Athena came forward and addressed the audience. “We beg your patience as we take a moment to rest before we begin the last performance of the night—Delilah’s.”
Molly’s relieved and happy mood changed in an instant. Her heart seemed to fall to her feet, and she couldn’t feel her hands or legs anymore, from sheer terror.
She must do her own dramatic reading! Somehow she’d forgotten all about her own performance. She pretended that all was well as the mistresses returned to the dressing area and she told herself she’d practiced her poem several times. And she’d have the book right in front of her, wouldn’t she? She’d simply read the words, read them the way Harry had taught her. And she’d sway as she walked—the way an alluring mistress would.
She’d forget about the long-ago Christmas incident, where she’d read a heartfelt poem and been severely punished as a consequence.
“Where’s my book?” she said, but the excited chatter of the ladies was too loud for anyone to notice what she’d asked.
She tossed aside some of the gowns. “Where
“I know,” said Bunny. “It was right here. I saw it before we went to counsel Hildur.”
Everyone looked, but no one found it.
Joan’s eyes widened. “You don’t think Sir Richard—”
“He couldn’t have done it,” Athena said. “He was in the audience.”
“The whole time?” Bunny asked.
“I’ve no idea,” said Molly. “And it got rather prickly there when Hildur, um, expressed her feelings before her performance. Perhaps he slipped away then.”
“And did what with the book?” Bunny’s eyes were wide with worry.
“Most likely destroyed it,” Athena said.
Hildur narrowed her eyes. “I go get him. I find that book! And then I
Joan laid a hand on her arm. “I’m sure it’s too late. He probably dumped it in the lake.”
“It’s the only logical conclusion.” Athena sighed.
Bunny shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Delilah.”
“Let’s tell the men,” Joan said. “At the very least, they’ll pummel him. And perhaps there’s a slight chance he still has it on his person.”
Molly looked out over the lake, which shimmered in the moonlight. She heard the murmur of the men’s voices, an occasional chuckle, and swung back around to face the other mistresses. “Sir Richard’s not that stupid. He would have gotten rid of it right away. Joan’s right—he’d have thrown it out there.” She gestured at the lake. “All he had to do was swing his arm, and it would have sailed out far enough that no one would ever know for sure whether he did it.”
All the mistresses sighed.
“What will you do, Delilah?” Bunny laid a hand on her arm.
“I’ll employ the same strategy we used with the gown debacle.” Molly gave her a weak smile. “I’ll outsmart him.”
“How?” Hildur asked, her sky-blue eyes wide with concern.
“I’m not sure yet,” said Molly. She tapped her index finger to her mouth. “The poem was too long—I didn’t even attempt to memorize it.”
“You can read from
“Thank you.” Molly smiled. “But that was
And then she stopped breathing.
She had an idea—a very
If she didn’t lose her nerve.
She blew out an unsteady breath. “I’ll read
“But Delilah.” Athena gave a light laugh. “She tore it up.”
“I know.” Molly’s heart beat faster. “But it’s not that long, and we went over it so many times, I—I think I can do it.”
She blinked rapidly.
“I know you can,” Bunny said, and gave her a hug.
Hildur patted her on the back. Too hard, of course. Joan fixed one of her stray curls, and Athena squeezed her hand. “Break a leg,” she urged her.
Molly walked briskly to the stage. Alone. Except for a poem inside her that she must get out if she wanted to have any chance to win the Most Delectable Companion contest.
Harry noted, with a sort of wondrous pride, that Molly carried herself with confidence when she entered the makeshift stage, even though—
Good God. Even though the torchlight illuminated a goodly portion of her left breast! And there was another gaping hole in her gown, slightly above her thigh…
No. He wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing. It was a trick of the light. Or perhaps it was the brandy.
“God help me,” he muttered. It was bad enough that as she performed tonight, he’d be recalling the morning she’d read ‘Kubla Khan’ in his arms. Now he’d also be dreaming of her in that gown, imagining reaching his hand into one of those holes cut in the fabric and playing with that pert breast and—
He forced himself to stop indulging in such a fantasy. In less than an hour, Molly’s time as his own very delectable companion would be over.
And they would be back to being country neighbors related by marriage.
But he had to give her credit. Without even trying, over this week she’d developed a mistress persona and protected her true identity. That was a marvel in itself. No one had come forward and unmasked her.
She’d managed to preserve the mystery.
Yet she’d also done the opposite. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve, told everyone what she was thinking —most noticeably, about the inequality of the games—and offered her friendship to the whole company.
And in private, she’d held nothing back, either—when they’d kissed and explored each other’s bodies, when she talked about her family and his, and most touching of all, when she’d told him what was in her heart.
Harry sighed. How had she inverted everything he thought he’d known best about women and men and created something…better?
“Hello,” she said, and made a small arc with her right hand.
“Hello,” Harry and the other men said back.
There was a long silence.
There she stood, wringing her hands and staring out at her small but captive audience. Harry smiled encouragingly at her, but she seemed distracted. Unfocused.
Almost bleak.
“You can do it.” He willed her under his breath to remember the morning they’d looked out her bedchamber window and pretended that Xanadu was just through the woods.
He saw her visibly inhale and exhale.
What was wrong, exactly? Something seemed off…missing.
Wait—
Where was her copy of “Kubla Khan”? There was no way she could have memorized it! It was much too long, and she hadn’t had time—
Harry half leaped up from the picnic cloth. “Delilah!” he whispered loudly.
It was a question of sorts. But how would she answer it?
She looked directly at him, then said with a surety that stunned him, “‘When We Two Parted,’ by Lord Byron.”
Harry sensed immediately that the steely way she eyed him was her way of telling him to sit down—
