“Oh, we’ll make time.” She was sure Harry said that with a wicked glint in his eye, and she swore Finkle responded with an old man’s leer.
Were they thinking of her naked again? She would never know, really. But if they were, how could she make them stop?
She was terrified and embarrassed to be a mistress, even a fake one, if it meant everyone was thinking of her naked all the time! Especially Harry! Because she was already thinking of
That wouldn’t do at all. Cousin Augusta and Papa would disapprove, and so would Miss Dunlap.
People shouldn’t see each other naked. Molly already felt naked when Harry kissed her, and that was bad enough. Maybe if she acted sickly, everyone would leave her alone all week. No one wanted to imagine a sick person naked.
“I—I have the headache,” she said. “And, I think, a crumbling spine.” She’d once heard an old woman at church complain of that. She put her hand on her lower back for emphasis.
But no one seemed to care. Finkle’s chin rested on his chest and he began a light snore. All Harry said was, “Why don’t you rest in your room until we gather in the drawing room tonight before supper?”
She was feeling rather exhausted, to tell the truth. “What time will that be?”
“I’ll send a footman up to let you know.”
“Fine.” She could hide from the fact that, even though she’d yet to set eyes on a lake, she was already in well over her head.
Harry watched Molly ascend the stairs, daintily lifting her hem as she did so. He hardly recognized her in that revealing gown and the paint, especially the kohl around her eyes, which made her look a bit like Cleopatra. Which was a good thing. It wouldn’t serve to have any other bachelor at the party be able to identify her here
She was climbing the last few steps now, her back ramrod straight, her hips stationary.
Perhaps Molly would learn through observation. Or a little brandy might loosen her up.
But even if she never lost that ramrod-straight back, Harry couldn’t help feeling heat in his belly at the sight of her climbing the stairs. She was round in all the right places. And her back was so delicate and fine! When he’d run his hand up and down it in the carriage, he’d felt a crazy impulse to lower her onto the carriage seat and make mad, passionate love to her—to show her all the things he sensed her untouched body longed for that she was missing and could be doing.
With him.
And he with her.
He suddenly realized it was going to be a difficult week, in more ways than one.
At the top of the stairs, she turned and saw him watching her. “You’re still here, Harry?”
He gave her a small bow. “Indeed, I am. I just thought of something. There’s a certain walk I’d like to teach you. May I?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Of course.”
He ascended the stairs three at a time and stopped right behind her. “It’s the mistress walk,” he said, placing a light hand on both her hips. His face was in her hair, which smelled sweet, and his mouth nearly touched the delicate rim of her ear. “Imagine yourself having to use your hips—and nothing else—to touch something out of reach,” he said quietly. “Every step you take, you’re reaching out to touch that thing with your hip. Don’t move. Let’s try it in place.” He gently pushed her left hip to move her to the right, which she did.
“Like this?” she asked him, sounding a little nervous.
She was so anxious to please. And her hips…so pliable.
“Yes,” he said in professorial tones. “Exactly. Now do that with the other hip.”
He kept his hands on her as she moved her other hip.
“Now back and forth,” he said. “Slowly.”
She did as he asked, and he pressed his eyes closed, letting his hands ride her undulating hips. She was tantalizing him without realizing it, of course, and he was no gentleman to enjoy this practice so, but—
He forced himself to step back. “All right, that’s enough.”
She turned to look up at him, her brown eyes huge. “Are you sure I did it correctly?”
“Yes.” He smiled at her. “Now try to make that same side-to-side hip motion as you go forward. Slowly. As if you’re walking through a large vat of honey.”
She nodded back, biting her lip, and did as she was asked.
“A little less side to side,” he said, hiding a grin.
She instantly complied.
His breath caught in his throat. “That’s perfect,” he managed to say.
And it was. He rather felt like picking her up and taking her to bed.
She turned to him with a grin. “Are there any other things you can teach me?”
He was tempted to kiss her on the tip of her nose. “Er, yes, of course. But for now, rest. Would you like me to send the footman up with a book?”
She smiled. “Yes, thank you.”
He could tell that she needed a distraction from her impending role as false mistress. Maybe an hour with a book would settle her nerves.
“Would a volume of William Wordsworth’s poetry do?” he asked.
Her eyes lit up. “That would be just the thing.”
He hid a smile. Molly Fairbanks was quite the easiest person in the world to understand.
In the small but well-stocked library, Harry easily located the volume he sought. He’d read it many times himself and kept it on a shelf close to the desk.
He rang for the footman, who appeared immediately, and handed him the book. “Please take this to the young lady upstairs.”
The footman hesitated a fraction of a second.
Perhaps, Harry thought, most mistresses didn’t read poetry. None of his ever had. They’d been more preoccupied with sleeping until noon, practicing their smoldering glances in any looking glass they could find after they woke up, and shopping.
However, one could never make assumptions. No doubt Lord Maxwell’s mistress, Athena Markham, was very familiar with poetry.
Harry gave the lad a stern look. “Deliver it with the utmost respect. Every visitor to this house is my guest.”
“Yes, sir.” The chastened footman turned on his heel and left the library.
God forbid anyone else this week question Molly’s tastes. Or Harry’s, for that matter.
He needed a drink. A large drink. So he poured himself a double brandy from his father’s supply in a decanter on the desk.
Soon his other guests would return from the lake. And when they did, he’d have to put his seriously limited acting skills to the test. He must pretend Molly was the most alluring woman in the world. Even though she obviously wasn’t. She could certainly pass muster, but win the contest? With her testy temper and outspoken ways?
Harry strode to the library window and looked out upon the house grounds. His father had no idea Prinny’s wager was being conducted on the most beloved of the family’s minor properties. Which satisfied a small, angry part of Harry’s soul.
He didn’t need his father’s approval. Nor his love.
But why had he told Molly the hunting box had been a gift from the duke? How stupid…how childish of him, to invent such a story! And he didn’t even know why he’d said it.
There was a rumble of noise from outside—deep men’s voices, laughing, and the higher-pitched giggles of women. The house guests had come back from the lake. And Harry was their host.
“I won’t think about you all week, Father,” he murmured aloud. “Nor my duties to you. Prinny’s orders.”
And he left the library to go greet his guests.
