. “People do odd, sometimes insane things when they feel someone they love is being threatened.”
Being threatened? Was someone she loved in danger? That would certainly explain a great deal.
“People such as you?”
If he hoped to catch her off guard, he was in for a disappointment as the wariness he detested returned.
“Has anyone told you that you can be annoyingly insistent?” she charged.
“I want to understand.”
“Hart, it is impossible.”
“Only if you make it so.”
“No.”
With unexpected strength, she was pulling from his grasp and fleeing for the door. Hart stumbled and before he could recover, she was already out of the room and heading for the ballroom.
Cursing himself for allowing a chit that he could hold in one hand to escape, Hart shoved his fingers through his hair. He was still no closer to discovering what had led Molly to her dangerous charade. Or if he could devise some means to help her.
All he had truly learned was that he could no more allow Miss Molly Conwell to disappear from his life than he could force his heart to stop beating.
* * *
It was not until Molly was mere steps from the ballroom that she came to a halt and made a futile effort to smooth her decidedly mussed appearance.
With shaky hands, she wiped the last traces of tears from her cheeks and smoothed the curls that had strayed from the tidy knot atop her head. She did not doubt that she looked as if she had been cavorting in the gardens, or even scooping out the stables, but at the moment she was far more concerned with discovering Georgie and convincing her to return home than what the scandalmongers might think.
She felt sick. Sick to her stomach. Sick in her soul. And sick at heart.
Hart was supposed to be a monster. Someone she could trick and deceive without guilt.
But instead he was simply a man who had been deeply wounded once before and now sought to protect himself from those who would once again offer him pain.
Someone like herself.
A wave of nausea swirled through her stomach and giving up the impossible task of hiding her distress, Molly stepped among the crowd and battled her way toward the distant refreshment table. Halfway there she spotted Georgie standing by herself near a fluted column.
Barely keeping herself from rushing toward her friend like a hoyden, Molly managed to keep her steps steady until she at last reached Georgie’s side.
Turning, Lady Falker offered a relieved smile at her appearance. “There you are. I have been . . .” Abruptly noticing Molly’s reddened nose and still wet lashes, she grasped her arm and pulled her into a shallow alcove. “What has occurred?”
Still shaky and a breath away from sobbing like a baby, Molly knew she could not possibly explain the disturbing confrontations at this moment.
It would take several hours to calm down enough to sort through her confusion of emotions.
“It is nothing.”
Georgie frowned. “A nothing that has made you cry. I can only presume that Lord Woodhart is involved.”
“I do not wish to discuss this now, Georgie. Can we please just go home?”
“Of course.” With a brisk efficiency, Georgie was steering her along the edge of the crowd and toward the door. “Damn, I could throttle that horrid man,” she muttered beneath her breath.
“Do not blame Lord Woodhart.” Molly could not help but defend the gentleman who was lodged far too deeply into her heart. “I am the one who created this mess.”
She sensed her friend’s sharp glance. “That does not excuse his wretched behavior.”
“Actually it excuses a great deal,” she said softly.
“Molly?”
“Please, not now.”
Although she no doubt longed to press for answers, Georgie was sensitive enough to Molly’s fragile state to hold her tongue. Even when they had taken their departure and climbed into the carriage, Georgie was careful to keep her chatter upon inconsequential matters.
Once at home, Molly muttered a hasty good night before heading toward the stairs. Not turning about she missed her friend motioning for a waiting footman and whispering anxiously in his ear.
All she knew was that she had never felt so lost and alone in her life.
Chapter Eleven
Hart forced himself to begin his day like any other despite the fact he had devoted the night to restlessly brooding upon his latest confrontation with Molly.
What the devil was the sense in lying abed like some lovesick goon, he sternly chided himself? Not only would he feel like a damnable fool, but it would accomplish nothing more than worrying his servants and giving the ton fodder for gossip.
Besides which he was far too agitated to sedately remain locked in his chambers.
And so with an effort he quietly allowed himself to be bathed and dressed by his valet, even going so far as to indulge in his usual morning wrangling with Carter over his choice in waistcoats.
Once suitably groomed, he made his way to the library where he absently flipped through the morning papers before tossing them aside and making a dismal effort at attending to his vast business concerns. A very dismal effort he discovered as he totaled his ledgers for the sixth time only to arrive at the sixth different sum. Obviously, he was doing no more than making a muck of the accounts and with an impatient click of his tongue he pushed them aside and headed for the breakfast room.
Bloody hell, surely he could manage to eat without utter mishap?
Seating himself at the head of the table, Hart allowed the waiting footman to fill his plate with savory ham and several slices of toast. He was, however, wise enough to avoid the scalding tea that was certain to be disaster on such a morning and instead motioned for the rich burgundy wine that he preferred.
Nearly an hour later, he polished off the last of his ham and sat back with a sigh. He had hoped a full stomach might somehow settle his tangled nerves. Clearly a futile hope, he concluded as his fingers impatiently tapped upon the table and his thoughts continued to return time and time again to the aggravating female who had stormed his defenses and left him reeling with the impact.
It was a decided relief when Carter entered the room and offered a well-needed distraction.
“Pardon me, my lord,” the valet murmured with a faint bow.
Forcing himself to raise a lazy brow, Hart tossed aside his linen napkin. “Ah, Carter, I suppose you have come to argue over my choice in waistcoats once again. I tell you I refuse to wear an insipid shade of pink with this delightful coat.”
“No, sir. It is a somewhat . . . delicate matter.”
It was as much Carter’s tone as his words that set Hart on instant alert. Something was wrong. Something that he did not wish to discuss before the other servants.
Careful to keep his casual demeanor, Hart slowly rose to his feet. “More delicate than my waistcoat? Good Lord, you have me aquiver with curiosity.” Lifting a slender hand, he motioned toward the silent footman. “That will be all, Smith.”
“Yes, my lord.” With a bow the servant left the room and closed the door behind his retreating form.
Once alone Hart took several quick steps toward his valet. “What is it, Carter?”
Never easily ruffled, Carter straightened his jacket and cleared his throat before answering.
“As you requested I made my morning call upon Lady Falker’s maid.”
Hart’s heart crashed violently against his chest. “What has occurred? Is Molly hurt?”
“To the best of my knowledge Miss Conwell is in perfect health,” Carter was swift to reassure.
Fierce relief shuddered through his body. Anything could be solved so long as Molly was well.
“Then what is it?”
“While I was hiding among the shadows, I noted a carriage near Lady Falker’s mews.”
Hart blinked, not quite certain what had his servant in a twit. “That is hardly unusual.”
“The carriage was unmarked and the windows covered with heavy curtains,” Carter clarified. “Also the supposed groom was without livery and looked more a cutthroat than a servant.”
Hart frowned. He began to comprehend his valet’s suspicions. Despite the fact that several families owned carriages that did not sport a family crest, they did insist upon grooms complete with livery. And of course, what sort of person would hide behind closed curtains in the middle of morning?
“You fear they might be ruffians or thieves?” he demanded, well aware that even the streets of Mayfair were never entirely safe. Not from the desperate.
“It is a definite possibility.”
Hart reached out to grasp his valet’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming to me.”
A faintly concerned expression marred the thin countenance. “My lord, what do you intend to do?”
A grim smile touched Hart’s lips. “I am off to remove the rubbish from Lady Falker’s mews.”
As Hart turned to leave, Carter reached out to touch his sleeve. “My lord.”
Turning about, Hart regarded his companion with a lift of his brows. “Yes?”
“Do take care.”
He gave a slow nod, knowing just how devoted this man was to him. “I will take the greatest of care,” he promised.
* * *
Only a handful of blocks away, Molly awoke in little better condition than Hart. Perhaps even worse.
She not only was battling her growing guilt in connection to her treatment of Hart, but she also had to consider what would happen to her brother if she turned from her current path.
Could she live with herself knowing that she had possessed the ability to save him from disaster and had turned her back upon it? What if he were captured as a criminal? Or worse, killed?
Then again, could she accept deceiving and manipulating Hart simply to rescue her brother from his own muddle? It was not after all his fault that Andrew had tossed away his fortune.
Oddly, there had also been hours devoted to mulling over Lady Woodhart and her reasons for making the ridiculous will in the first place.
If she had desired Molly to have a portion of her fortune, why had she not simply left her a straightforward settlement? Why force two people who she knew could barely share a civil word into marriage?
Unless the cunning old woman had realized that beneath all the sparks and bristling that there could be more than mere dislike.
That was a thought she found more than a bit unnerving.
Could she have possibly harbored feelings for Hart from the very beginning? Was that why she had so desperately sought to think of him in the worse possible light?
Ack . . . it was all so jumbled and confusing it was enough to make her poor head throb.
Rising with great reluctance, Molly covertly slipped through the silent townhouse and made her way to the back parlor. S
he felt in great need for peace and quiet to contemplate what was to be done next.
Or as her old nanny would say, “to stew in her own juices . . .”
Settling in a window seat overlooking the rose garden, Molly wavered from one resolution to another as she absently shredded her favorite handkerchief into tatters. She was so lost in thought that she did not even note the door being pushed hesitantly open and the pretty brunette entering the room to regard her with a guarded expression.
It was not until Georgie at last cleared her throat that she realized that she was no longer alone. Turning about she slowly rose to her feet.
“Georgie,” she said in surprise.
“Good morning, my dear.” Her friend smiled although it did not seem to reach her eyes. Odd, that.
“I thought you had already left for your morning calls.”
With a fluttery motion, Georgie smoothed her hands over her lavender skirts. “I fear I am unconscionably late and now I recall that I commanded the servants to give the attics a thorough cleaning. It really is most annoying.”
Wondering why her friend was behaving in such a peculiar manner, Molly took a step forward.
“Is there anything I can do to assist?”
“Well, I do hate to ask, but could you possibly dash out to the stables and tell the groom to have the carriage brought round in quarter of an hour?”
Molly blinked. Not so much at the request although that was peculiar enough, but by the distinct sense that Georgie was hiding something from her.
Still, what secret could the Lady Falker be attempting to conceal?
She was wealthy, widowed and perfectly free to do as she might choose.
With a metal shrug, she thrust aside the niggling concern. Goodness knew she had enough to trouble her mind without sticking her nose in where it did not belong.
“Of course,” she agreed, heading for the door.
“You are a dear.”
“’Tis no problem.”
“Molly.”
Halting at the door, Molly turned her head to meet her friend’s darkened gaze. “Yes?”
“I . . . nothing. I shall speak with you later.”
“Very well.”
Leaving the parlor, Molly made her way down the servant’s stairs and through the kitchen to the gardens. The sun was shining for the first time in days but without a cape she discovered the wind unpleasantly sharp and wrapping her arms about herself she scampered down the path to the mews. Blast, she should no doubt return to her chambers and fetch a shawl, but now she was on her way she only wanted to be done with her task.
The Wedding Clause Page 13
