When Harry Met Molly

He supposed he should be grateful to Molly for not making him the instant loser of the entire week. At least her presence assured him of having a small chance to survive the Season as a bachelor for another year. But he felt as if his luck were running out.

His first inkling of doom had come when Fiona ran away from him at the inn. No woman had ever chosen another man over him! Granted, he’d never been besotted with her beyond the bedroom, so what did it matter?

But then Molly had appeared, heaping scorn upon him for having a mistress at all. Up until now, even his mother hadn’t dared to comment on his wastrel ways in so forthright a manner.

Harry’s sense of control, which he’d always prided himself on, was slipping. In fact, he felt almost desperate as he watched the other men put their votes on small slips of paper and then drop them into the large, blue vase. He knew not one of them contained the name Delilah.

By the end of the week, the vase would be full of paper, and they would remove the names to see who had won the most votes. Even if Molly won all the games during the week, if she got no nightly votes from the men, she would most likely be unable to win.

Lord Maxwell poured two brandies. “Interesting choice of mistress,” he said, dropping his quill on the table and handing a glass to Harry.

“I should say so,” echoed Captain Arrow, holding his own empty snifter out to Maxwell for another splash.

“Very interesting indeed,” said Viscount Lumley, still looking stunned from his encounter with Molly in the kissing closet.

Sir Richard lowered his cheroot. “I don’t think you could have brought anyone less likely to win, Traemore,” he said, smoke curling around his face.

There were mumbles of protest around the table, but they were not very loud or strong, Harry noted. Obviously, everyone agreed with Sir Richard.

As he did himself.

Nevertheless, he would put on his best game face. “The competition for the title of Most Delectable Companion will continue,” he said calmly to them all, and then he turned to look pointedly at Sir Richard. “And I promise you,” he said evenly, “that you’ll soon see that Delilah is a contender.”

His promise sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Sir Richard smiled, but it was bitter and mean, not at all kind or amused. The other men said nothing.

“I shall see you in the morning, gentlemen.” Harry moved toward the door, keeping his shoulders back, but inside, he felt the veriest loser.

“Off to see what your ‘governess’ can teach you?” asked Sir Richard.

Harry paused and turned around. “You’re awfully interested in my mistress, Bell. Will that translate into a vote for her tomorrow night?”

Sir Richard was cool. “I’m not interested in your mistress, Traemore. I’m interested in seeing you lose.”

“You would be, wouldn’t you?” said Lumley. “Seeing as how Harry is well liked by all, and you’re an aging rake with nary a friend but your valet, and even him you must pay.”

Sir Richard half rose from his chair.

Lumley matched the movement. “Just try it, Bell.” His tone was menacing.

“Gentlemen.” Harry raised his hand. “If we’re forced to be together, as this bet has ensured we shall be for at least a week, let’s stay civil.”

Sir Richard sat back down, his eyes still narrowed at Lumley.

Harry saw that Sir Richard was most definitely going to be a problem during the competition. But he refused to show his worry in his expression. Without another word, he bowed and left the room.

His more immediate concern was to find Molly. The girl needed propping up, or their whole house of cards would fall by the morrow.

“I’m appalled.” Molly dragged her feet as Harry pulled her along the corridor upstairs toward their bedchambers. “A kissing closet? Why, I never imagined such a thing could exist!”

Harry chuckled. “I didn’t, either. Prinny has a wicked sense of humor.”

“It’s not funny,” Molly said. “If the whole week is like tonight, I’m going to hell, for certain. And it will be all your fault.”

Harry stopped her. “My dear, console yourself with the fact that if you go to hell, you began the journey long before this week.”

She gasped.

He chuckled. “Seriously, Molly, you’re not going to hell. What else were you to do? I certainly couldn’t take you home the moment Cedric abandoned you. I’d have forfeited the wager, and my future depends on it. You had to come here.”

She sighed. “I really don’t think my staying any longer is a good idea.”

“Of course you’ll stay.” Harry strove to sound firm and calm. “Tonight was only our first night.”

They stopped outside her room.

“But I’ve never felt so stupid in my life as I did tonight,” she whispered, looking up at him with those brown eyes, which were bleak now, not at all impish.

Harry fought against feeling sorry for her. By failing to portray herself as a desirable mistress, she was possibly ruining his chance at freedom, just as she had done that long-ago night at the Christmas ball, when her silly poem had forced him into military service.

“I know you can do better,” he said. “I’ve seen the fire in you. You need to show it to everyone else.”

Molly sighed. “I’m supposed to be biddable and have fire?”

Harry thought for a moment. “Yes. I know that sounds contradictory, but a woman’s fire is banked. It’s not evident all the time. It smolders. I should have explained better in the carriage.”

“I don’t have any fire.” Molly’s shoulders sagged. “Not like those other women.”

Harry knew it was the brandy, but suddenly, his nemesis looked very appealing. He remembered holding her on his lap, the way she’d fiercely grabbed his neck, as if she couldn’t get enough of his kisses.

And he remembered the way she’d looked in that blue gown at the inn. Voluptuous, tempting—

Of course she had fire! And she’d damned well better remember it, or he might very likely be legshackled by Christmas.

He grabbed her wrist. “Let me remind you that you are no iceberg, shall I?”

“Harry.” She looked up at him, and he could tell she was afraid.

But also open to the idea.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, encouraged.

Her brow furrowed. “But you’ve been drinking. When men drink too much, they do things. Inappropriate things.”

“I am certainly not drunk,” he said evenly. “And this is merely kissing practice. Remember? Designed to give you some confidence.”

She said nothing.

“Molly?”

She still said nothing, merely looked at her slipper moving in a figure-eight pattern on the floor.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he murmured, and cupped her jaw with his hand. “You’d best run now if you want to escape.”

She looked up at him then, and something turned over inside his chest.

She didn’t want to escape.

How unusual in Molly.

And how inexplicably enchanting.

Molly could hardly breathe when Harry put his lips on hers. He pressed her back against the door to her bedchamber, sliding his hands up the door to pin her between his arms.

It was a delicious trap she had no desire to escape. Harry first kissed her mouth, and then when she could hardly bear the pleasure of it anymore, he moved to her neck. There he dropped soft, sweet kisses on her pulse and collarbone, made even sweeter by the moan of pleasure she let escape when she lifted her chin to give him better