When Harry Met Molly

Oh, dear. She would have to go back to the picnic, wouldn’t she?

She looked back at the group, everyone laughing and talking and making merry. She would put on a cheerful face, too, like all the other mistresses. Bunny, especially, looked happy. If Bunny could pretend that everything was all right—when Sir Richard was so despicably rude and selfish—then so could Molly.

Harry had dreaded seeing Molly’s face when he announced the winner of the sack race. She’d looked so damned happy when she’d crossed the finish line. And then her expression had changed, like a sunny sky going to gray in an instant.

He tried to be angry with her for ruining the fun of the game, but he couldn’t. He’d felt like the worst scoundrel.

Especially when she came back to the picnic smiling, doing her best to be dignified and pleasant to everyone—even him—when he knew he didn’t deserve it because he, after all, was the one taking advantage of the fact that she had damned little choice but to cooperate this week.

At supper, she was still showing the same dogged spirit.

Watching her now, as she labored at trying to entrance her tablemates in the way he had advised her, Harry knew it was all wrong, that she had not a hope of winning. But he also had no alternative ideas to offer her, a fact that made him entirely frustrated.

“Lord Maxwell,” she was saying now, “you seem the observant sort. Do you think dogs laugh with their tails?”

Athena narrowed her eyes at her.

Lord Maxwell looked thoughtfully at the tablecloth then back at Molly. “I believe the tail wag signals a certain contentment on the part of the dog, but not laughter, per se. Dogs don’t laugh.”

“But of course they do!” Molly said with surprise. “I even had a dog who could talk. His name was Bounder. Once he said ‘Fork.” Clear as day. Right after he’d stolen Papa’s beefsteak off the table. And another time—”

“Delilah.” Harry slammed his wine glass on the table. A bit of it slopped onto the pristine white tablecloth. Not that he really noticed or cared. It was his father’s tablecloth, after all. “The men need to depart—to vote.”

He was certainly not looking forward to adjourning to the library to hear yet again how poorly his mistress was performing in the competition.

Molly’s brow puckered. “Already? We’ve still one course to go.”

“That’s right,” Harry said, drumming his fingers on the table. “I meant after the last course.”

“Oh.” She stared at him as if he were from Bedlam, then leaned closer to him. “Are you all right, Harry?” she whispered.

“Fine,” he muttered back.

Which was a lie. He felt the weight of an imminent wedding pressing on his head. He would be the groom, and Anne Riordan would be the bride.

Chapter 14

Goodness, Molly thought. Harry had put his wine glass down with such force! And his mouth was so tight. She knew he was disappointed in her lukewarm presence at the table.

As she was herself. Perhaps she’d overestimated her acting abilities. All she knew was that here, in this house, she felt overwhelmed and…and not delectable at all.

She thought she’d make a fine make-believe mistress but she’d have to talk about something real or she would burst. She’d been about to, when she’d spoken of Bounder, but Harry had cut her off, and then when she’d looked back, Lord Maxwell had been immersed in conversation with Athena.

Molly would try to speak to someone else.

“Viscount Lumley,” she said, clenching her hands in her lap. “I—I have your tart to bake, and I must ask Cook to set aside the ingredients. Do you have a preference in fruit fillings?”

There was a silence around the table.

But Viscount Lumley came through soon enough, dear man. “I think I should prefer—”

“Delilah, whyever do you bother making tarts?” interrupted Joan. Her tone was snide.

“Because she’s good at them,” Bunny answered roundly for Molly. “What skills do you have, Joan?”

“Aside from the obvious ones, that is,” said Sir Richard in his silky voice, and ran his licentious gaze over Joan’s form.

Joan winked at him, then glared at Bunny. “What do you care?”

Bunny shrugged. “I was simply asking.”

“Do less asking, Bunny.” Sir Richard pressed his fingertips into her arm. Too hard.

Bunny blinked and turned red.

It was an obvious warning from Sir Richard, and Molly didn’t like it. Not one bit.

She would return to the subject of her tarts. “If I don’t have all the ingredients, I might have to go out and find them, Viscount Lumley. So do tell me your preference.”

“Berries,” he replied. “But I also love a good apple tart.”

Harry eyed her, a small grin lifting the corner of his mouth. “We’ve loads of blackberries around the lake.”

The lake?

Molly’s heart raced. She wouldn’t think of Harry swimming there…naked, or any other guests doing the same.

“Perhaps another expedition there is in order,” Harry went on. “We missed the first one, remember?”

“Oh, no,” Molly said hurriedly. “We needn’t bother. I could always use apples instead.”

“I ate the last apple just this morning,” said Sir Richard.

Vile man.

“So we most certainly shall have to go to the lake,” Harry said.

Oh, dear. Molly wasn’t sure she could escape going to the lake now.

She absolutely refused to ponder how everyone at this table would look naked, especially Sir Richard— although she noticed that refusing to ponder it just made her wonder all the more!

She was becoming just as bad as the rest of them.

She was relieved in a way when Harry suggested the men adjourn for the daily vote. She was glad they were leaving, but she wasn’t pleased she wouldn’t be getting any votes again. Of that, she was sure.

Fortunately, tonight the other women were too preoccupied with talking about how much they enjoyed the scandalous waltz, so none of them went to extraordinary, last-minute efforts to bewitch the men into voting for them, either.

Thank God. Molly didn’t think she could take any more of Athena’s drama or Joan’s cleavage spilling out.

“After you,” Harry said coolly to Sir Richard as they left the dining room to go vote in the library.

Molly could swear Harry stared daggers through Sir Richard even as he was being polite, but then again, she might be wrong. Harry might simply have indigestion. He’d been awfully grouchy all through supper, until the end, when he’d perked up a bit at the prospect of going to the lake.

Perhaps some brandy and a cheroot would improve his temper. Molly knew it was caused mainly by her weak showing as a mistress.

He turned back around to face her and the other women. “One last thing, ladies. In the drawing room, you’ll find a note from the Prince Regent. He requests that you give it your most prompt attention.”

And then he left.

Joan pushed back her chair, but Athena pushed hers back even faster. They raced each other through the door to the drawing room, Hildur not far behind them.

“Mine!” yelled Athena.