When Harry Met Molly

“You’re best rid of him,” Harry said easily. “It’s not in your nature to be obedient.”

“Stop talking about my nature,” she said. That was personal, and what did he know about hers?

And then he seemed to read her mind.

“Believe it or not, Molly Fairbanks.” His voice was low, intimate. “I know you.”

She felt gooseflesh on her arms and a strange thrumming in her middle. “Don’t talk to me in that…that way! It’s indecent. I shall tell the duke.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. It’s only how a man addresses his mistress.” He sat up and his expression grew serious. “Get used to it,” he said in a neutral manner. “I shall have to address you that way at the house party.”

“No.” Molly crossed her arms. “It’s quite inappropriate.”

“The whole week will be inappropriate,” he reminded her.

“Hmmmph.”

“While we are on the subject”—he had a way of ignoring her hmmmphs that quite riled her—“let’s go over some expected behavior.”

“Oh?” She prayed he wouldn’t mention kissing him. She would have to close her eyes and pretend he was Cedric, although, blast it, she didn’t love Cedric!

All right, then. She would pretend Harry was a hero in a gothic novel, that’s what she would do. She’d even give him an imaginary name. She was Delilah. So he’d be…

Samson.

She closed her eyes a moment, envisioning a noble Samson cradling her in his strong, golden arms. Oh, Samson! she would sigh. And then he’d kiss her. Just like that.

She opened her eyes again.

“Are you all right?” Harry had a squiggle on his brow. “Your mouth was hanging open. I was sure you were about to faint.”

“I’m fine, thank you very much.” She laced her fingers together. “Do go on.”

“About kissing,” Harry said, his eyes locking onto hers.

She’d never noticed them before. They were a warm, rich brown with little golden glints in them. Her stomach tightened, and for some reason, the air seemed to grow hot in the carriage. Perhaps someone should open a window, she thought—

And then her world went black.

Chapter 6

Seeing Molly slack—without a fight in her—nearly undid Harry. He had the instant thought that he would be sent to hell for teasing her if she died.

So he must see to it that she recovered. Immediately.

He slapped her gently on the cheek. “Molly! Wake up!”

Nothing happened. He glanced down and saw the regular rise and fall of the rounds of her breasts, peeping from the top of her modest neckline.

She was obviously in no danger of dying. He ignored the vague sensation of relief that swelled his chest and shook her gently by the shoulders. “Wake up, Molly!”

Her skin was alabaster white, her eyelids almost translucent. She was like Briar Rose in that Brothers Grimm tale, but—

You’d have to pay him a million pounds to kiss her to wake her up, and even then he wouldn’t do it.

“Women and their megrims,” he muttered, and grabbed a flask out of his pocket. Carefully, he dribbled a bit of brandy into her half-parted mouth.

She made a spitting noise and then her eyes began blinking madly.

He leaned over her. “Feeling better?”

She sat bolt upright. “What in heaven’s name—” Her puckish brown eyes registered confusion first, then annoyance.

Which meant she was back to her old self.

“You fainted, I believe.” Harry grinned. “I had no idea you were that sort of female.”

“I am certainly not that sort of female, if you mean weak and insipid. I simply didn’t get enough to eat today.”

“That and perhaps you’re worried about your duties as a mistress.”

“False mistress,” she corrected him. Her cheeks grew a tiny bit pink. “And I am not worried. I’m quite capable of performing my duties. Even though I have no idea what they are, beyond the card playing and the laughing and the appearing beautiful all the time.” Looking out the window, she scooted deeper into her seat and crossed her arms over her breasts.

Harry leaned back, amused, because she was obviously worried about her duties, and nothing gave him more satisfaction than seeing Molly Fairbanks ill at ease.

Even so, he decided to grace her with a small, reassuring smile—not to be kind, he reminded himself, but to calm her so she’d perform her forthcoming role exceptionally well. Otherwise, he’d likely be sitting across the breakfast table from Anne Riordan sooner than later.

“Speaking of your responsibilities as my false mistress—”

“Yes?” she said rather fast.

“To make it appear as if we have a genuine relationship,” he said, “we will have to… kiss every once in a while. If we don’t, someone may catch on that you aren’t a real lightskirt, and then I am doomed.”

She made a face that proved pretty girls can turn into the veriest hags at a moment’s notice if they so choose. “I don’t want to kiss you, Harry.”

He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.” Harry strove to sound like an old, trusted friend. “A kiss is simply a kiss. Two mouths meeting. Nothing to fear.”

She appeared to be thinking. “I do kiss my horse sometimes,” she said. “Usually on the nose, but”—she put her hand to her mouth—“once I kissed him on the lips.”

She laughed outright. Some would say in a charming manner.

Not Harry, of course. But he could give her, at the very least, a modicum of a smile. “Kissing a man might be slightly different from kissing a horse,” he said, attempting to match her lighthearted tone.

But her eyes suddenly lost their impish quality. They became stormy. Defiant. Hurt.

Ah, thought Harry. Cedric had either kissed her. Or not kissed her.

He dared not ask which.

“Do it,” Molly said, closing her eyes. “Right now.”

Harry hesitated. He should have known she would try to take him off guard. She always wanted the upper hand.

Very well, then. He would show her who had the upper hand!

And if she had any memories of Cedric’s kisses, he would erase them. Because Harry prided himself on his kissing abilities. Not that he’d ever told anyone that. But still. He’d never left a woman disappointed.

“Ready?” he said.

She nodded, very fast, and squeezed her eyes even tighter shut. Her fists were clenched in her lap so hard her knuckles were white.

He took her by the shoulders and bent forward, wary. But her lips immediately conformed to his. They were soft and cushiony, and despite the fact she’d had brandy mere seconds ago, she tasted sweet, like strawberries. How had a sharp-tongued wench like her managed that?

He gained courage at her passive acceptance of the kiss, although he sensed, and was mildly entertained by,