When Harry Met Molly

situation, which Bunny promised to do.

And then it was time to leave.

The subsequent journey to London was a miserable affair. Molly had to endure the powder and rouge and kohl for another day, and she wore Fiona’s most voluminous bonnet. It wasn’t safe to be seen so far from home without a disguise.

Harry had to exit the carriage twice within the first hour of leaving the hunting box to be sick. Eventually, he decided to ride on top of the carriage with his coachman.

But Molly wasn’t alone in the interior of Harry’s vehicle. He’d procured a maid from the village to act as chaperone. All morning, she chattered away. Molly barely listened. Instead, she reflected on the fact that she was going back home to her old life.

Without Cedric, thank God.

But still. Her old life.

She tried to be excited about the possibilities, but she couldn’t. What possibilities were there? Too much had happened in the past week, the main thing being that she’d fallen in love—with the wrong man.

“You all right, miss?” the maid asked her sometime after the sun had risen above the trees.

Molly sighed. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“We’ll be stopping soon.” She took Molly’s shawl and draped it over her. “You seem a bit ill. Perhaps a special punch would do you good.”

An hour later at a small posting inn, Molly shared a “special punch,” prepared at the maid’s direction, with Harry.

“Good afternoon,” he said to her, his voice rough. He drained his cup of punch and stared at her, quite as if he didn’t see her at all.

It was the first they’d spoken all day.

“Good afternoon,” she said back, and took a reluctant sip of her punch. But it was good, and powerful. It warmed her, so she finished it quickly.

“It seems we’re both under the weather.” The corners of Harry’s eyes were etched with creases.

“Perhaps the punch will do the trick and return us to fine fettle.” Molly gave him a wan smile to mask how little she believed that.

“Indeed.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to tell you: I haven’t forgotten our bargain.”

“Oh?” She pretended she’d forgotten, when really, it had been all she could think about since she’d won… Harry going back to his disgraceful ways. And Harry using those selfsame skills to weed out bad potential mates for her.

“Yes,” he said rather stiffly. “Our bargain. You won the contest, so I shall be looking for a suitable husband for you in London.”

“Oh. How kind of you.” She didn’t know what else to say.

His eyebrows lowered. “I’m not being at all kind. A man doesn’t go back on his word.”

She clenched her reticule and backed away. “Very well. I think I shall go back to the carriage now. If you don’t mind.”

He seemed to realize he’d been not as charming as he should. “Wait. Please.”

She hesitated.

He attempted a smile. “Pray forgive me my ill manners today. I was foolish to overindulge in spirits the night before a long journey.”

She nodded and withdrew her hand. “Apology accepted.”

Oh, well.

Her ills wouldn’t be cured after a day, that was certain.

She hastened back to the carriage.

Chapter 42

Harry sat at his club, nursing a brandy a little past noon. He was reading the newspaper and contemplating how he would spend the rest of his day. Gaming right here at the club? More boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s? Or finally calling upon the widow who’d been pestering him for a discreet affair?

None of those options appealed to him—the affair, least of all.

Clamoring in his brain was a tiny yet strong voice, the one he’d first heard in Molly’s presence. Dare he? Dare he attempt to follow through on what he’d told her?

He wanted to do something—be something—of value.

After all, look at the other Impossible Bachelors: Maxwell, with his scientific papers; Arrow, the brave sea captain.; and Lumley, who was capable of running more than several estates and managing a very large fortune.

Tentatively, Harry put aside his newspaper and pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. He would call for a quill and some ink. And then he would write down all his plans.

“Enjoying yourself, eh?” said an old gent, Lord Humphries.

Harry raised his glass and quirked his mouth in a pleasant grin. “That I am, sir.”

Lord Humphries laughed and punched his shoulder.

Dear God. The shoulder punch. Harry knew what that signified. He forced himself to smile at Lord Humphries…and waited to hear the dreaded words.

The old gentleman opened his mouth. “If only I were—” he began.

“Excuse me!” Harry leaped up. If only I were your age again was surely the phrase Lord Humphries was about to utter. “I believe someone is calling your name for a game of whist, sir.”

“Whist?” Lord Humphries eyed the crowd at the tables. “Who? Where?”

“I—I’m not sure.” Harry gave the man a respectful bow, scooped up his notebook, and left his half-drunk glass of brandy on the table. He didn’t know how many more congratulations he could take. Or the punches to the shoulder. Or the reminiscences of youth.

Really, being the winning Impossible Bachelor had its merits, but it had its flaws, too. Every rout, every ball, he attended in town in the Little Season was but a precursor to what he was to expect when a greater portion of the ton descended upon London for the regular Season come springtime.

Already matchmaking mothers, restrained by Prinny’s decree from pestering him, spoke about him from behind their fans and gave him calculating looks. Young misses ran as if he were a scary monster rather than a mere rake of somewhat undeserved repute. The men mobbed him, peppering him with questions about what it was like to be able to remain free—free of legshackles.

Free of expectations.

He’d always been free of expectations, hadn’t he? So this notoriety—as well as every man-about-town activity he’d once viewed with enthusiasm and pleasure—was actually somewhat…

Boring.

Predictable.

Harry was at serious loose ends, for the first time in his bachelor existence. Which was why he would hold on to this idea of his. And if he worked hard enough, he could present it to his father next time he saw him.

Which would be soon. The duke had summoned Harry to come home for a small country ball to be held in honor of Roderick and Penelope’s return from Italy. And Harry was actually looking forward to going. Not so much to see Roderick and Penelope and their girls—although he had a great deal of affection for all of them—but in the hopes that he’d see Molly there.

Everything he’d done since the week of the wager, he wondered what she would think of the activity. Which was why he’d been with no lightskirt or society widow since he’d last seen her.

He’d feel…disloyal somehow.

Not prepared for the anonymity of the act when it took place with a hired girl—and certainly not ready for the jaded outlook of the widows who made clear their desire to be with him…that way.

He smiled to himself. That way. It sounded like something Molly would say.