When Harry Met Molly

But she threw her arms around his neck. “He’s so handsome, ladies! Let us all kiss him!”

Harry was surrounded by feminine forms. Normally, he would have endured—perhaps even enjoyed—such over-the-top attention but not tonight. Not when something was badly out of place.

He tried to pry the women off, but the petting and kissing and hugging continued. “Enough, ladies!”

“I shall check on that noise for you, Traemore,” said Captain Arrow and rose from the table.

Bunny and Hildur dropped their attention from Harry and moved to Arrow.

Which left Harry with Molly and Athena.

“No more,” he said firmly to Athena—Molly seemed too nervous to kiss and hug him with much vigor—and in one quick movement, he slid out from under their grasp.

“Get him!” cried Athena, and lunged at Harry. But he slipped past and went out into the hall, certain he’d find something odd.

But there was nothing there.

At first. But then he saw a female outline backing out of the library, pulling the door shut behind her.

Joan.

He smelled fresh air. She’d obviously come into the house through the library window, which was low to the ground. Someone must have unlocked it for her.

A massive Grecian urn stood near that window, a Grecian urn which was probably no more.

When Joan turned around, her eyes flew open wide.

Harry pressed his mouth into a thin line.

Her gaze was beseeching. She pointed upstairs and mouthed some words.

Please, she was saying. Let me go upstairs. Don’t tell.

Harry looked at her a split second longer, then he turned his back on her and returned to the dining room.

“Finkle must have cleaned it up,” he said to the group.

The women all had expectant looks, as if they were afraid of something.

And now he knew why.

He took his seat again and sighed. He felt weary. Confused. What had Joan been up to? And why did she need the help of the other mistresses?

“I suggest we repair to the drawing room,” said Captain Arrow.

“We’ve still the kissing closet to occupy,” Sir Richard reminded everybody.

Harry restrained a sigh. Damned kissing closets. Why did Prinny ever think they were amusing?

“Very well,” he said, ever the proper host. “To the drawing room.”

Everyone stood. Molly bit her lip. Harry knew why. She dreaded meeting Sir Richard in the kissing closet. Every woman probably did, particularly after he’d almost swallowed a frog.

But the mood in the room swiftly improved when Joan walked in.

Viscount Lumley’s eyes lit up. “Joan!” He went to her, drew both her hands to his lips, and kissed them, one by one. “I’m so glad to see you. Feeling more the thing?”

Harry tilted his mouth into a discreet but welcoming smile—the perfect host’s smile. Whatever Joan had been up to, she looked quite well—in fact, better than she’d appeared all week. Her eyes were clear and full of something…happiness.

Harry looked at Molly, who was grinning like a fool, and lofted a brow.

I know, he meant the brow to convey.

He saw her intake of breath. Are you angry? she said back with her eyes.

He paused, thought, then shook his head.

Molly smiled.

And despite his best efforts—because he knew Molly had somehow arranged this escapade with Joan and put that frog in Sir Richard’s tart—he couldn’t help but smile back.

She had that effect on him.

The minx.

Molly, against her better judgment, couldn’t help but be happy that she and Harry were communicating again, even if it was simply with their eyebrows. And she was so happy that Joan was back, and apparently much better for having made her trip. She carried herself like a new woman, and the light in her eyes was impossible to miss.

Joan chuckled. “I’m feeling much better, Lumley. All that sleeping did me good.”

There were murmurs of affectionate greeting from everyone, except for Sir Richard, who stared malevolently at Molly.

Had he guessed about the frog? She tried her angelic smile on him and hoped it worked. But he turned away before she could see if it did.

“We were on our way to the drawing room,” said Harry to Joan.

“To the kissing closet,” said Sir Richard for the umpteenth time, leading the company to the drawing room.

Molly sat on the settee awaiting her turn, closed her eyes, and felt temporarily dizzy. Not only did she not want to participate in the silly kissing closet ritual, she didn’t want Harry to, either.

It didn’t feel right, his kissing someone else. Not after he’d kissed her and turned her whole world upside down! He couldn’t go round making the world topsy-turvy for every female he met, now could he?

She opened her eyes. Athena walked into the closet, and Lumley followed her.

And now Molly must wait the three minutes. Everyone began to chat loudly—just like last time. But she was in no mood to join in. She didn’t care how many votes she lost because of it. Her poor attitude tonight was her armor.

She wanted to be finished with being a false mistress!

She felt weary with pretending.

Weary with emotions she didn’t understand.

She had a brief flash of her life the day before she and Cedric had eloped. She’d been so different then. So naïve. So untried.

Now she felt years older in less than a week’s time.

And she wasn’t sure why. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it had everything to do with Harry. Annoying, stubborn Harry, who’d thrown her over his shoulder and brought her here against her will.

Someone called her name, and she sighed. Time to go in the closet. But she didn’t care. She would tell whoever came in that she was too tired to play silly games, and would they like to talk about politics instead?

Although if it was Sir Richard who entered, she would feign illness and beg to be excused. If he didn’t let her, she—she didn’t know what she would do. Pretend to faint, she supposed.

Please don’t let it be Sir Richard, she begged God, and pulled the door shut behind her.

She waited, but no one came. She heard voices, low and insistent.

She waited some more.

Tapped her foot.

Tried to whistle.

Whatever they were talking about, it really was taking too long. She opened the door a crack and peeked. Everyone stood around Joan, who no longer had a blissful look on her face. Her lower lip pouted out, and her eyebrows were slashed low.

Oh, dear. Molly’s heart sank to her feet. The old, angry Joan had returned!