When Harry Met Molly

“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?”

She quickened her pace.

He caught up to her, and she began to run.

Dash it all, he would have to run, too!

In one fell swoop, he lifted her over his shoulder and turned back to the inn. She screamed and kicked and beat him with her parasol, but he paid no heed to her pathetic attempts to make him submit to her shrill threats and simply kept walking.

“Thrash and scream to your heart’s content,” he said, ignoring the ringing in his ears. “Perhaps it will tire you out.”

A remark which his captive took to heart.

Seemingly by the grace of God alone, Harry made it to the stableyard without too much bodily damage.

“Ready?” he called to his coachman, who’d been ready this age, and was agog at the sight of his master toting a screaming virago who was, at the same time, obviously a well-bred young lady, over his shoulder. Harry opened the door to the carriage, stuffed Molly in, and jumped in himself, pulling the door quickly behind him and holding it shut. He put his hand on the other door as well to keep it sealed.

The carriage rocked forward and began a brisk roll out of the stableyard. They were on the road north again.

Molly clenched the seat cushion and drew in huge lungfuls of air. “I told you I hated you, Harry,” she said between breaths. “But the truth is I hate you with a capital H. That’s even more than I hated you before.”

He would allow her that diatribe. As penance for his “you’re no lady” dig.

“Nevertheless,” he replied coolly. “We’re stuck together. For one week.”

Inwardly, he sighed. Then reassured himself—if he could handle Waterloo, he could most certainly deal with Molly Fairbanks.

Chapter 5

Molly glared at Harry through slitted eyes, leaned back, and looked out her window. “Don’t expect me to say a word,” she muttered. “The entire trip.”

“I was counting on it,” he replied, cheerily enough.

Damn him.

She was still reeling from having been carried upside down by him and flailing madly at his back. But what was a girl to do but rebel when insulted by one’s own worst enemy?

The carriage rolled on. They passed several farms—farms where she could have taken refuge, perhaps, if Harry hadn’t acted like a pirate and made off with her as if she were some sort of booty.

She was to be his mistress. His false mistress.

She tried not to think too hard about what being a contender for the title of Most Delectable Companion would entail. Would he have to…kiss her? In front of everyone else, to act as if she were his actual mistress?

Her heart raced at the thought, so she glowered at him. Because it really was vile, the idea of her own innocent lips touching his double-speaking ones—even though his lips were quite tempting to the average girl. They were strong yet pliant-looking, and they were usually quirked in a pleasingly masculine expression.

But she wasn’t your average girl.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You wish you could speak. But you already said you wouldn’t, and I’m holding you to it.”

She slitted her eyes again.

“We shall be stopping in the next hour. There is another inn, a more respectable one. I shall escort you to a private room and guard your door while you change into one of Fiona’s gowns and apply her cosmetics.”

Her eyes widened.

“What?” Harry drew his brows together. “Are you wondering if Fiona has many gowns?”

Molly nodded. Violently.

“Indeed she does,” Harry replied. “And bonnets. The latest creations from Paris, I believe.”

Molly grinned, but then immediately stopped, attempted to look sick and depressed, and stared out the window.

“Too late,” he said. “I saw it.”

“Oh, you—” She clamped her mouth shut.

“Hah! You said something!” He chuckled.

Indeed, he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“I think I shall talk,” she said, in a wicked voice. “I think my silence pleases you. So I shan’t”—she paused for emphasis—“be silent any longer.”

Sure enough, he got a wrinkle on his brow and his mouth moved down into a frown.