When Harry Met Molly

experience, was soft and warm, smelling of strawberries and sweet promises.

He didn’t like the idea of her offering her neck to Alfred. And Harry despised imagining Alfred pressing kisses to it.

“You seem distracted, Harry,” said his mother, laying her hand on his arm. “And no wonder, with a fine future beckoning you.”

“Would you like to dance?” asked Lady Gregory. “My Anne would make a fine partner.”

Good God. There stood Anne Riordan, most likely his future bride. She was of impeccable lineage and substantial wealth. In the eyes of the ton, there was no reason why he shouldn’t offer for the chit.

“Hello, Lord Harry.” Anne squinted up at him.

“Er, good to see you, Lady Anne.” He tried to smile at her.

“We know you’re off limits in town,” Lady Gregory said to him, “but surely not at your mother’s house?”

Harry understood Lady Gregory well. Bet or no bet, he was still his parents’ son, and he would comply with their traditions. He held out his arm to Anne. “I would be honored to dance with you,” he said, striving to sound gallant.

She gripped his arm as if she were headed for the gallows.

My God, Harry thought as he carried her off, his neck reddening at the twittering of the ladies behind them. Were the banns already being read and someone forgot to tell him?

Holding a meaningful conversation while Anne constantly stepped on his feet was difficult, but he managed. And when a fop in a pink waistcoat bumped into them with his dance partner, Anne appeared to almost faint from the shock.

Of course, Harry offered her some lemonade at that point, but she declined with a small shake of her head.

“Thank you for a lovely dance,” he told her at its conclusion, and passed her over to the fop in the pink waistcoat, declaring her to be the finest dancer and most pleasant company he’d encountered yet at the ball that evening.

Duty done.

Now he could go search for Alfred. A few moments later, he caught up with him at a linen-covered serving table adorned with ivy-wrapped candles and two epergnes loaded with hot house orchids. Penelope’s favorite flower, Harry knew from Roderick.

A maid, her hair tucked neatly beneath her frilly cap, ladled out a light, iced punch. “Here you are, Lord Harry.” With a warm smile, she handed him a brimming cup.

“Thanks very much.” Harry raised the cup and grinned at her. It felt good to be welcomed back home, even by the servants.

Alfred asked for two cups of the stuff and turned back to Harry with a confiding air. “You did me a great service. I like your Molly. She’s a wit and a pleasure to look at. In fact, I’m bringing her some refreshment now. She said she might go out on the terrace with me.”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “She’s not to go out on the terrace with anyone. Her father’s orders.”

Alfred drew in his chin. “Who are you to listen to fathers?”

Harry attempted a jovial smile, but he was afraid it came out a bit threatening. “Molly’s different. She’s not someone to toy with.”

“I’m not toying with her,” Alfred said, his back obviously up. “I might even decide to court her, but—” His face turned red. “Now see what you’ve done.”

Harry followed his bitter gaze. Molly was surrounded by the other three friends he’d brought down from London.

Alfred sighed and put the cups down on the punch table.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, not feeling sorry at all that Alfred had lost a chance to get to know her more intimately. “You won’t win her without a fight.”

Alfred looked at him quizzically. “Do you like her?”

Harry gave a short laugh. “Of course I do. She’s my neighbor. I’ve known her since she was an infant.”

“You’re acting awfully put out that I was bringing her punch.”

Harry cleared his throat. “I feel a certain protectiveness toward her, yes.”

“As you would to a sister?”

Harry smiled. “Exactly.”

“Then I shall stay far away,” Alfred said gloomily. “I have a sister myself.” And he left Harry, presumably in search of other female quarry.

If Alfred was so easily dissuaded, he didn’t deserve to be in the running for Molly’s hand in marriage, Harry thought, feeling vindicated for having weeded out one unworthy bachelor.

But then he looked over and saw the other three still hovering. And one of them—Lord Michael Bannister— asked Molly to dance to the waltz.

Really, Harry thought, what was his mother thinking, allowing such a scandalous dance to be performed? It must be Penelope’s influence.

His throat tightened. Michael was a Romeo—a good man, but with a bag of wild oats he’d made very clear he had yet to sow. Molly was chatting avidly with him during their waltz—looking at him with those large, always curious brown eyes of hers.

And it was when Harry saw that sweet openness in her gaze not directed toward him but toward someone else—that he knew.

He already knew he felt lust for Molly. And a healthy dose of friendly feelings.

But he felt more than that.

He didn’t want to share her with any other man. At all. Ever.

He’d never felt that way before. When he’d had his dalliances, he’d been perfectly amenable to the lady moving on to someone else after their own affair had run its course.

But he didn’t feel that way about Molly. She was no longer involved with him that way, but he most certainly didn’t want his bachelor friends chatting away with her, all the while imagining taking her to bed.

He didn’t want his friends to dare have those thoughts about her. Now or in the future.

He felt a possessiveness that threatened to unravel him if he didn’t get control of himself. Uncurling his fists, he strode across the room and tapped Michael’s shoulder. “I’ll take over,” he said in a short tone.

Michael stopped, looked rather confused.

“I’ll explain later,” Harry said.

And he would. He would explain to the whole company present that Molly was to be his. No one else’s. He was free to marry whom he wished, and he would marry her.

He would make her his wife and never have to worry about other men approaching her again.

Because he loved her! How could he have been so thick-headed, taking so long to realize that his crazy, mixed-up feelings—his constant thoughts of Molly—were nothing less than love?

He truly was a dunderhead.

But no more.

No more!

Michael relinquished Molly’s hand, and Harry gripped it.

But she didn’t look happy about the switch in partners. “What, pray tell, are you doing?”

They took up the waltz where she and Michael had left off. “You shouldn’t waltz with just anyone,” Harry said, and to make his point, pulled her closer. “You never know their intentions. I’m merely keeping the wolves at bay, as I promised. And admit it. You want another Queen cake. I saw you eating one in the corner not ten minutes ago. I shall procure one for you as soon as this waltz is over.”

“I’ll admit your mother’s recipe for Queen cakes is the best I’ve ever tasted, and I wouldn’t mind having another.” Molly pressed her lips together and didn’t speak for a moment. She swallowed hard, as if she were gulping back tears.

Harry felt a twinge of alarm. “Are you all right?”