When Harry Met Molly (4 page)

And then she broke free.

Harry watched her head toward the door to the stableyard. She was escaping him, no doubt, he thought grimly.

As well she should.

Chapter 3

Molly had to get out of the taproom so she could breathe and decide what to do. But she already knew what to do. Her wicked self was speaking to her, and she refused to let herself stop it. Her wicked self always came out around Harry.

It was telling her that she must go inside and dump a tankard of beer over his head.

She bunched her skirt in her fists and stared fixedly at John Coachman, who sat patiently atop Cedric’s coach, snoring into his chest. From the corner of her eye, she saw a brood of hens pecking at the dirt beneath an oak tree.

Pouring beer over Harry would, indeed, bring her some sort of solace. But she’d matured, hadn’t she? She didn’t have to be quite so obvious in her disdain for him. Even more deliciously satisfying would be for her to hie herself back to her table—back to Cedric—and make it look as though they were an extremely happy couple in love.

She’d pretend that Cedric was a huge catch. She’d make some remark about an amazing naked statue he’d uncovered and say that Prinny himself was anxious to see it.

Harry would be suitably impressed, and he would rue the day he ever did her wrong.

Which wasn’t necessarily one specific
day,
now that Molly thought about it. He’d done her wrong on many days—just by being
Harry
.

Any doubts she had about going to Gretna with Cedric were now completely quashed.

“I’ll marry Cedric, and we’ll be ridiculously happy,” she said out loud to no one and turned back to the inn door.

She resolutely pushed herself through the throng inside to her table, where Cedric sat, moodily plucking at grapes and chewing on something, as slow as a cow at cud.

He hated fruit. She knew it was costing him dearly, this ruse by which he could stay and gaze at his Aphrodite.

“Cedric!” Molly called to him, her hands clasped to her bosom. “My love!”

He looked up at her and said nothing.

She smiled brightly and, seating herself, sensed the overwhelming presence of Harry at the table beside her.

“I have no desire to try your meal,” she heard Harry say.

She stole a glance. Aphrodite was holding out her fork, not speaking, but obviously insisting that he taste something on the tines.

“No,
thank
you,” Harry said with more force. A lone black curl fell across his brow, and he was in desperate need of a shave.

Molly suppressed a scoff. Of course, even when Harry
did
shave, he appeared in desperate need of a shave. That blue-black shadow on his jawline never went away. He looked like a lascivious pirate disguised as a gentleman, whether he was dressed as he was now or in evening clothes.

If he were any other man, she would dream about being ravished by him (whatever that entailed; Penelope wouldn’t tell
all
). But as it was, Molly slowed the pounding of her heart by recalling the time he’d brought her a second small Queen cake at his parents’ last anniversary celebration, when he knew very well a lady stopped at one—and then had the effrontery to say, “I know you want it. You have the appetite of a man.”

Oh, he was wicked!

Now she watched as the pink-gowned beauty waved the fork in front of Harry’s face. Finally, he took his large hand and pushed the fork back in her direction. “Please,” was all he said.

But Molly knew that voice. It was forceful, annoyed. She’d heard it several times the past year, at the baptism of her niece, at Christmas, and at a family funeral.

Aphrodite burst into soft, beautiful tears, dropped her fork to her plate, and stood up from the table. Her bosom heaved in a most…visible fashion.

“My God,” Cedric said, mouth agape, staring at that bosom. A pulpy grape sat in the middle of his tongue.

“Do swallow that,” Molly said, feeling sour and mean and ready to spar with someone. “You’ve been chewing on it this age.”

But Cedric ignored her. His mouth stayed open as he watched Aphrodite walk away. Her rich brown hair spilled in glorious curls down the center of her back, exposing her creamy shoulders. Her lovely pink dress was adorned with a matching cream sash that fluttered silkily behind her.

And then Cedric turned back to Molly, livid, judging from the slant of his magnificent brows, and spat the grape out on the plate. “How can you think of grapes at a time like thish?” he sputtered.

Molly felt like slapping his face. But she widened her eyes instead. And prayed to think of something compelling—and romantic—to say back to him.

Harry eyed Molly’s companion. What a milksop. Of course, he knew who Cedric Alliston was, the smarmy bounder. His affectations at Eton were legion, the most prominent being a tendency to speak as if his jaw were glued shut.

Harry suppressed a smirk and watched as Molly tried to forget the chewed-up grape in full view on Alliston’s plate.

“Exactly,” she was saying. “How can I think of anything but our Gretna wedding, my love?”

Oh, dear God.

Alliston got up. “I shall check on the horshes,” he said.

Right. Harry had no doubt he’d be checking on the whereabouts of the lovely Fiona. Harry had seen the lust in his eyes, which the fool hadn’t even bothered to disguise in front of Molly.

Molly smiled and waved. “I’ll be waiting!”

When Alliston left, she turned to Harry. “I’m sorry you obviously haven’t found true love yourself,” she said lightly, striving her damnedest to sound like a woman adored.

“If what you and Alliston have is true love, then I don’t want it,” Harry threw back. “Besides, it’s awfully hard to find true love when you’re trudging all over Europe with the King’s army
for five years
.”

She stiffened. That hadn’t been her fault. He’d been the one to kiss Penelope, after all!

She lifted her chin. “I hear you were a perfect disgrace in the army. You should try peeling potatoes every morning, noon, and night at a miserable school
for five years
.”

Neither one said another word. Several minutes passed. Harry finished his meal. Molly scraped at her plate, squinting in annoyance because the sun was winking off his boots, which she suspected he buffed with champagne. His chest hairs were curling rudely from the gaping vee at his neck, and when he yawned quite loud enough to wake the dead, his overly tanned neck corded from the effort.

“Goodness,” she admonished him from under her breath.

Harry grinned at her, exposing brilliant white teeth, but his eyes were rather slitted, as if he were cursing her at the same time. “I had rather too much fun last night,” he said in an offhand manner and stretched out his legs.

Too much
fun
?

Molly glared at him, not one bit surprised at his audacity.

The crowd at the large table exited the taproom. The only people left were Molly, Harry, and two old men at the bar. And of course, the innkeeper and the flirtatious barmaid. They’d done a booming business today.

Molly sighed. “Well, I shall go meet my intended outside.”

“And I shall meet my beautiful companion.” Harry pushed back from the table, threw some coins down, and stood, looming above Molly.

“You mean your lightskirt,” she said.

“Yes,” Harry replied. “And thank God I don’t have to take her to Gretna. I can simply take my pleasure with her and be on my way.”

“You—” Molly breathed.

“No,
you,
” Harry said back.

She stood, skewered him with a look, and stepped smartly around him, quite as if he were nothing more than a chair, or a bucket, or a broom. She strode toward the inn door. Harry moved in that direction, as well. Each went by different paths, through different tables. Molly started to walk faster, but to her dismay, Harry did, too.

And then it was a race—who would get to the door first? Of course Harry won, with his longer legs, a fact which annoyed Molly no end. When he stopped at the threshold, she pushed under his arm and emerged first in the stableyard.

But Harry didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at a carriage moving at a smart pace out of the yard onto the road. A flash of pink could be seen inside its window.

Harry’s lightskirt had been wearing pink!

“Oh, my,” Molly said, and couldn’t help the note of triumph in her voice. Wouldn’t it be splendid if the beautiful Aphrodite had left Harry for another man?

“What the hell?” Harry snarled. He obviously didn’t care that Molly saw his rage. She was as nothing to him, as he was to
her
.

He took off at a run.

Molly gazed down the road, too, at the carriage, at Harry running toward it. The coachman whipped the horses into a frenzy of speed, and Molly couldn’t help but enjoy seeing Harry fall well behind its wheels.

And then she recognized something. The back of Cedric’s carriage. It had gotten a mighty scratch on it from the time he’d chained a naked statue to the roof and wrapped the chain around the carriage body.

Harry’s lightskirt was inside Cedric’s carriage.

“Cedric,” she whispered, and she began to run, too. She lifted her skirts with her left hand and followed Harry onto the road, her boots flying.

“Cedric!” she cried, and waved her shuttered parasol above her head. “Please don’t leave me!”

But the coachman flashed his whip again. The horses strained at their bits and galloped even faster, seemingly anxious to leave the inn and its stableyard far behind them.

Chapter 4

Molly stood on the road beside Harry and watched the vehicle carrying Cedric and his Aphrodite disappear around a bend in the road. Her ears began to buzz. In the distance, the chickens, the oak tree, the woman and child climbing into a wagon in the stableyard—all became wavy, like ribbons of taffy.

God, no. This couldn’t be happening to her. Everything,
everything
…was wrong, upside down.

She blinked slowly, several times, to make the waves go away. When they did, she found her feet again, one of which she promptly stomped at Harry.

“Now see what you’ve done,” she said. “I’m stranded here because
your
fit of temper caused
your
lightskirt to throw herself into the arms of
my
intended!”

Harry brought his face a mere few inches from her own. “And
your
intended obviously had had enough of
your
bossiness. So much so that he took off with
my
lightskirt!”

“You shouldn’t have a lightskirt,” said Molly. “What would your mother say?”

“And you shouldn’t be running off to Gretna Green with a spineless fop.”

Molly refused to blink. “He wasn’t spineless. Simply…sensitive.”

Although she had no idea why she was defending Cedric. It was Harry’s fault, of course. He always brought out the irrational in her.

Harry scoffed. “Alliston sensitive? He is about as sensitive as a tree stump.”

She crossed her arms. “And your lightskirt is about as intelligent as…as an insect.”

Harry’s smile was wicked. “She doesn’t require intelligence for what I need her for.”

If he intended to make her blush, Molly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She turned her back and put up her parasol.

Never in a million years would she ask Harry’s help.

But help was what she needed. She was stranded at a remote hostelry in the middle of England, unchaperoned and without even the excuse of going to Gretna Green with her intended to protect her reputation.

If anyone back home found out what was happening to her, she was a fallen woman.

Harry watched Molly march onto the dusty road, the silliest of striped parasols open above her head. She stared down both ways with a wrinkle on her brow. He recalled that there were no farm houses or places to stop for at least ten miles southward, but the north road led her even farther from home.

“Here now!” he called to her.

She turned around. “I’ve nothing to say to you.” She put her chin in the air and headed south.

Harry trotted after her, grabbed her elbow, and swung her around. “You’re not going to disappear and leave me in an awkward situation.”

Her cheeks were spotted pink. “Oh, and I’m not in one myself? Any gentleman would have noticed I am! But no, you’re no gentleman. The whole world knows
that
.”

She hit him on the chest with her reticule. It felt empty, except for maybe a coin.

He sighed. “That doesn’t help anything.”

She inhaled through her nose and let her breath out in a gusty sigh. “I’m sorry. A lady doesn’t hit people. Even though you deserve it, cavorting with a woman who’s no lady at all, running off with any man she sees!”

He scoffed. “Are you telling me
you’re
a lady? You put a thistle in my seat and a rock in my wine goblet last time I dined at Marble Hill.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“It was at Penelope and Roderick’s bon voyage celebration before they took the girls to Italy. Barely four months ago.”

“Yes, but how is that worse than pulling someone’s chair out a little too far? You did it the very evening after your dear aunt Cora expired! I almost fell on my bottom at supper, in front of all your grieving family, thanks to
you
.”

“I did it for Aunt Cora,” he said. “She liked practical jokes.”

“A poor excuse,” Molly replied.

They glared at each other. Neither one spoke for a minute, and then she said, rather thickly, “We’re both in trouble.”

He hoped she wouldn’t become a watering pot. It was the last thing he needed, to be in the presence of a stubborn shrew who was also
crying
.

“Perhaps we should help each other out of it,” he said very reluctantly.

Oh, how it cost him!

“That’s what I was thinking,” she said, brightening a bit.

Thank God. Although seeing her brighten was something he usually wouldn’t encourage.

“Exactly what
is
your situation?” she asked him.

“I’m traveling to a house party, a rather lively one. I can take you with me.”

“Lively?”

“Let’s just say it’s not the sort of house party
you
’d typically attend. Or most members of the
ton,
for that matter. It’s…unique. This year I’ve been designated the host.”

She waved him off and kept walking.

“And I need a mistress to take with me!” he called after her, refusing to look or sound ashamed.

She wheeled around. “I should have known you’d propose something scandalous.” And then marched off again in an even greater huff.

“You’d be my
false
mistress, not a real one, you foolish chit!” As usual, she had his blood boiling.

She turned again, stopped, stuck an index finger on her chest. “Me? Foolish?”

“Yes,
you
. Walking into certain danger on that road.” He felt his nostrils flare like a bull’s. There was not a person in the world who could rile him the way Molly Fairbanks did.

“Dangerous?” She put a fist on her hip. “How is walking on a road more dangerous than attending a gathering with you, where there’ll be sure to be drunken louts falling everywhere and lightskirts gadding about half clothed? And why would anyone need a false mistress anyway? It’s a ludicrous concept.”

Harry crossed his arms and prayed for patience. “First of all, we shan’t be drunk
all
the time.”

Molly rolled her eyes.

“There
is
some strategy involved.”

“Such as?”

“If I show up with no mistress at all,” he explained, “I’ll lose the wager immediately. So I must bring
someone
. Your presence will at least keep me in the game.”

She opened her mouth to rip into him—he saw the flare of battle in her eyes—but he put his index finger in the air. “I’m willing to make you a mistress
in name only
to protect your virtue.” She should be pleased. “Although no one else shall know of our arrangement, of course.”

He’d be the only man at the house party with a false mistress. Did she not appreciate his sacrifice?

She lowered her brows. “I knew it was something like that. What exactly do you mean by ‘game’?”

“We compete. Whoever brings the finest mistress wins.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Do go on.”

“Each woman shall be judged on her beauty—extra points for beauty, actually, especially if we can
see
much of it.”

Molly’s brow wrinkled. “‘See much of it’?”

“Yes.” He bit his lip, not caring to explain. “And then, of course, she shall be judged on her conversation. And her wit.” He snapped his fingers. “If she’s skilled at gambling with ha’pennies, laughs frequently at men’s jokes, and notices when their brandy snifters need replenishing, so much the better.”

“You’re joking.”

Harry shrugged. “Not at all. To sum up, she’ll be judged on almost all the things that make a female, shall we say, mesmerizing to a man.”

Molly sighed and tapped her foot. “What do you win if you bring the, um, finest of the mistresses?”

“
She
gets the glory of winning the title—‘the Most Delectable Companion,’” he said as if he were announcing the tightrope walker at the traveling circus. “And a crown of paste,” he remembered to add.

She twisted her face up. “That’s all? She receives no tangible reward beyond a worthless title and tiara?”

He shifted, suddenly feeling doubtful. Molly had a way of making him feel like a…a dunderhead. He hadn’t felt that way since—

Since he’d
last
seen her!

“You should at least give the Most Delectable Companion loads of money,” she said, her chin back in the air. “God knows she’ll deserve it. Any lightskirt of yours would require the patience of a saint!” She paused only long enough to get her breath. “What does her consort win?”

“Another year of freedom from the parson’s noose,” he said with relish, because he knew she would hate to hear him say it. “And every matchmaking mama, all the dragon ladies who rule Almack’s, and every bettor at every club in London will know he’s off the market. Thanks to a royal decree put forth by Prinny himself.”

“Prinny?” Her lip curled. “You mean the Prince Regent will give you permission to enjoy shirking your duty by your family.”

“What duty?” Harry said coolly. “Roderick shall be the next Duke of Mallan, and Penelope will be sure to produce a son soon. He’ll already have four big sisters to boss him about. The line is thriving, I assure you.”

“But
you
must marry, as well.” She sounded exactly like his mother.
And
his sister-in-law.
And
his father and brother.

“I am the spare,” he ground out. “I can stay a bachelor as long as I’d like. They merely need me if Roderick sticks his spoon in the wall before his son is born, and my brother is a hale, hearty fellow who shall be around for another seventy years at least.”

“But your mama will want more grandchildren,” Molly persisted, twirling her parasol as if they were conversing about the weather.

She must quite enjoy bickering, Harry thought. Perhaps it was her favorite pastime.

He felt his mouth become a grim line. “I’d rather not discuss it. It is, quite frankly, none of your business, Molly Fairbanks.”

“Ohhhh,” she growled, and lowered her parasol to glare at him. As if he couldn’t see the intensity of that fierce look unless the sun were full upon her face.

They were getting nowhere. Fast. And she was working herself up to hitting him again with that blasted reticule.

“Let’s get back to business, shall we?” he said. “The men whose mistresses
don’t
win the contest must pull straws to see who must get legshackled to the woman handpicked for each of them by the board of their club. So we have an obvious winner
and
an obvious loser.”

Molly brightened. “If you lose this year, you’ll have to marry Anne Riordan.”

“How do
you
know?”

“Easy. Your papa’s on the board, and he tells everyone he believes she’ll have a calming influence on you.” She inclined her head and smiled. “I will quite enjoy that, seeing you and Anne married.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You always were cruel.”

She laughed. “Tell me, Harry, what would I get out of being your—ahem—false mistress?”

He crossed his arms. “Safe, anonymous travel back to Marble Hill. I assume your father is traipsing about Europe somewhere and that you somehow pulled the wool over his cousin Augusta’s eyes?”

“How did
you
know?”

“Easy. You’re extremely predictable.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like how you said that.”

He shrugged. “Take it as you wish.”

She bit her thumbnail. “But the gentlemen at the house party. What if they recognize me in town? Now that I’m not marrying Cedric, I shall have to have a Season.”

“You’ll wear loads of face powder and rouge.”

“They’ll itch.” She knew from experimenting with Cousin Augusta’s.

“And you must use a false name.”

“I’ll forget it. I know it.”

He sighed. “You can’t afford to forget it.”

“Then it must be Delilah,” she said. “It’s the only name I’ll be able to remember.”

“Why Delilah?”

“I don’t know. But I already know I won’t forget it.”

Harry shook his head. He would never quite understand women and the way their minds worked, especially Molly’s—thank God.

“You needn’t be overly worried about being found out,” he said. “The gentlemen will be mildly pickled half the time—when we’re out shooting—and severely so the other half. Plus, they’ll be looking
down
almost always.” He cocked one brow.

Her face grew red. “Do you mean—” She glanced down at her own bodice.

“Yes.”

She shuddered. “This house party sounds awful.”

“It will be.” He grinned. “Positively dreadful.”

She narrowed her eyes, kicked a stone in the road, and then whirled back to face him. “Why me?” she demanded. “Why not ask that buxom barmaid back at the inn to be your
real
mistress? She’s a willing handful, isn’t she?”

He resented having to venture into truth territory, where vague notions about saving damsels in distress claimed priority over his own more immediate needs and wants.

“Believe me,” he said. “I thought about asking her, even if she is a bit rustic. But I can’t allow a gently bred lady to be thrust out into the world unprotected. Even if that so-called
lady
”—he put as much sarcasm in the word as possible—“is
you
.”

“Oh.” She drew back.

“Oh,”
she said again, softer this time, and bit her lip.

He’d gone too far. And yes, he felt guilty. Roderick would have his hide if he’d heard Harry address his sister-in-law so.

But Molly was so…provoking. Always had been. From the time she’d discovered, at age four, a sack of acorns he’d spent two weeks gathering for a game of war with Roderick and redistributed them to the squirrels at Marble Hill.

She shook her head. “I won’t go with you. But thank you for asking.” Her voice was small. She lowered her parasol and took off down the road again, this time looking not so much like Napoleon. Her arms were wrapped around her middle, not swinging boldly. Her stride had shortened, as well.

She stumbled over a rock.

“Wait!” he called to her.

She recovered and kept walking.

He strode after her. “Will you
stop
?”