When Harry Met Molly

After a moment, Lumley looked up, a big grin on his face. “As Prinny’s arbitration committee, we declare that a slight change in the rules would be welcomed by His Royal Highness, who’s not one to shirk a dare himself. Upon a show of hands signifying a majority, the fencing contest and women’s vote will become an official part of the week’s events, Lord Maxwell to record said changes.”

“What he said,” remarked Arrow with a lazy grin, and inclined his head at Lumley.

“All in favor?” Harry looked about the table.

Everyone raised his or her hand, even Sir Richard, who declared he could outfence everyone.

“Shall we adjourn to the library to cast our daily votes, gentlemen?” Harry asked the other Impossible Bachelors.

For the first time, Molly had hopes that she might receive one or more of those votes.

“No,” said Hildur. “We waltz.”

“That’s right,” said Viscount Lumley. “The ladies have been clamoring for a dance. Joan, shall you play for us? We can vote afterward.”

Everyone stood up, even Sir Richard, who was rather pulled up from his seat by Lumley, and went to the drawing room. Joan scowled, but she moved to the piano and began to play.

Molly looked for Harry. She felt rather like a dying plant that needed water. Immediately.

He came straight to her side. “Shall we?” he asked her, his eyes a warmer brown than she had ever seen them.

She nodded, unable to speak. She’d always longed to waltz.

He took her waist and they clasped hands. “You look beautiful,” he said. “Especially when you’re causing trouble.”

“Really?” She could barely get the word out. All she could think about when he was near was what magical things he’d done to her with his fingers and lips. And the odd effect he had on her thoughts.

In short, she had no thoughts when he was holding her.

Yet at the same time, she had so many thoughts when he held her that she was fairly bursting to share them with him and to ask him his thoughts, too, about the silliest things, such as what his favorite color was—hers was the fresh spring green of new leaves, of course—and what animal he’d be if he had to choose; she’d be a bird so she could fly, although she despised worms and wouldn’t want to eat them, which meant she might choose to be a squirrel because they leaped through trees and lived off acorns, which weren’t too terribly bad. She’d tasted one once and had never told a soul.

Harry gave her a slow grin, then said, “What? No clever retort?”

She held on to him tighter and shook her head.

All she knew was that she felt…happy.

Free.

And herself.

With him.

Chapter 22

The next morning, while the mistresses worked on their dramatic readings in the drawing room, Joan rose from her seat after a few minutes and began to pace by the large bay window.

No one else seemed to notice at first. Molly continued helping Hildur learn to read and recite her Byron poem in English, but all the while, she watched Joan out of the corner of her eye. After a few minutes, Bunny quit rehearsing her passage and looked up, as well.

Joan was still pacing.

“What do you think she’s doing?” Bunny whispered to Molly.

“I don’t know. But she certainly appears more agitated than usual.”

“She’s not exactly the sunny type as it is,” Bunny quipped.

“No. But she’s worse today, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Something’s amiss.”

Molly gathered her courage. “Joan,” she said in a clear, polite voice, “is everything all right?”

Joan whirled around. “I thought I told you—I don’t want to be friends.”

She went back to her pacing.

Athena and Hildur were watching her now.

Joan stopped. “Would you all leave me alone? I’m simply taking a turn about the room.”

“But you’re not turning,” said Athena.

“You are a fish,” said Hildur. “Flopping on the deck.”

Joan made a noise. “So?”

“In Macbeth there’s a great deal of pacing,” said Athena. “On stage one paces when one is thinking deeply about something important. And it’s usually troublesome.”

Joan drew in a deep breath. “Whatever is important to me shouldn’t matter a whit to any of you.”

“But your reading,” said Molly. “You must work on it for the finale.”

Joan blew out a breath. “I don’t care about the finale!”

There were gasps from Hildur and Athena.

“Why don’t you care?” asked Bunny.

Joan trembled visibly. “Because as Athena said, I have other things on my mind, and they’re burdensome.”

“Joan,” said Molly, “can you not tell us? I know you don’t want—”

“Leave—me—alone.” Joan’s cheeks were bright red. She began to gather her reading materials, but in her haste to depart the room, she kept dropping things. First, a lovely red shawl. And then all her papers.

“Oh, bother!” she said and threw everything onto the floor.

Everyone was silent. No one dared move.

And then Joan collapsed in a chair. She inhaled and exhaled loudly, as if she couldn’t catch her breath.

Molly flung aside her book and jumped up to go to her. Bunny did the same, even putting an arm around Joan’s shoulders and saying, “There, there.”

“You must tell us.” Molly knelt before her. “Something’s wrong, and we want to help.”

“All right.” Joan’s hands were tightly clenched. “I’m going to be honest with all of you because”—her shoulders sagged—“as you said once, Delilah, we could be thrown over. At any time. There’s no real security, is there, in our occupation?”

Her eyes looked so sad.

“Unfortunately not,” Molly said. “But what security is there for women in any position?”

She felt a pang of guilt lying so handily. After all, she was no mistress and had no idea how Joan truly felt. But she had a good idea because she felt somewhat of a commodity herself. If her father weren’t so preoccupied with his passion for treasure hunting, he could barter her through marriage to any man he saw fit.

“It’s a man’s world,” said Athena.

Hildur and Bunny nodded their heads.

“It is,” agreed Molly. “But we have this one week together. Let’s use it to help each other. If we can.”

She waited for Joan to speak.

Joan’s brow was deeply furrowed, her mouth pressed in a long, thin line.

“My sister,” she finally said, “lives in a small hamlet several miles to the north of the village nearest here. I haven’t seen her in five years.” She swallowed. “Five whole years.” She looked up at Molly with large, unguarded eyes. “I’ve been in London all that time.”

“How difficult for you.” Molly would hate going that long without seeing Penelope.