When Harry Met Molly

No. Molly had hoped never to deal with the kissing closet again! She didn’t know if Lumley or any other bachelor would be content with conversation about tarts and family members this time.

And she would absolutely die if she wound up in the closet with Sir Richard.

Of course, there was the slight chance he wouldn’t be…in good health by that time. He might retire to bed early.

Not that she knew of any reason why, she lied to herself on purpose.

Because if she thought about the truth at all, Harry and everybody else would see that she was guilty.

Not that she was guilty yet. But perhaps she soon would be, if Finkle and Cook had listened to instructions correctly.

To throw Harry off, she graced him with an angelic smile. He really was a beast to ignore Bunny’s unseemly situation as Sir Richard’s mistress.

Molly couldn’t wait to be rid of Harry at the end of the week, even though she was spending most of her time daydreaming about their bodies pressed close, and the way he’d…he’d brought her such incredible pleasure. And, um, the way she’d done the same for him.

Perhaps, if she won the contest, he would introduce her to a London gentleman who did all those things better than he did, although she had a gut feeling that no man did those things better than Harry did—or looked better than he did when he was doing them.

She sneaked a peek at his profile, at those lips that had aroused such delicious sensations in her, and the jaw that always scratched her mouth and breasts in the most pleasurable way when he kissed her. Then, of course, there were his hands, one of which was wrapped around his wine goblet right now. Those tapered, masculine fingers knew exactly where to touch her to make her—

Oh, dear. Her body was starting to wake up in, um, that way. She forced herself to stare intently at the footman, who was serving a course of lamb. Then she locked eyes with Athena, whose brow was furrowed with worry about Joan.

Joan.

A sliver of panic sliced through Molly’s middle, dissolving the mental pictures she had of Harry naked and completely ruining her appetite. She moved her food around her plate and took the occasional sip of wine. But by the second-to-last course, there was still no sign of Joan.

Athena, Hildur, and Bunny had barely touched their plates, as well. Bunny’s eyes were wider than usual, and there was the gleam of tears in them.

Finkle brought in the last course, thank God, a fine distraction for all the mistresses present.

It was a tart.

A tart Molly had made.

A tart she hoped no one else would notice she’d had a hand in creating.

“Oho!” said Lumley. “Did you make this tart, Delilah?”

“No,” she lied. “Not this time.” She lifted herself up to take a closer look at it. “How lovely! What kind is it?”

“Cook made the tart,” said Finkle grandly to the room. “And it contains wild currants.”

“Yum,” said Lumley. “But it surely isn’t as good as the blackberry tart Delilah made me yesterday.”

Molly smiled at him. That had been a delicious tart.

“Shall I prepare a slice for everyone, milord?” Finkle addressed Harry.

Harry smiled. “Yes, Finkle. Do that.”

There was a whimper from Hildur. Almost a small shriek, actually.

Everyone turned to look at her.

“Are you all right?” Captain Arrow asked her, and placed a hand on her back.

Hildur nodded glumly and sniffed. Finkle set a piece of tart in front of her, but she pushed it away. “I save this tart—for Joan.” She gripped the edge of the table, her lower lip trembling.

Harry shifted in his seat. “Joan may have a piece when she feels better, Hildur. Please. Eat the tart.”

Hildur lowered her brows and gave a low moan. Molly bit her lip and looked at Bunny. She saw reflected in her eyes her own panicky thoughts. Joan was either lost in the woods, or she was on her way home and about to be found out. Neither possibility was at all reassuring.

Harry looked at the frightened expressions on all the women’s faces. Something was vastly wrong at the table tonight.

“We all miss Joan,” said Molly in a calm, decisive voice to Hildur. “But she’ll be better by morning.”

“I should check on her,” Lumley said. “After the last course. Where is she again?”

“The nursery,” Athena said.

“We have no nursery,” Harry said.

Molly smiled. “You might call it by another name. It’s the room—”

“At the top of the house,” Bunny said.

“To the right of the kitchens,” said Athena at the same time.

What the devil?

Harry put his wine glass down. “So she is somewhere in this house,” he said plainly.

“Yes,” said Molly, and looked at Lumley. “And we mustn’t disturb her, kind as you are, Viscount Lumley. She needs her sleep.”

Hildur let out a small whimper, and the other women exchanged glances.

“Tell me, Lord Maxwell,” said Harry, on high alert because really, something was not right here and Molly obviously wanted to change the subject. He trusted she had good reason, so he would. “Is it true that Parliament is—”

But Sir Richard made an odd noise. And spat something out on his plate. “What the hell is that?” He pushed his chair back, stood up, and pointed a finger at the—

What was it?

Harry leaned forward.

Oh, yes, a tiny, petrified frog—

No.

It couldn’t possibly be!

Harry stared rather goggle-eyed at Sir Richard’s plate, but he was in good company. Everyone was staring. There the offending frog lay, apparently smashed flat by a man’s boot or a carriage wheel and left to dry in the sun.

Harry stole a quick glance at Molly. Her brow was smooth, and her hand covered her mouth. She appeared almost too shocked and not shocked enough—all at the same time.

She was a terrible actress.

He snapped his fingers. “Finkle?”

Finkle reappeared. “Yes, milord?”

“There appears to be a strange substance in the tart. I suggest you remove all our plates.”

“Yes, milord.”

Harry caught Molly’s gaze again. She took a sip of wine, no doubt to conceal a triumphant smile, but her eyes gave her away. They were sparkling with satisfaction.

Satisfaction derived from petty revenge.

Finkle moved around the table, picked up the plates, and left the room.

Sir Richard wiped down his tongue with the edge of the tablecloth and was in the midst of taking a swig of wine, swishing it around his mouth, and spitting it back into a goblet when a loud crash resounded through the front hall.

Harry pushed back his chair.

“Finkle must have dropped something,” Molly said quickly.

“I’ll check,” said Harry. Yes, he trusted Molly had her reasons for hiding something, but he also felt the need to know what was going on in his house, especially when dead frogs or loud crashes were involved.

Athena jumped up and posed at the entryway to the hall. “No leaving this room until you pay the toll, you beast.” And she puckered her lips.

Harry paused only a moment. “No, thank you,” he said, and tried to get around her.