When Harry Met Molly

the stiffness of her posture. Praying that she’d not balk—because the chaste kiss they were now sharing wasn’t nearly the kiss a man and his mistress would share at a ribald gathering—he teased her mouth open further.

Harry heard her small intake of breath at the invasion, but he trusted in his kissing skills, pushing farther and farther into the sweet boundaries of her mouth until he sensed himself reacting, really reacting.

And it was because she was responding. She sort of melted into him across the space separating them in the carriage, and he pulled her onto his lap, and he pressed her lower back just so, to settle her.

She was molded perfectly to his body now. She lifted her hand and placed it tentatively around his neck, gripped him, and drew him even closer. One part of his mind was appalled at himself, kissing a girl whom he wouldn’t mind seeing fall off a cliff, and the other demanded that the pleasurable sensations continue.

Of course, the side demanding pleasure won.

And then she said something like, “Mmmmm,” deep in her throat, a wholly unexpected response which took him to the next level of…of need, he supposed. Not that he needed to kiss Molly.

He needed Fiona, the lightskirt to end all lightskirts, whose company he’d been deprived of—thanks to the woman sitting on his lap right now.

Abruptly, he pulled back and took a measured breath.

“Samson,” she murmured, like a baby whose toy has been taken away, and opened her eyes. But they were heavy-lidded, her gaze dreamy.

“What did you say?” His own voice was rough—with irritation, he was sure, brought about by unsated desire for Fiona.

Molly’s eyes widened. “Nothing.” And with a polite, nervous smile, she stumbled backward into the opposing seat.

He didn’t know how to respond. He could have sworn she’d said Samson. Who the bloody hell was he? Then light dawned. He was playing the Samson to her Delilah. Molly was pretending he was someone else while he kissed her. No woman, as far as he knew, had ever had to pretend he was someone else to enjoy his kisses! While he’d been very aware throughout the whole, insanely delicious kiss that she was Molly.

Yes, Molly the termagant. And Molly the shrew. But Molly, nonetheless.

“I suppose that was adequate practice,” she said, and looked out the window at the passing countryside. She appeared bright as a daisy now, her lips cherry red.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Harry answered, his mood completely soured.

“That fainting spell was a fluke,” she insisted. “I’ll be the best false mistress ever.”

“Um,” was all he responded. He wasn’t interested in talking to a female who’d used his body to enjoy a fantasy kiss with a biblical figure.

“But Harry.” She nudged his knee again. “I’m getting safe passage back home simply for being with you, correct? For giving you that fighting chance. Because if you show up without a mistress, you forfeit the contest and head to the altar with a squint-faced bore.”

“Right. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Good.” She smiled. “Because if I win, I want something more.”

He felt his palms dampen. He hadn’t even contemplated the prospect that Molly could win. He should have been better prepared. He should have thought of all the angles this scenario could take. There was a very remote chance she could win.

She was pretty, in the way an apple sitting on a blue plate is pretty. Most definitely not the way a velvety rose in a crystal vase is pretty (her sister Penelope was that). But pretty nonetheless. He should encourage Molly to win. In fact, he was embarrassed that she’d thought of the possibility first.

“That’s right,” he said. “If you win, I shall be prepared to reward you a little something extra. Perhaps a bonnet, or a new gown.”

“No,” Molly retorted. “If I win, I want something much more substantial than a new bonnet or gown.”

Every woman of his acquaintance loved new bonnets and gowns! He felt his brows come together. “What, exactly, would you want?”

Knowing Molly, she would hit upon something that would hurt him to have to pay. He would do the same thing if he were in her position. It was the nature of their…relationship. If you could call it that.

The carriage was well sprung, but Harry felt tension gather in the muscles of his back. “Do go on with your pronouncement.”

“My demand,” she corrected him.

“Your demand, then,” he said, feigning nonchalance.

But when she opened her mouth to speak, he braced himself for the worst.

Chapter 7

“If I win, I want you to find me a husband,” Molly said to Harry, her heart pounding with excitement at the thought of taking London by storm in the coming Season. “A good one.”

A strange look of relief appeared on Harry’s face, as if he’d been expecting her to exact from him a ship full of silver and gold if she were to win the Most Delectable Companion title. She had gone rather easy on him, she realized now, but she couldn’t regret her choice of prize.

He bit his lip, hard, as if he were trying not to laugh.

Which made no sense, as her plan was brilliant.

“Don’t you see?” she said. “In town I must steer clear of men like you and Cedric if I’m to make a good match. I’ll rely on your expertise as an Impossible Bachelor to detect that tendency in my suitors. It should make the going much easier.”

She was very pleased with her plan, so pleased she’d regained her appetite. She took a lovely green apple from a basket on the seat next to Harry and bit into it.

Harry still didn’t say a word. “A good match,” he finally croaked, his eyes appearing rather glazed. “For you.”

She swallowed a chunk of apple. “Have you the headache?”

He shook his head.

She needs must explain further, obviously. “I daren’t make a mistake, Harry. If I don’t marry this Season, I’ll be firmly on the shelf. And I don’t want to be Cousin Augusta’s companion forever.”

While she waited for him to say something, anything, she surreptitiously adjusted her bodice with one hand (it was still somewhat askew from their kissing practice), nibbled on the apple, and tried not to blush at the remembrance of Harry’s kiss.

That morning Cedric’s lips had been cold as ice and he’d never opened his mouth, or hers.

The sensations she’d felt with Harry’s kissing were entirely different and…completely unsettling. In fact, she looked forward to more kissing practice. Even if it was with Harry. She would continue pretending he was Samson, of course.

Finally, Harry cleared his throat.

“Yes?” She lowered her apple, now more a core than anything else.

She knew him. He’d do something, anything, to deny her her wish. But she so wanted to go to London. She so wanted to dance! And find a husband, too, she supposed—someone who would understand her.

Harry had a solemn expression on his face, even though his lips kept twitching. “If you win the Most Delectable Companion title,” he said, “I will do my very best to locate a gentleman with serious intentions toward you. In fact, I would like nothing more than to see you settled.”