Molly bit her lip. “We’re—”
“Hot,” said Athena, and began fanning her face.
“We need shade,” said Joan.
“There’s shade here, under the tree.” Lumley threw out his arms.
“We’re hotter than that,” said Bunny. “We’re going swimming.”
“Where?” asked Harry.
“Over there,” said Molly. “In the stream.”
She pointed to a location surrounded by a thick grove of trees hugging the bank. “Have fun,” she said brightly.
She headed toward the clump of trees. The other women followed. Soon every female had disappeared.
“What the devil—” said Lord Maxwell.
“What do they mean by swimming exactly?” said Lumley.
“Dipping their feet, no doubt,” said Captain Arrow.
But there wasn’t time to ponder anything else. Because Finkle called Captain Arrow and Lord Maxwell up and handed them their foils and masks.
Harry politely turned his attention to the match, although his insides were churning. What was Molly about, leaving the contest when she had been the one to think of it?
Arrow and Maxwell, meanwhile, had donned their masks, inspected the wax buttons at the end of their foils, and made a few practice thrusts.
“Salute,” Finkle said.
The two men saluted each other with their weapons.
The two men posed for a brief second, and then Captain Arrow made an dramatic thrust, which was parried expertly by Lord Maxwell.
The foils hissed as they made contact, the blades sliding away in a blur of silver. Maxwell lunged to the left and, after a beat, attempted a quick thrust at Arrow’s right shoulder. But Arrow sidestepped the maneuver, and the hissing of the foils began again.
Harry’s heartbeat quickened. There was nothing like a good fencing match to get one’s blood moving. The two men’s styles were impressive, and at this point, he could see no clear leader.
The thrusting, parrying, and ripostes continued unabated. Arrow had just raised his foil to strike when something bright blue appeared on the grass near the clump of trees where the women were.
And then something red. And something green, and several beige items. Plus slippers—ten, to be exact, and they were tossed out of the bushes one by one.
“Oh, my God,” said Sir Richard. “They’re disrobing.”
“Getting stark nekked, you think?” croaked Lumley.
There was a loud squeal of feminine laughter, followed by much chatter.
And splashing.
Bloody hell. Harry had known Molly would pull something extraordinary, but he hadn’t envisioned this!
He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. She’d read them wrong, though. What sort of man would put a foil down or cease watching a manly contest such as this to go view women unclothed? In the stream? Splashing and playing and—
He swallowed hard. He’d like just one glimpse.
He was tempted to run right now, before his turn, but wait—that would be against the rules. He’d thought the rules redundant at the time, but now he saw why Molly had said them out loud. He couldn’t leave. None of them could. Not unless they wanted to lose ten points.
Harry jetted a breath. Molly was turning the screws on the bachelors in the most frustrating way possible.
The vixen!
By the time the last match arrived, all the men were in foul moods. Maxwell had defeated both Arrow and Sir Richard. Lumley had won against Maxwell. And now Harry was in the midst of his bout against Lumley.
“This is torture,” Lumley groaned.
And Harry knew he wasn’t referring to the fencing match.
Lumley made an awkward thrust—not at all in character for him—and Harry evaded it in an equally inelegant way. Harry knew they were both losing their usual finesse with the foil—thanks to the women.
The splashing grew louder. “You’re welcome to come join us, Viscount Lumley and Lord Harry!” the mistresses yelled as one.
Lumley gave his longest pause yet, his foil quivering. “Damn them!” he yelled, and made a thrust that narrowly missed Harry’s chest.
The fencing went on, the squealing and giggling of the women did as well, and Harry did his best to channel every bit of his frustration into the foil.
Finkle called, “A hit!”
For a half second, Harry held the foil to Lumley’s heart. When he pulled back, Lumley threw down his own foil and ripped off his mask.
Finally, the most frustrating fencing tournament in history appeared to be over.
Slowly, carefully, Finkle held up Harry’s arm. “You’re the winner, Lord Harry,” the old servant rasped, “but I’ve yet to draw the event to a conclusion. That shall take a few more minutes. Footmen,” he commanded, “do your duty.”
The footmen were already over at the bushes, picking up the ladies’ clothes and tossing them on top of the shrubbery hiding the women from view.
Harry gave a short laugh. Yes, Finkle had declared him the winner, but Harry was no fool. He and every other Impossible Bachelor knew who’d truly won this particular battle—and it wasn’t anyone in breeches.
Molly watched from her perch in a tree as the footmen picked up the ladies’ garments and laid them on the bushes near their bathing area. She couldn’t help but chuckle when she saw how forlorn Harry appeared, the foil and mask dangling from his hand, even after he’d won the tournament so handily. The other bachelors appeared equally unhappy as well. Maxwell raked a hand through his hair and let out a gusty sigh. Captain Arrow stood with his legs apart and his fists balled on his hips. Sir Richard scowled, his arms folded. Lumley sat on the ground, his face in his hands.
The men couldn’t leave the tournament area until Finkle called an official conclusion to the day’s game. So they were trapped, watching helplessly as from behind the bushes, the women giggled and laughed and put their clothes back on.
It was too delicious. All Molly’s frustration at losing the sack race, all that nervous energy she’d expended worrying while competing against the other women each day…
She’d gotten sweet revenge.
But no time to bask in it. Yet.
She’d told the other mistresses she’d be the lookout in the tree to ensure that the men played by the rules. But she’d had to throw her clothes out in the grass just like everyone else. Harry had sharp eyes. He would have noticed if she hadn’t.
From her perch, which had been quite dangerous to arrive at safely without being poked in the wrong places by twigs, she’d arranged her body strategically so that the leafy branches below her masked her vulnerable state in much the way that Eve covered herself in the Garden of Eden.
As a crowd of men and women alike surged toward the house, Harry held aloft by Lumley and Arrow, Molly felt a thrill of happiness. She couldn’t wait to tell him how proud she was of him! Of course, he’d done his best to triumph so he wouldn’t have to get married, but—
She wouldn’t think about that right now.
She’d be sure to kiss him in front of the others to celebrate his win. They’d expect that of her, wouldn’t they? She must oblige. And truth be told, she’d be glad to oblige. Even now, watching him from behind, she grew breathless at the memory of his intimidating style in the tournament—his easy grace, his broad shoulders and muscular back, his fierce thrusts with the foil.
Wait a minute. How could she congratulate him while she was stuck up in this tree?
