When Harry Met Molly

There was a loud noise of disgust, presumably from Joan.

By the time Molly and Bunny found their seats, Athena was standing by the pianoforte, her nose in the air, an eyebrow arched high. She held a large envelope in her hands. “Are you ready?”

She eyed the company quite as if she were already the winner of the Most Delectable Companion contest and the other ladies, her minions.

“Yes, we are, thank you,” Bunny said in her soft voice.

Athena removed the wax seal on the back, pulled out the paper inside, and opened it with a flourish.

“Get on with it!” Joan snarled.

Athena narrowed her eyes at her then cleared her throat. “His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent,” she read in stentorian tones, “requires all participants in the Most Delectable Companion contest to perform a dramatic reading at the conclusion of the house party, in a grand finale. You are to scour the library for your material.”

She adjusted her chin one invisible notch higher: “Most of you have no chance to win this portion of the contest, so don’t feel guilty about giving up in the face of better talent. Good luck, and Godspeed.”

Oh, for goodness’ sake! Molly rolled her eyes at Bunny, who responded with a stifled laugh.

Athena folded the paper and stuffed it back into the envelope.

“Let me see that.” Joan grabbed the envelope from her hands, pulled out the note, and skimmed it. Her eyes snapped with unholy fire. “It doesn’t say that last part! You lied!”

Athena colored. “I’m only trying to let you down easily. Of course I’ll win this portion of the competition. I’m a trained actress.”

Hildur’s blond eyebrows flew up. “I don’t understand. What is this thing we are to do that Athena lies about?”

Joan tossed the letter onto the pianoforte. “You must perform a dramatic reading.” She spoke so slowly to Hildur, it was obvious she meant to be rude. “And Athena wasn’t lying about you—you really will lose because you can barely speak English, much less read it from a book.”

And then she laughed.

“Is not fair!” A sheen of tears appeared in Hildur’s eyes.

Molly placed her hand on Hildur’s arm. “I can help you.”

But Hildur yanked her arm away, stomped to the windows, and pretended to look out at the grounds.

“You’ve no room to laugh, Joan,” Bunny said in a gentle but chiding voice. “Athena’s right. She’s the actress among us.”

Joan scowled. “That’s not fair.”

“Who said this contest had to be fair?” Athena tossed her hair.

Hildur was still pouting by the window. “Remember my offer,” Molly told her, but the Icelandic beauty wouldn’t answer. So Molly stood and bestowed an apologetic smile on Bunny. “Good night, ladies. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Delilah.” Bunny smiled back with understanding, but no one else said a word.

Molly sighed. At the moment she’d rather not think about Joan’s and Athena’s childishness. Nor about Hildur’s pouting, nor about the dramatic reading, nor about the fairness versus unfairness of the whole competition.

But on her way out of the drawing room, she heard Athena whisper, “I’ll bet she’s going to stand outside the library and try to get in after the men leave. So she can get the best choice of reading material.”

“Does she think we’re stupid?” Joan whispered back. “I shall beat her to it!”

“So shall I!” said Athena.

Just in time, Molly flattened herself against the corridor wall to avoid being run over. Joan and Athena lifted their skirts and practically ran past her toward the library.

“You’re right to get out of our way,” Joan called back to her.

But Molly ignored the jibe and headed in the opposite direction. She had no intention of trying to get into the library. She was going to check with Cook to see if she’d any fruit for the tarts—perhaps Molly could avoid going to the lake to pick blackberries, after all.

But sadly, Cook had no fruit left. However, she did insist on showing Molly the tomatoes growing in the greenhouse. Ten very comforting minutes went by in which Cook and Molly held a plain conversation about sunlight and water and vegetables—with no double entendres or wagging eyebrows involved. Cook—well pleased by Molly’s compliments on her tomatoes—finally went back to the kitchens, and Molly decided to stay outside and look at the stars.

The night was beautiful. Wending her way past a hedge of boxwood, she entered a more formal garden, where she wandered past lithesome statues and neatly trimmed rosebushes, eventually stopping to stare at the moon.

She sighed. In the grand scheme of things, even if she were to lose the competition, she’d land on her feet, wouldn’t she? Harry would take her home at the end of this week, and no one there would be any the wiser about where she’d been.

So why did she feel so blue?

“You look alluring bending over that flower,” a voice behind her said.

She jumped, and her heart began an immediate fast tattoo.

It was Sir Richard.

“Aren’t you voting in the library?” she asked, and knew her voice sounded rather weak.

“We’ve finished faster than expected,” he said. “Thanks to the disruption of Athena and Joan, who were whispering outside the door. Do you wonder if you received any votes?”

“No,” she said more firmly, recovering somewhat from her surprise. “I assume I didn’t.”

Sir Richard laughed. “No one could ever call you a coquette.” He advanced toward her. “I must say, I find you a most…unusual mistress.”

She backed away, but a thorny rosebush stopped her retreat. “I think I shall be rejoining the others now. If you’ll excuse me.”

She attempted to walk around him.

Once again, he caught her before she could escape. “There must be something more to you,” he murmured. “I would like to find out what it is.”

Harry had spoken to her about mysterious women being so intriguing to men. She wasn’t mysterious, but she was carrying a secret, wasn’t she?

She was pretending to be a mistress.

“I assure you,” she said, forcing a laugh, “there is nothing mysterious about me. I have no hidden fires. No secrets at all.”

She hoped she was a good liar.

Sir Richard ran his hand up her arm. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said. “You’re hiding something. And I shall find out what it is.”

“I am not hiding anything,” she said.

“I like when you get heated,” he replied, his eyes getting darker.

“I’m not yours to like,” she said, pulling away from him.

“You could be,” he said. “What is your price?” His hand was like a vise. She remembered how he’d used it on Bunny at supper and on her own wrist the first time she’d met him.

“Let go of me,” she said, and slapped his hand. Hard. “I am not for sale.”

He laughed, but his mouth thinned into an ugly line. “Showing some spirit now, eh?”

“Go away,” she hissed.

She struggled and twisted, but he caught her from behind and held both her upper arms in a viselike grip.

“I shall have you before the week is out,” he whispered in her ear.

“Never,” she said, and threw her elbow back into his stomach. She was pleased to hear his sharp exhale. “Stay away from me.”

She ran through the garden hedge, back to the kitchen garden, followed a small path, and slipped into the house through a side door. Leaning against it a moment, she caught her breath. It had been a bad idea to go into the garden alone at night. But she was in the country, and everyone had been occupied. She’d had no reason to