When Harry Met Molly

—“although if he cares to attend to observe and flirt with the newest crop of debutantes, he shall not be denied entrance by the patronesses.”

Liza’s mouth curved up in a smile, and she continued to write furiously.

“And he most certainly shall not,” Prinny said, his eyes stormy, “be trapped into marriage by a young lady’s relatives—or by bettors seeking to make their fortunes.”

Almost as one, the gentlemen in the room looked down at Wray, snoring on the rug.

“Pity this comes too late for him,” Prinny murmured.

Liza made a small tsking noise and inclined her head in sympathy.

But then Prinny gripped his lapels, threw back his shoulders, and resumed his speech. “Those who cross the Prince Regent in his wish to see at least one of his bachelor subjects free from shameless pursuit for the period of one year”—he paused and narrowed his eyes—“shall forever be given the cut direct by His Royal Highness and his loyal subjects.”

Harry met Maxwell’s eyes, which reflected back his own gut feeling. Prinny meant business, obviously. And since he meant business, they must follow suit.

The Prince Regent released a long-suffering sigh. “The price of pursuing seemingly impossible freedom and privilege is always high, is it not?” He arched a brow. “Therefore, the losing bachelors shall be required to draw straws.”

He looked first at Lumley, then Arrow, then Maxwell, then at Harry. “The recipient of the shortest straw,” he said grimly, “shall propose marriage within two months to a woman of his club board’s choosing.”

He leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms over his expansive belly. “That is all.”

Liza laid her quill down and blew on the paper holding Prinny’s latest decree.

A cold stone boulder rested in the pit of Harry’s stomach. He most certainly didn’t want to marry. But he’d prefer to avoid the altar his way—as Prinny’s way involved a hefty measure of diabolical risk.

Prinny sauntered to the desk and signed the decree, hiccupping as he handed the quill to Liza. “I’m amazed at my own genius,” he said with a chuckle.

“I’m not, Your Highness.” Liza cast him an adoring glance.

Prinny curled his chubby hand around hers. “The first year’s wager shall be in your honor, my dear. I shall call it the Most Delectable Companion contest. The ladies shall be rigorously tested according to my exacting if unscrupulous standards—and the lucky bachelor who brings the finest mistress shall win a cherished year of freedom.” He looked up. “Are you ready, gentlemen?”

Harry swallowed hard. Follow Prinny’s orders, and any one of them might very well be legshackled by Christmas if they lost the wager!

“Your Highness,” Arrow said in his authoritative naval captain’s voice. “According to my ship’s sailing schedule, I shall be rounding Cape Horn at that time.”

“No, you shall not,” Prinny insisted. “I shall see to it that you’re reassigned, Captain Arrow.”

Harry caught the slightest hesitation before Arrow spoke. “Very good, sir,” he said.

But Harry could see the red creeping up his friend’s well-tanned neck. He wasn’t happy about this wager, either.

Dear God was written all over Maxwell’s usually implacable face.

Lumley exclaimed something like “Wha’?” before remembering to shut his mouth.

“I shall send each of you details of the circumstances of the bet imminently,” Prinny said sternly. “You’ll follow it to the letter.” He snorted. “I’m quite sure I’ll be entertained.”

Harry’s spirits sank even lower. Prinny and his compulsive need to be entertained! Couldn’t he simply reinstitute the tradition of the court jester?

Prinny’s gaze narrowed. “Harry, you’re to host. Maxwell, record. Arrow and Lumley, you shall form the arbitration committee. Keep me informed as the wager progresses, gentlemen. And that’s an order.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.” Harry forced himself to sound amenable, although he’d no desire to be under the strict watch of His Royal Highness in a caper over which he had no control. He’d already undergone five years of imposed military service, courtesy of his father, and then he’d stayed in long enough to do his damnedest to help Wellington win at Waterloo.

He’d been home only a year, hardly long enough to enjoy his freedom.

Liza stood and handed the decree to Prinny, who immediately passed it off to Harry. “See that it’s hung to the right of the fireplace in the front room of the club.” He chuckled and took the candle from the mantel. “Congratulations. You’re all the Prince Regent’s Impossible Bachelors now. Except Wray, of course.”

He nudged Wray with his foot. Wray flung out an arm and snorted.

“I believe I shall name one more Impossible Bachelor,” Prinny said. “To fill the vacant spot Wray would have occupied had he not been vanquished by feminine forces already.” His brow creased in thought. “Possibly that rat Sir Richard Bell. He’s seduced so many virgins that it’s time he sweated a bit, eh?”

And before anyone could respond, he swooped into the hidden passageway, pulling Liza by the hand.

The bookcase shut upon them both.

There was total silence in the room until the creeping footsteps of Prinny and his lady were no longer audible.

“Dammit all to hell,” Lord Maxwell said, his voice dangerously low.

Arrow ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to be reassigned! And I most certainly don’t want to be called an Impossible Bachelor. It doesn’t have nearly the ring to it admiral has.”

Lumley threw himself into a chair. “I’ve nothing to do except oversee my estates. And perhaps acquire a few more. So I think I shall quite enjoy this wager. Especially if Sir Richard shows up. I’d like to pound his face for ruining the Glasbury girl last year. She’s a nun now, did you know that?”

“Yes, I knew that,” Harry spluttered, “and I agree with you about Bell. But really, Lumley. Enjoy the wager? What are you thinking? One of us will wind up married at the end of it!”

“I forgot about that part.” Lumley sighed. “I don’t even have a mistress at the moment, much less a delectable one. Which means, right now, I’m favored to get legshackled!”

“You and I both,” said Arrow. “We must get cracking. Maxwell’s Athena is sublime, and Harry’s girl is—who is she now, Harry? The blonde, or have you moved on to that redhead you met at the Cyprian Ball?”

“That’s beside the point at the moment.” Harry had difficulty keeping up with all the women in his life. He’d rather not think of them unless he had to, which was usually right before he saw them—when he’d open a drawer near his bed table and pull out a little bauble from a collection of baubles his jeweler had put together for him to save him the tedium of selecting little gifts himself. “We’re Prinny’s puppets. He’s shrewd when he wants to be, but the only thing that interests his addled brain these days is mindless entertainment.”

“There’s nothing more annoying than an intelligent person who’s gone to seed,” Maxwell said with a hint of contempt. He raised his brandy glass and drained it—then filled it again.

Wray sat up with a groan. “I’m awake.”

“Obviously,” said Maxwell. “And no doubt with the devil of a headache already.”

“Gawd, yes.” Wray’s hair was sticking up all over his head.

Maxwell poured another brandy and handed it to his soon-to-be-married friend.

Wray took a large gulp. “I daren’t let Prinny know,” he rasped, “but I came to when he opened that demmed bookcase. No telling what shenanigans he would have had me participate in before the wedding tomorrow had I been any more lucid.”

He raised himself to sit on a leather chair, wincing as he did. “Don’t be so down, gentlemen. Imagine…one of you at Almack’s, looking over the girls, and no one—not even Lady Jersey—being permitted to say a word to you about their gowns, their pedigree, or their worthiness as potential wives.”

“There is that,” Arrow said hopefully.

“So before you go feeling sorry for yourselves,” Wray said with a grimace, “remember, I’d give anything to be in your position.”

He was right, of course. And if Harry were truthful with himself, he must admit that beneath the resentment