When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 9

Several hours later, after a thorough reading of several of Wordsworth’s poems and after Molly had recovered from the shock of finding out that her bedchamber was connected to Harry’s by a dressing room, she placed her hand on the knob of her door and took a deep breath. She’d changed gowns (the one she wore now was even more scandalous than this afternoon’s) and fixed her hair.

It was time, time to be a mistress.

A false mistress.

She walked out into a quiet hall. Candles burned in the simple sconces standing sentry outside every door. Turning right, she made her way back to the oak staircase.

As she did, she nearly bumped into a an elaborately dressed gentleman, a good ten years older than Harry. The candle flame highlighted his carefully arranged chestnut locks. His waistcoat was beaded and embroidered, and his coat fit like a glove.

He would have been terribly handsome if it weren’t for his unfortunate nose. Not that Molly didn’t appreciate a fine, Roman nose, or a distinguished craggy one such as her father’s—but this man’s was almost, um, long enough to hang a hat on, if she were to be truthful.

“And who might you be?” he asked her. From the sensual tone of his voice and the curve of his lip, she could tell he believed he was every woman’s dream.

Molly remembered Harry’s advice: Be biddable.

“I’m Delilah.” She curtsied.

“Sir Richard Bell.” He paused, lifted her hand, and kissed her knuckles. Then he smiled. It was a well- practiced smile, one designed to weaken knees.

But Molly’s were comfortably locked. “I shall see you in the drawing room, shall I?” she returned brightly, and before he could answer, slipped around him.

“Not so fast,” he growled, and caught her elbow. Then he leaned toward her to…to kiss her!

Molly slapped his face.

“You bitch,” he said low. “What kind of lightskirt are you?”

“I’m not yours, that’s for certain.” She threw up her chin and continued down the hallway, ignoring her stinging hand.

“You aren’t very obedient, are you?” he called after her.

For a fleeting second, she felt almost guilty. But then she came to her senses. Surely Harry wouldn’t expect her to endure pawings from other men, especially a scoundrel like Sir Richard.

So she pretended not to hear him and made a beeline for the stairs, slipping down them in Fiona’s slippers, which thankfully were only a tiny bit tight. She approached the well-lit room where she knew everyone, save Sir Richard, had gathered.

Before she entered, she took a breath and steadied herself. Her stint as a false mistress had begun on a rather frightening note. But she must do her best despite it.

She must believe she could actually win the contest.

She strode in, smiled at everyone around her—at the ladies lounging in their finery on the sofas, and at the men, who were playing cards in the corner—and sank onto an Egyptian-style chair in the midst of the women. There. No one said a word to her. She appeared to fit in. Which was a good thing.

But her relief was short-lived. Three of the women were now staring at her in a most unfriendly fashion, including Athena Markham, the actress.

Oh, dear, was all Molly could think. She so admired Miss Markham’s acting talent. It was a pity she didn’t seem approachable.

Molly supposed all the other women in the room wanted to win the Most Delectable Companion title, too. And she was obviously part of the competition, which must explain why they appeared so cold, except for the fourth mistress. She didn’t look at Molly at all. She was focused on the door, which she watched with anxious, almond- shaped green eyes, in between sipping furtively at a drink. Perhaps she was waiting for Sir Richard, which would make her the unfortunate Bunny.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” Molly said.

“I hadn’t noticed,” one woman replied, her shiny brown hair drawn back in a tight chignon.

She had a stark beauty, Molly thought, like a painting she’d seen once of a saint on her way to being martyred. Perhaps it was her golden eyes. They seemed to see right through Molly, deep into her very soul.

“I’ve been too busy beneath the sheets,” the woman said, and knocked back a small glass of an amber liquid in one gulp.

“Um, all right then.” Molly folded her hands in her lap. They were shaking just a tad. “I’m Moll—I mean, Delilah. What’s your name?”

“Joan.” The beauty narrowed her golden eyes, but even half-lidded, they were intense. Hypnotic. Molly could see how a man might think her gaze captivating. It was hard to look away.

Joan smiled, a small, mean smile. “Feeling guilty about something, Delilah?”

Molly put her hand to her throat. Yes! Yes, she did feel guilty about something! She was lying right now, pretending to be a mistress. But she shook her head. “Of course I don’t feel guilty about something. Why—why do you ask?”

Joan shrugged. “I know a lot about guilt. It eats away at your soul. Until you’re nothing more than a shell.”

“Oh,” said Molly.

That’s what Miss Dunlap always told her, too!

How odd to hear words like that from a mistress at a social gathering. Joan and Miss Dunlap didn’t look at all alike. And they certainly had opposing occupations. But somehow, they reminded Molly of each other.

Dear God, the last thing she needed was another Miss Dunlap to remind her that she was doing something very bad!

“Why do you wear a preponderance of rouge?” Athena tossed her dazzling mane of auburn hair, which complemented her gorgeous ivory skin and emerald gown. She gazed at Molly’s cheekbones with an amused expression. “Subtlety is more sophisticated, don’t you think? And so much more unexpected in a mistress.” Her arm was draped clear across the small sofa, quite as if she owned it. “We must keep our men guessing, mustn’t we?”

“Of course. They love mystery, don’t they?” Molly swallowed. “But I—I…I have a sickly constitution.”

She couldn’t very well admit to them that she was trying to disguise her appearance!

A third mistress, a very tall one who hadn’t spoken yet, fluttered her hands like a bird in flight and pointed to Molly’s hair. Then she giggled. “Seagulls,” she said. “In crow’s nest.”

Hmmm. A foreigner making fun of her attempts to beautify her hair with Fiona’s feathers.

Molly was tempted to tell the girl that her strawberry blonde hair, worn in a braided crown at the top of her head, could serve as the nest of a large goose. But one should always be particularly friendly to guests in one’s country, even if they insult one.

“I quite enjoy my feathers,” Molly said.

“I use my feathers for a different purpose altogether,” Joan said, rather slyly.

Athena laughed. “Me, too. I employed the feather treatment just last night!”

“Was it a success?” Joan winked.

“Oh, yes.” Athena winked back.

Molly’s eyes flew wide. The…the feather treatment? Perhaps Fiona employed the feather treatment, too.

What was the feather treatment, exactly?

Of course, she couldn’t ask. She must change the subject. “What’s your name?” she inquired of the tall woman with the foreign accent.