When Harry Met Molly

reading it.

She found herself smiling.

Harry offered her his arm, and she took it gingerly.

“We keep a very limited retinue of servants,” he said. “All men, except for Cook. The house isn’t particularly grand, but considering what will go on here, it needn’t be.”

Molly paused, her cozy daydream dissolving like mist. What would actually go on here? She was supposed to be Harry’s mistress. And all the other women here would be mistresses, as well, which meant there would be lots of dalliances, and she knew what that involved—bare skin being exposed in private nooks or even bedchambers, secret kisses in the garden, and…and worse than kisses, according to all the little tidbits of information she’d picked up from Penelope.

“There’s a stream that meanders through the forest, and ends up in the lake on the other side of the hill,” Harry added, and strode to the front door.

Molly hesitated there. “Really? I adore lakes.”

Harry threw her a sly glance. “I always swim in it naked. And I never come here without swimming in it at least once. I’ve told my guests they have that option, too. It’s quite private.”

“Harry.” She scolded him with a glance, but she felt a bit breathless. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned that a lady such as myself might be exposed to unseemly sights?”

“You’re the one who took off to Gretna, did you not?” he said with a grin that made him look like a devilish boy in need of a comeuppance. “Should I sacrifice a chance to remain free for another year because of your harebrained idea?”

“I’m not the first person to attempt an elopement to Gretna,” she said, her chin rising a fraction, “nor the last.”

“It wasn’t the elopement that was harebrained—it was whom you decided to elope with that makes me doubt your judgment.”

“As your choice of lightskirt makes me doubt yours. Fiona never said a word, that whole time in the inn. What kind of woman doesn’t speak? Ever? It’s unnatural. Perhaps all her teeth were missing. Was that it?”

He gave her an impenetrable look. “Truce, Molly. We can’t afford to argue. There is much at stake here.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well.” Arguing with Harry took her mind off more pressing concerns, such as how she was going to be a false mistress. And how she was going to stop thinking about him swimming naked in that lake.

He opened the door. “Anybody home? We’re rather informal here,” he told her over his shoulder.

Molly walked in behind him and saw a butler walking at a snail’s pace up the hallway toward them.

Before he arrived, Molly glanced around and saw a man’s evening shirt flung on top of an ornate blue Chinese vase on the hall table, red patches of paint shaped like a pair of lips on the sleeve.

“Harry,” she whispered, pointing at the shirt.

“Up to no good already, I suppose.” He chuckled and stuffed the shirt deeper into the vase.

Typical man.

Molly forbore to huff, as the butler reached them and bowed. “Good day, Lord Harry. It’s good to have you back. It might interest you to know that just this morning, we received a cask of exceptional brandy delivered by a messenger from His Royal Highness with his best wishes for a successful week.”

Molly drew in an appalled breath. A whole cask of brandy? The men would be constantly drunk, constantly drunk and pawing at the women. She knew this for a fact because Penelope had warned her that husbands, when they drink, sometimes do naughty things to you with their hands under the supper table when you have company, especially if the company are old schoolmates who are equally drunk.

Molly yawned into her fan and then began to wave it languidly in front of her face to disguise her rising panic. And her interest. Harry had nice hands. How would they feel running over her thigh while they sat together at the table eating their turtle soup?

Would she flinch? Would the soup go everywhere?

Or would she do nothing?

She suddenly felt very hot.

“According to the messenger,” Finkle went on, “Prinny shall be awaiting the results of the wager with great interest.”

“Is that so?” said Harry mildly. “I was hoping he’d rather forgotten about us. Left us to our own devices.”

Finkle’s face remained somber. “No, indeed, he has not forgotten, Lord Harry. To quote the messenger, the drunken old fart is bored and is seeking—ahem—a bit of fun.”

Harry sighed. “With copious amounts of exceptional brandy on the premises, no doubt we’ll have some amusing stories to tell His Royal Highness by week’s end.”

Molly hoped none involving her, of course.

A footman appeared at her right and took her wrap. “I shall see to it that this is placed in your room, madam,” he said, looking vaguely over her head.

“Thank you,” she said, and wondered if he thought her rouge and gown were scandalous. Then she wondered if he was thinking of her naked, because she was, after all, supposed to be a mistress.

Oh, God. Was everyone thinking about her naked?

She whirled around to see the butler’s face, but thankfully he appeared more interested in Harry than in her at the moment.

“Are we the last to arrive, Finkle?” Harry asked, putting his arm around the servant’s decrepit old shoulders.

“Indeed you are, sir,” said Finkle. “The others were beginning to wonder if you didn’t have a…a young lady to bring to the house party.”

Molly blushed.

Harry threw back his head and laughed. “They would doubt me? You wouldn’t, would you, Finkle?”

“Never, sir.”

“Good man.” Harry gave the appearance of slapping him on the back, but Molly could tell it was more of a gentle pat.

Finkle almost smiled, and then, just as suddenly, he appeared to be falling into a deep sleep, his head lolling on his shoulders.

Harry gestured to Molly to say something.

“Wh-where is everyone?” Molly piped up.

Finkle blinked, opened his eyes. “Why, they are at the lake, dear lady. Taking a dip.”

She caught Harry’s gaze. He smiled, and she froze. That little smile couldn’t mean that his guests were all taking a dip together…naked, could it?

Molly felt herself blush. “Will—will they also be swimming later in the week?”

“They might be so inclined,” said Finkle.

“I hope not,” she said, and restrained a shudder.

“Why is that, my lady?” Finkle responded politely.

“I—I would rather not catch cold.”

“Ah, but it is the height of summer,” Finkle said. “The lake will never be warmer than it is right now. You might change your mind when you see it. Especially in the moonlight.”

Did—did Finkle assume that everyone went in the lake…naked? Was he envisioning her going in the lake naked, in the moonlight?

And for that matter, was the footman? She swung around to look at him, but he was already gone.

She attempted to smile at Finkle, but she sensed it appeared more as if she had an upset stomach. “I suppose I shall have to see the lake. Eventually. Although we might be so busy, I might never get around to it.”