When Harry Met Molly (10 page)

Chapter 11

Harry led the men out of the dining room with a heavy heart and a sense of foreboding, but he wasn’t going to let them guess he was feeling pessimistic about Molly’s chances to win the contest. It was obvious she’d been a tremendous failure on her first night at the house party. At this rate, she would never win the title of Most Delectable Companion, which meant that the most he could hope for at the end of the week would be to avoid pulling the shortest straw and thus avert the disaster of having to propose to Anne Riordan.

He supposed he should be grateful to Molly for not making him the instant loser of the entire week. At least her presence assured him of having a small chance to survive the Season as a bachelor for another year. But he felt as if his luck were running out.

His first inkling of doom had come when Fiona ran away from him at the inn. No woman had ever chosen another man over him! Granted, he’d never been besotted with her beyond the bedroom, so what did it matter?

But then Molly had appeared, heaping scorn upon him for having a mistress at all. Up until now, even his mother hadn’t dared to comment on his wastrel ways in so forthright a manner.

Harry’s sense of control, which he’d always prided himself on, was slipping. In fact, he felt almost desperate as he watched the other men put their votes on small slips of paper and then drop them into the large, blue vase. He knew not one of them contained the name Delilah.

By the end of the week, the vase would be full of paper, and they would remove the names to see who had won the most votes. Even if Molly won all the games during the week, if she got no nightly votes from the men, she would most likely be unable to win.

Lord Maxwell poured two brandies. “Interesting choice of mistress,” he said, dropping his quill on the table and handing a glass to Harry.

“I should say so,” echoed Captain Arrow, holding his own empty snifter out to Maxwell for another splash.

“Very interesting indeed,” said Viscount Lumley, still looking stunned from his encounter with Molly in the kissing closet.

Sir Richard lowered his cheroot. “I don’t think you could have brought anyone less likely to win, Traemore,” he said, smoke curling around his face.

There were mumbles of protest around the table, but they were not very loud or strong, Harry noted. Obviously, everyone agreed with Sir Richard.

As he did himself.

Nevertheless, he would put on his best game face. “The competition for the title of Most Delectable Companion will continue,” he said calmly to them all, and then he turned to look pointedly at Sir Richard. “And I promise you,” he said evenly, “that you’ll soon see that Delilah is a contender.”

His promise sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Sir Richard smiled, but it was bitter and mean, not at all kind or amused. The other men said nothing.

“I shall see you in the morning, gentlemen.” Harry moved toward the door, keeping his shoulders back, but inside, he felt the veriest loser.

“Off to see what your ‘governess’ can teach you?” asked Sir Richard.

Harry paused and turned around. “You’re awfully interested in my mistress, Bell. Will that translate into a vote for her tomorrow night?”

Sir Richard was cool. “I’m not interested in your mistress, Traemore. I’m interested in seeing you lose.”

“You would be, wouldn’t you?” said Lumley. “Seeing as how Harry is well liked by all, and you’re an aging rake with nary a friend but your valet, and even him you must pay.”

Sir Richard half rose from his chair.

Lumley matched the movement. “Just try it, Bell.” His tone was menacing.

“Gentlemen.” Harry raised his hand. “If we’re forced to be together, as this bet has ensured we shall be for at least a week, let’s stay civil.”

Sir Richard sat back down, his eyes still narrowed at Lumley.

Harry saw that Sir Richard was most definitely going to be a problem during the competition. But he refused to show his worry in his expression. Without another word, he bowed and left the room.

His more immediate concern was to find Molly. The girl needed propping up, or their whole house of cards would fall by the morrow.

“I’m appalled.” Molly dragged her feet as Harry pulled her along the corridor upstairs toward their bedchambers. “A kissing closet? Why, I never imagined such a thing could exist!”

Harry chuckled. “I didn’t, either. Prinny has a wicked sense of humor.”

“It’s not funny,” Molly said. “If the whole week is like tonight, I’m going to hell, for certain. And it will be
all
your fault.”

Harry stopped her. “My dear, console yourself with the fact that if you go to hell, you began the journey long before this week.”

She gasped.

He chuckled. “Seriously, Molly, you’re not going to hell. What else were you to do? I certainly couldn’t take you home the moment Cedric abandoned you. I’d have forfeited the wager, and my future depends on it. You
had
to come here.”

She sighed. “I really don’t think my staying any longer is a good idea.”

“Of course you’ll stay.” Harry strove to sound firm and calm. “Tonight was only our first night.”

They stopped outside her room.

“But I’ve never felt so stupid in my life as I did tonight,” she whispered, looking up at him with those brown eyes, which were bleak now, not at all impish.

Harry fought against feeling sorry for her. By failing to portray herself as a desirable mistress, she was possibly ruining his chance at freedom, just as she had done that long-ago night at the Christmas ball, when her silly poem had forced him into military service.

“I know you can do better,” he said. “I’ve seen the fire in you. You need to show it to everyone else.”

Molly sighed. “I’m supposed to be biddable
and
have fire?”

Harry thought for a moment. “Yes. I know that sounds contradictory, but a woman’s fire is banked. It’s not evident
all
the time. It smolders. I should have explained better in the carriage.”

“I don’t have
any
fire.” Molly’s shoulders sagged. “Not like those other women.”

Harry knew it was the brandy, but suddenly, his nemesis looked very appealing. He remembered holding her on his lap, the way she’d fiercely grabbed his neck, as if she couldn’t get enough of his kisses.

And he remembered the way she’d looked in that blue gown at the inn. Voluptuous, tempting—

Of course she had fire! And she’d damned well better remember it, or he might very likely be legshackled by Christmas.

He grabbed her wrist. “Let me remind you that you are no iceberg, shall I?”

“Harry.”
She looked up at him, and he could tell she was afraid.

But also open to the idea.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, encouraged.

Her brow furrowed. “But you’ve been drinking. When men drink too much, they do things. Inappropriate things.”

“I am certainly not drunk,” he said evenly. “And this is merely kissing practice. Remember? Designed to give you some confidence.”

She said nothing.

“Molly?”

She still said nothing, merely looked at her slipper moving in a figure-eight pattern on the floor.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he murmured, and cupped her jaw with his hand. “You’d best run now if you want to escape.”

She looked up at him then, and something turned over inside his chest.

She didn’t want to escape.

How unusual in Molly.

And how inexplicably enchanting.

Molly could hardly breathe when Harry put his lips on hers. He pressed her back against the door to her bedchamber, sliding his hands up the door to pin her between his arms.

It was a delicious trap she had no desire to escape. Harry first kissed her mouth, and then when she could hardly bear the pleasure of it anymore, he moved to her neck. There he dropped soft, sweet kisses on her pulse and collarbone, made even sweeter by the moan of pleasure she let escape when she lifted her chin to give him better access.

How could a rake like Harry understand her so well? Know her every need and desire? Even know what she didn’t know she wanted until after he’d done it?

Such as the caressing he was now doing with his hand on her waist. The caressing that was moving upward, closer to her breasts but not quite there.

He pulled back, his gaze hot, his face fierce and handsome and compelling. “I’m going to open your door, Molly.” His voice was rough, the same way it had been in the carriage after he’d kissed her.

She liked that voice. Very much.

He kissed her again, and she felt his hand move behind her, encircling her waist, and then felt the door give beneath their weight.

They walked backward into her room, and Harry kicked the door to the hallway shut behind him. Their lips were still locked, and he slid his hands up and down her back. Then he went lower, cupping her rear end in his hands and pulling her even closer against the hard length of him.

Which felt…perfect somehow.

So perfect she forgot it was Harry as she ran her hands up and down his back, too. And she forgot about him again when he locked one of her legs between his own, bending her back just enough to place a kiss on the top of her breast, exposed above Fiona’s impossibly low neckline.

She couldn’t help but moan at the pleasurable sensation. He murmured something deep in his throat, and then he yanked at her neckline with his teeth—his teeth!—and nudged it farther down.

And then his tongue began the most delicious exploration of her—

Molly’s eyes flew open.

She couldn’t forget. This was Harry. The bachelor to end all bachelors! One of Prinny’s own Impossible Bachelors.

“That’s enough,” she gasped, and pushed him away. “You’ve had plenty of kissing tonight. You kissed Athena, too, don’t forget.”

He laughed softly and grabbed her waist. “That meant nothing,” he murmured against her neck.

His mouth tickled in the most pleasurable way. But with everything she had in her, Molly pushed him away again. “This means nothing, as well,” she said in her best Miss Dunlap voice. “The fact is, Harry, I would simply rather not participate in nothing unless I have to. After all, I’m not your real mistress.”

“Yes, but—”

“Thank you for instilling confidence in me again,” Molly interrupted him. “But I think it best that you save your displays of so-called affection for when others are present to see them.”

Oh, she hated to say that! Because he was quite adorable just now, with that jet-black curl falling over his eye and the obvious disappointment in his gaze.

He sighed. “Have it your way. But remember,
Delilah,
if you fail at this mistress game, you are on your own this coming Season.”

She felt all mixed up inside when he left through the dressing room to go to his bedchamber—angry at him for being so shortsighted yet craving him, too, somehow.

He was her only friend at the house party. It was going to be a long, lonely week if even Harry were to give her the brush-off.

She listened as he opened a drawer. And then she heard his boots come off and imagined him cursing her under his breath. And then she imagined him taking off his breeches, and—

No. She must not imagine him taking off his breeches.

Slowly, she undressed, and then she put on a stunning embroidered shift which clung to her curves and was completely see-through. If she wore it—which she would because it was quite the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—she was sure she’d go to hell if she were to die the next day in a freak accident.

Although she was probably already going to hell for letting Harry kiss her so.

She’d best pray.

After she’d finished a rushed plea to God to send her an extra angel to help her resist Harry and prevent her having an untimely death in the meanwhile, Molly decided to give herself some extra protection against both Harry and her own decadent impulses by dragging a chest over to their connecting door.

Not that she
really
believed he’d take advantage of her without her permission.

Or that she’d wake up pretending to have had a nightmare so she could have the excuse of running into his room, where she’d cuddle next to him under the bedclothes and they’d resume kissing so her pretend nightmare—about a ghost? or a monster? she couldn’t decide which—would be irrevocably banished.

Although the nightmare idea was tempting.
Very
tempting.

She blew out her candle, crawled under the covers, and tried to sleep.

But she couldn’t. She had the noble thought that she must do better in the morning—first, by trying to win over the other mistresses, and then by somehow charming the men, even the vile Sir Richard, if she could do so without getting too close to him.

But she also couldn’t sleep because the bureau in front of the dressing room door reminded her that Harry was just on the other side. And thinking of Harry reminded her of how much she enjoyed his mouth, his hair, his whole body, pressed against hers.

It made no sense. This was
Harry
she was feeling all these feelings about!

She was desperate, she decided, blinking into the darkness. That was all. She was almost a spinster, and no man had ever brought her flowers. She was to be excused for feeling all mushy inside when she thought of Harry kissing her.

But she couldn’t let those mushy feelings continue. She must cease them immediately. So she thought about the time a much younger Harry had planted all her dolls head-first in a little vegetable garden she’d cultivated long ago.

That
got her blood up.

She heard a noise and sat up, her heart pounding. “Harry?”

Someone was scratching at her door, from the hallway. But Harry was in bed. And he would have knocked on the door connecting their rooms, if he’d needed to knock at all.

Molly crept to the door and made sure the key was in the lock. “Who’s there?” she whispered.

“Sir Richard,” the voice whispered back. “I just wanted to say good night. Will you open the door?”

“No!” she hissed. “Go away!”