When Harry Met Molly

Athena intervened and told Molly that Hildur would be much better off whispering a certain line of her poem than speaking it at a normal volume.

“Thank you, Athena,” Molly said. “What a wonderful tip.”

Joan stopped pacing and looked at Athena with worried eyes. “When should I…act sick?”

“You’ll know,” said Athena in a comforting tone. “And when you do, you’ll have four nurses ready to take you to your bed.”

Everyone chuckled.

But Molly realized something. “This plan seems most logical, but we don’t want Joan to lose any ground in the contest, do we?”

“She shouldn’t have to fall behind in the gentlemen’s assessments as a result of her visiting her sister,” agreed Bunny.

“But sick women aren’t seen as very…tempting,” said Athena thoughtfully.

“No man likes—” Hildur pointed to her throat and gagged.

“Exactly,” said Molly. “So we need to find a way to make Joan’s illness…alluring.”

“Moaning and groaning,” Hildur said again. “And shrieking.”

“No,” said Athena firmly. “Although I’m sure you mean well, Hildur.” And Athena actually smiled at her.

“I agree with Athena,” said Molly, pleased to see everyone being kind. “We don’t want the men to see Joan… in an unappealing way.”

“So how do you make illness appealing?” asked Bunny.

Molly thought for a moment. “It must be the circumstances in which she gets ill. You know how mothers”— she swallowed because this was her earliest memory of her own mother—“tell their children not to go out in the cold without wrapping up?”

Everyone nodded.

“So we can say Joan stripped off her clothes and bathed in the stream,” Molly said. “And caught a chill as a result.” She paused. “And I believe I’ve the perfect circumstance by which we can create that very scenario. One that will give us a few laughs—at the men’s expense.”

“Really?” Joan’s brows were arched high, and she grinned.

“Really,” said Molly. “Listen closely.” She took her time explaining, and when she was done, the women laughed and clapped.

“It’s perfect,” said Athena.

“You’re a genius, Delilah,” said Bunny, and Hildur thumped Molly on the back.

“You’re not nearly the featherbrain I thought you were,” Joan admitted.

Molly bit her lip, incredibly pleased that they were all becoming friends. The easy companionship of other women might be the only type of intimacy she would have for the rest of her life.

She couldn’t think about having a great love. Marriage was a contract. It was business. And dreaming about finding a husband who loved her and whom she loved back was crazy. The best she could hope for was a husband who was trustworthy. Hopefully fun and kind, too.

And if she won the Most Delectable Companion title, Harry was obligated to help her find him—a thought which didn’t make her as happy as it had when she’d first come up with it.

Chapter 23

That afternoon Harry opened a small wooden chest by the library fireplace. Inside were the masks the men would use with their foils, and the wax Harry would form into buttons to blunt their tips. As he worked the wax, he relaxed a little. He’d simply have to focus during the tournament. Rely on his experience and his gut instinct.

He formed the wax into balls, stuck them rather viciously on the tips of the foils, and sighed.

Dammit all, he couldn’t focus. He thought about Molly all the time, especially at night. As he tossed and turned in the sheets, his dreams were consumed with images of her, elusive pictures that were never clear in meaning. When he awakened, hard and frustrated, he knew exactly why—

Molly.

He hadn’t had a decent night’s rest since they’d arrived at the hunting box, to tell the truth. And he probably wouldn’t have another one until he was safely away from her.

He gave a short laugh. Safely away. He was admitting that he needed protection from Molly. Today, especially, he had cause to be en garde in more ways than one. He had no doubt Molly would try something unusual while the women were in charge during the fencing tournament.

He couldn’t imagine what. But he’d find out soon enough. It was time to take the foils and masks outside. The others were waiting. The mistresses laughed and chatted under the tree that had become their gathering spot of sorts. Harry sensed their added excitement—they were in charge today, after all.

The men, on the other hand, stood off to the side, silent and straight-faced, each one of them. There was an awkwardness about them that he’d never seen before. He felt it, too. And he suspected it came from knowing they were being judged by the women. No doubt all the Impossible Bachelors felt a new appreciation for what the mistresses had already endured this week.

The ladies clustered around him as he leaned the weapons against the tree and handed the masks to Molly. Bowing low, he said, “Enjoy. The game belongs to the ladies now.”

There was a chorus of feminine cheers.

Molly smiled a bit giddily. She was to speak for the women, and Harry could tell she felt nervous about that. But excited, too. Which was exactly what worried him. With her in charge, anything could happen.

“It appears we’re ready to begin the contest,” she said to the men. “You’ve already chosen straws. Captain Arrow and Lord Maxwell will go first. The winner of that match will go up against Lord Harry; that winner, against Viscount Lumley; and that match’s winner, against Sir Richard. The winner of each match will be the gentleman who completes the first touch to the chest, arms, or head.” She paused. “Clear so far?”

“Clear!” said the men as one.

“All right, gentlemen,” she went on, “the ladies won’t presume to tell you how to fence properly, but we do have a few rules. You forfeit no points for losing a match, but the winner gains three. The champion of the tournament shall win ten. A word of warning”—she raised her index finger—“any man who leaves the tournament area before today’s event is officially concluded will forfeit ten points for his lady at the end of the week.”

Harry’s stomach unclenched. He felt rather disappointed, actually. “We’re not such poor sports that we would leave our competitors to struggle alone in their quest.”

Molly smiled. “Of course not. We just want to be perfectly clear. Are there any questions?”

No man ventured one. Harry thought the rules seemed straightforward, if a little childish.

“Good.” Molly looked toward the house and beckoned someone with her hand. “There is one more thing,” she said, “though it’s not a rule.” She smiled at Harry, quite as if she were an angel.

Which didn’t bode well, he knew.

“We shall ask Finkle to declare the winners of each match and mark the official conclusion of the tournament,” Molly said. “He’ll be assisted by two footmen if there’s any confusion.”

Harry turned around. Sure enough, Finkle was slowly walking toward him, accompanied by the footmen.

“Why Finkle?” Harry asked.

“Because we women shall be otherwise engaged,” Molly replied, her tone rather too pert for her own good.

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “Otherwise engaged doing what?”

“You won’t be watching us?” cried Sir Richard.

“No,” Molly and all the women said together, happy grins on their faces.

Blast it all. The proverbial axe was about to fall. Harry could see it in Molly’s eyes.

“Why not watch us?” asked Captain Arrow. “I should very much like to impress you with my parrying and, uh, thrusting skills.”

He eyed Hildur with a lascivious grin. She batted her eyes at him.