When Harry Met Molly

“Thank you.” She opened the door to the carriage and tossed the apple core out, then returned to a demure position and clasped her hands in her lap.

“Preferably on the Continent,” he added. “Or the far north of Scotland.”

“Very funny.”

“With someone who can…contain you.”

“Enough.” She slapped his leg, but she was too excited to give real credence to his insults. He had agreed to her terms, after all.

She grabbed a roll from the basket, and leaning back on the squabs, said, “Do your best to see that he’s handsome, Harry. And he should not be either too old or too serious—I’ve had enough of serious with Cedric.”

“But Molly—”

“Yes?”

“You do know you must be like honey to attract a bee.”

He was talking nonsense.

“I want no bee,” she said. “I want the best bachelor on the market. And you shall find him! Have you any cheese in that basket?” She rummaged through.

“In the bottom,” Harry said, then added, “I can’t do it alone. You must entice this bachelor. That’s where the honey plays a part.”

“Oh, bother with honey,” she said, topping her roll with cheese and taking a bite. “Although I am perfectly good at enticing if I have to. Look at Cedric.”

“There is Cedric,” Harry granted rather dubiously. “Tell me, how many gentlemen, all told, have brought you flowers?”

She was reluctant to answer. She was also loath to tell him that the only reason Cedric had eloped with her was because he wanted her father’s wealth to back his own digging expeditions.

So instead she ate her bread and cheese and watched a field of cows pass by her window. They swung their tails, and one cow nudged another. When Molly’s neck grew pained from twisting, she finally returned her gaze to Harry.

“No man has brought me flowers, actually,” she confessed.

Even though Cedric had had no idea he was to elope with her until she told him to, he should have brought her flowers. She hoped Harry’s lightskirt was taking her former fiancé for all he was worth.

“All the more reason for me to tutor you in the ways of men, then,” Harry said. “Because aside from a decent fortune and good name, the skills you must have to win a proper husband are actually very similar to the skills you’ll need to be an excellent mistress at the house party. Which I was about to detail for you anyway, before we started practicing our—”

“Kissing,” she interjected quickly, wishing they could do it once or twice more. But she didn’t want him to know that he was any good at it, so she supposed she would have to wait until the house party to try it again.

“Yes, well”—Harry gave a short laugh—“in either case, whether you are mistress or wife, you will have to be…beguiling.”

“I can do that,” she said, starting on her second roll and slice of cheese.

His lips twitched again. Really, he must have a tic of some sort.

“Watch the other mistresses at the house party,” he advised her. “Notice how they act around the men. Every night we’ll cast a vote for our favorite mistress of the day—we can’t select our own, so this is an opportunity for you to work your charms on the other men.”

She sat quietly for a moment. “What will the other men find, as you say, beguiling?”

“What most men do. A beautiful woman, of course, is always a pleasure. And if she doesn’t speak too much, if she is mysterious at times, dangling only occasional tidbits of warmth in her speech and manner, then men will find her most intriguing. They will want to see what fire lurks beneath the surface.”

Molly scoffed. “That sounds very complicated. And silly.”

Harry sighed. “You asked.”

“What else is there?” Molly wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. “I’ll try to be so good at it, they won’t mind that I natter on now and again.”

Harry sighed. “Men like biddable women, Molly. Someone they don’t have to take too seriously, someone who entertains them but knows when to leave them to their other duties and interests.”

“Then I’m disgusted with all men.”

Harry jetted a breath. “Do you want me to help you find a husband or not this Season?”

She felt like sulking but couldn’t afford to. “Yes.”

“If you have any hope of that happening, then you’d best listen to what I have to say. Because if you don’t win the Most Delectable Companion title, I most certainly will not be looking out for your interests in London.”

“And if I don’t win the Most Delectable Companion title, you might have to marry this year.”

They glared at each other.

The carriage pulled up to the inn. Thank God. She needed to get away from Harry. Their relationship—if you could call it that—was entirely too provoking.

In a private room at the inn, Molly opened Fiona’s trunk and gasped.

Goodness. She was looking at a veritable treasure chest filled with shimmering, rich fabrics! In hues that a respectable young lady was never permitted to wear.

She bit her lip to restrain her excitement. Fiona was so very lucky, wasn’t she?

Had been lucky, Molly corrected herself, her chest expanding with a glorious, warm feeling. She was the fortunate owner of the trunk now!

Pressing a dainty undergarment to her breast, she felt extremely possessive already, although she had no idea what the dainty undergarment was. She peered through its diaphanous panels and wondered, but only for a moment.

Because there were elaborate slippers. Fringed and beaded shawls. Two bonnets wrapped in paper, both of them stunning. (The others must be in those hat boxes strapped to Harry’s carriage). And nightclothes so sheer, Molly could see right through them.

But the gowns…oh, the gowns! In the next few minutes, Molly tossed dress after dress aside, oohing and aahing at the varied fabrics, the elaborate detailing of each one, until she found a dress that was—

Breathtaking.

The most beautiful shade.

And entirely unsuitable for a proper young lady.

It was a bishop’s blue muslin sheath spangled with matching bugle beads at the waistline and elaborate flounces at the hem. The bodice plunged to nothing, rather like a sharp cliff.

She sighed, trying not to think of Miss Dunlap and her lectures on modesty.

All Fiona’s bodices plunged to nothing. Molly had dutifully looked but found no tuckers to put into those bodices.

“Oh, dear,” she said aloud to no one (Harry was having a tankard of beer downstairs). “These gowns are a disgrace!”

She laid her favorite gown on the bed and glared at it.

For another five minutes, she tried to be upset and disappointed at the disgracefulness of that gown. She would ignore it. So she searched through the trunk once more and found a bottle of perfumed oil, quite exotic smelling. She also discovered, of all things, several dyed feathers.

She’d no idea why Fiona would carry such feathers.

But her gaze kept returning to the gown on the bed. Her heart raced. Somehow, she knew wearing that daring dress would feel like a great adventure.

The truth was, she’d be delighted to don it.

She held it up. She should wear a shawl to cover her exposed flesh. And…and if Harry required her to remove the shawl, then—then she would simply have to do so, against her will.

It would be all his fault.

Besides, she shouldn’t worry overly much even if she were half naked. The men