When Harry Met Molly

No, that wouldn’t do at all.

Which was why Harry was so averse to marriage in the first place. Why take on yet another person in his life who would only disdain him?

Wray smacked his lips and shifted on the floor.

“At least he’s out of his pain,” said Nicholas Staunton, Lord Maxwell, in that unruffled tone of his. Cool, mysterious, and rather unconventional despite his strong aristocratic lineage, Maxwell, Harry was well aware, was unlikely to voice an observation unless he were truly moved to do so. He raised a quizzing glass and observed Wray further. “I understand he’s had a hell of a year. Dozens of debutantes and their mothers chasing him without cease.”

“Poor sod,” said Harry, looking down at Wray. “He was even thrown into a carriage by two masked thugs and almost forced to elope with the Barnwell girl, but he leaped out on the London Bridge and nearly got run over by a coach-and-four instead.”

A loud popping noise—followed by another pop and a creak—sounded from the logs burning in the fireplace.

The sound even woke Wray. He opened his eyes, gazed at nothing, and said, “No. I won’t eat my porridge. Please don’t make me,” before he went back to his snoring.

“God save his tormented soul,” Arrow entreated with great solemnity.

And then the bookcase opened. The one near the fire.

Yes, opened.

Harry rubbed his eyes.

“What the hell?” said Arrow.

Harry knew, of course, that every great house had a secret door to somewhere, but he’d no idea his own club did.

A buxom female—rather matronly in dress and age, actually—stumbled out from a dark passageway, a spitting candle in her hand. The curls at her temples had gone to gray beneath the half-handkerchief pinned to her hair, and her gown, while a pleasing midnight blue, couldn’t disguise her spreading hips. She placed the candle on the mantel, turned to the men, and curtsied.

“You’re a woman,” Lumley said slowly.

Considering the fact that women weren’t allowed on the club premises, Harry could forgive Lumley’s stating the obvious.

But before she or anyone else could respond, a man emerged from the opening behind the bookcase, as well—a portly man with a merry grin and a bottle of cheap gin in his hand.

“I’m dreaming,” said Lumley, shaking his head.

“Au contraire,” the man said, and proceeded to belch. “You most certainly are not dreaming, Viscount.” He patted his stomach, lifted the bottle to his mouth, drank, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Then he swayed.

“Oho!” he said, and chuckled when the woman grabbed his elbow.

“No dancing, Your Highness.” She giggled and took the bottle from him. “We need music for that.”

Long before she’d even set the bottle on a side table, every man in the room had stood—except for Wray, who was still fighting his battle against cruel Fate on the floor.

“Your Royal Highness!” Captain Arrow said, and saluted the swaying man. “Captain Stephen Arrow, at your service.”

By God, it was him. The Prince Regent himself. Harry almost saluted, too, but then he remembered he wasn’t a sailor, so he bowed deeply, right near Wray’s snuffling mouth.

Prinny rubbed his chin. “Yes, it is I,” he said. “My delectable companion and I were on our way to the secret bedchamber—”

There was a secret bedchamber at the club?

Harry and Lumley exchanged looks of shock. Maxwell ran his narrowed gaze over the bookshelf. Arrow remained standing at attention.

“Captain Arrow,” Prinny said with a huff of laughter. “At ease. Please. I can’t think when you look as though you’re about to call out orders to fire a hundred cannon at the Spanish fleet.”

Arrow’s shoulders relaxed.

And there followed a general lessening of tension in every man, Harry noted. Maxwell took a puff from his cheroot. Lumley grinned, and Harry uncurled his fingers, which he’d balled into fists at his sides.

Yes, Prinny was in his cups, but he was also in a good mood.

“As I was saying,” His Royal Highness went on, “Liza and I were passing through, and we couldn’t help overhearing your conversation, gentlemen.” He opened his snuffbox with a grand flourish, pretended to inhale some—everyone knew he really despised the stuff—and returned it to his pocket. “And I’m shocked—nay, dismayed,” he went on, “at the state of affairs in this room. Can’t be good for the Empire when its best and brightest are gloomy.”

He leveled an eye at Harry. “Yes, I include even you in that description, young man. Despite everything I’ve heard about your bedding the captain’s wife while your unit suffered an ambush, of all things”—Liza gasped—“you can’t be a complete disgrace if the Duke of Mallan is your father.”

Harry’s chest knotted. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he gritted out.

But inside, his heart grew harder. And smaller.

Prinny looked around assessingly. “We must correct this situation. What you need is hope—hope that you may avoid legshackles. And not just a vague hope.” His expression brightened and he raised his right index finger. “You’ll need a surety!”

“Yes!” Liza clapped her hands.

“We need to make it impossible,” Prinny said, “for any matchmaking mamas, silly debutantes, and conniving bettors to rob your bachelor days of their necessary frivolity. Who’s got a quill and paper?”

No one did. Harry wondered what the Prince was about.

A coach-and-four rattled by the window, and through the door, there were the regular sounds of club life: voices rising and falling, the scrape of forks and knives against plates, the clink of bottle against glass.

Life was going on as usual, Harry thought, except for here in this room. He wished he could talk to the other bachelors, but no one dared look at anyone but Prinny.

Prinny nodded his head at Arrow. “Captain, please see to it that paper and quill and writing desk are brought immediately. I have a decree to prepare and sign. Here. And now.”

Captain Arrow saluted. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Not thirty seconds later, he was back with Prinny’s requested materials, which he handed off to Liza with a swooping bow.

Liza blushed, Harry wasn’t surprised to see. Women always fell apart around Arrow.

“Take this down,” Prinny said to Liza, who settled into a chair, the quill poised above the blank paper, prepared to write.

“Please begin, Your Highness,” she said.

Prinny adjusted his cravat. “By order of the Prince Regent,” he said, “let it be known that the annual Impossible Bachelors wager shall commence the first week of August in the year 1816 and every August thereafter. The participants shall be conscripted by the Prince Regent and his advisors, who shall have sole control over the circumstances of the bet.”

Harry’s neck muscles tensed, and the sound of Liza’s quill scratching across the paper only made it worse. He craved nothing more than to get up and leave.

But, of course, he couldn’t.

After a bit more scribbling, Liza looked up, her quill at the ready.

“The winner of the wager,” Prinny continued, “shall be granted an entire year of freedom from the trials, tribulations, and, ahem, joys of marriage. As well as from the dreary events leading up to the eventual acquisition of a wife.”

His grin was decidedly saucy. “He shall not be chased after by matchmaking mamas at social events.” A twinkle gleamed in his eyes. “He shall not be forced to attend tedious balls at Almack’s”—he paused and grinned