When Harry Met Molly

would be drunk. And they wouldn’t recognize her because she would be disguised.

Yes, that was it! Miss Dunlap couldn’t fault her for wearing scandalous gowns if she were disguised.

Feeling rather righteous—she was a good girl, after all—Molly sat at a dressing table and applied Aphrodite’s—rather, Fiona’s—face powder and then rouge to her cheekbones. She did the same for her lips. She also located a stub of kohl, with which she rimmed her eyes and blackened her eyebrows.

And then she remembered that Fiona had had a beauty mark.

After another moment’s work, Molly was done. She couldn’t help but gasp at the image in the mirror. Gone was the Grecian look she so favored—and there was absolutely no trace of the milkmaid look she preferred on Sundays.

Now she resembled a…a real tart.

Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she skirted around the trunk and opened a door to the hallway. Harry was already there, looking impatient, but also rather serious. As serious as a man about to buy a horse, which was serious, indeed.

He circled her. “Remove the shawl, please.”

Biting her lip, she looked down at the floor and did as she was told. And felt an instant draft. She would die of a horrible illness now and be sent to hell.

“Well,” said Harry, in a soft, surprised voice.

She looked up and met his eyes. There was something new in his expression. Something that made her heart beat faster. His pupils were large and black, and his mouth curled up in the slightest smile.

“You look…perfect,” he said, his gaze heating something in her.

“Really?” She gave him a rather wobbly smile back.

He nodded. “The dress fits you better than it did, um, Fiona.” He cast a quick glance at the bodice. “Especially there.”

“Oh, right.” Molly nodded, looking down at the tops of her breasts straining against the fabric. “Thank you.”

He walked around her. “Now don’t forget. It looks more pleasing without the shawl.”

Suddenly, Molly felt better. She had a job to do. And that job was to look more pleasing. She had no time to waste on frivolous thoughts of hell.

“Then I shall not wear the shawl.” She dropped it on top of the open trunk.

Harry’s gaze lingered once more on her bosom. “Um, perhaps in the carriage you should wear the shawl.”

“Of course.” She looked down at the scandalously deep neckline. “I wouldn’t want to spill crumbs or anything.”

“Right,” he said briskly.

She retrieved the shawl. “Are you sure I’ll pass the test?”

Harry’s eyes gleamed like—

Like she wasn’t sure.

But it scared her. And excited her. And sent tingles down her spine. He looked at her as if he would slay a dragon for her and demand she pay him afterward with something akin to what they’d done in the carriage.

Which was perfectly all right with her. She’d gladly pay him that way!

Any nice person would repay someone that way for slaying a dragon!

He took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. “I think you look as if you belong at this house party.” His voice was a bit rough around the edges. “No one would possibly guess you don’t belong, unless, of course—”

“I open my mouth.” She grinned.

He gave a little laugh. “Exactly.”

The strange tension between them was gone, thank goodness. Now she could breathe again.

He chucked her under the chin. “Just remember what I said in the coach. Be beguiling. Mysterious.”

“Biddable,” she repeated, and watched him shut the trunk.

“Yes,” he said, as he heaved the trunk over his shoulder.

God, she hated biddable. But even as he carried a large trunk which hit the side of the door on the way out of the room and caused him to swear, Harry looked tremendously pleased with her, which, she supposed, was a good thing. She needed him on her side. They must appear compatible. Otherwise, someone might catch on to their ruse, and she would never win the contest.

Because now returning home scandal-free was not enough. She wanted that husband. He was her ticket out of what would surely be an even more ho-hum existence at Marble Hill, now that Cedric was out of the picture. And as soon as she got this husband, she could cease with the silly nonsense involved in entrapping a man, except for the dancing part and the beautiful-gowns-and-bonnets part.

She would be mistress of her own household in London, and she would tell her doting spouse that she had no intention of shutting up or wearing pale muslin every day, and he wouldn’t object because Harry would have found the right man for her, one who enjoyed her conversation and wanted her to dance all the time and ride her horse and attend humorous plays.

She would read scandal sheets and pore over dress patterns and read exciting novels, just like all the other women she knew, and she would most definitely stay away from conversations about ancient relics. She’d still pour tea for Cousin Augusta when she went home to visit Papa, but she’d have friends with her who would divert Cousin Augusta from the brass band in her ears.

Yes, being biddable now was a means to an end—Molly’s freedom. And there was nothing she desired more than that.

Chapter 8

Despite the comfort of Harry’s carriage, which sported tasseled curtains and seats of the softest leather, Molly was relieved to arrive at their final destination in the late afternoon. As soon as she’d reentered the carriage that afternoon, all resplendent in her newfound finery, she recalled the kiss she and Harry had shared in the vehicle’s cozy interior. She remembered sitting on Harry’s lap, smelling his deliciously woodsy man smell, running her fingers through his silken curls, and being crushed to his chest while he kissed her senseless.

It was torture, as if the carriage itself kept whispering, “That kiss,” in her ear, especially when she caught Harry staring at her shawl, around the area of her bosom, and once or twice licking his lips. And then something compelled her to accidentally on purpose drop an apple and her shawl. She and Harry had both searched for the apple on the floor for ages—it rolled around quite a bit—and their hands kept touching.

And her shawl had conveniently fallen off, which meant even longer searching for the apple because Harry kept forgetting to search and stared again at her bosom.

Yes, Molly thought, the afternoon’s journey had been torture. A delicious kind of torture—but torture, nonetheless.

She must get out of the carriage before she burst with wanting to be kissed again, and by Harry, of all people.

Not a moment too soon, John Coachman brought them round to the front door of the house.

“Welcome to my favorite hunting box,” Harry said, and held out his hand.

Molly took it and imagined yanking him close for a practice kiss that would harm no one. Instead, she jumped down to the gravel. “Oh, is it yours, then?” she said mildly. “A gift from your father?”

Harry hesitated. “The duke knows how much I love it here,” he said, sounding a bit gruff. “So yes, he gave it to me.”

“How generous of him.” Molly gazed at the neat façade of a three-story gray stone manor. A gravel walkway lined with bright red geraniums led to a front door painted blue. It was tucked neatly into the side of a small, forested hill. “It’s lovely,” she added.

And it was. She’d quite like to churn butter here. Or knit. Not that she knew how to do either. But she could borrow a good book from the library. And she could eat biscuits and drink milk while