When Harry Met Molly

Harry punched Sir Richard solidly in the nose, and he fell to the floor with a thunk.

“I propose Sir Richard Bell be removed from the club roster,” Harry said to the company.

“Done,” said his father.

Lumley, Maxwell, and Arrow stepped forward. “We needlessly concur,” said Maxwell, “but it gives us great pleasure to do so.”

“Indeed,” said Captain Arrow.

“We propose that we remove him right now from the premises of the ducal estate,” said Lumley, rolling up his sleeves.

“Agreed,” Harry said. “Along with his companion, if you don’t mind.”

Fiona gasped. “Me?”

Harry looked at her. “Yes, you. How did Bell ever uncover you and your role in the events that transpired?”

She sniffed. “I’m beautiful, remember? Innkeepers aren’t likely to forget me. Or the people with me. I’m quite easy to track down.”

Lord Sutton stepped forward. “I would appreciate the removal of another beautiful but soulless person from the premises—Mr. Cedric Alliston, whose duplicity is such that I hope he will never feel welcome in this corner of England again.”

The duke laughed. “I shall ensure he’s welcome in no part of England. Be gone with you, Alliston.”

“But—” Cedric spluttered, his face beet red.

“I’m sorry, Cedric,” Molly said sweetly. “But it is what it is—isn’t it?”

Cedric narrowed his eyes at her, and Harry chuckled.

The minx!

As much as Harry enjoyed watching Cedric exit the ballroom as fast as his feet could carry him, he also regretted not punching him before he went. But really. He was tired of the endless delays. He wanted to get to Molly.

His false mistress.

And his one, true love.

With the atmosphere, should he say, restored to a congenial one, he once again took up his position in front of his intended bride. His knee was taking rather a beating. But it was all for a good cause, wasn’t it?

His and Molly’s future happiness.

He grinned up at her and took that dear hand of hers. What was he talking about, future happiness? They were already happy.

Here.

She smiled a breathtaking smile.

Now.

She nodded, even before he could ask the question.

And for always.

Epilogue

“Thank God for special banns,” Harry said, sweeping Molly up into his arms and carrying her over the threshold of their new home on Bruton Street in London. It was such a relief—and a joy—to know she was his at last. He stopped where he was, right in the middle of the corridor leading to the kitchens, and kissed her.

It was like sinking into happiness. A dream come true.

When he pulled back, she sighed, but her gaze was a little strained.

“Hungry?” he guessed.

She nodded. “I haven’t been able to eat all morning. First, we’d the wedding, then the nuptial breakfast at Penelope and Roderick’s—”

“You don’t mind that we’ll be living right around the corner from them when they come to town?”

“Mind? I’m thrilled! I think I lost my appetite because Cousin Augusta was staring at me so, as if she knew I’d already seen you”—she blushed—“naked.”

“Oho!”

“And then Imogen twirled one time too many and got sick—”

“Children seem to do that when they’re wearing their best clothes.”

“Yes, and Papa insisted on dancing with me, which made me cry…and—”

She stopped.

“And?”

“Every time I looked at you, I became excited thinking about…now.”

He grinned. “Now?”

She nodded. “It’s been so long, Harry. Since that night in Prinny’s tent.” A becoming pink crept up her cheeks.

“Yes, three months and five days ago,” he murmured, glad he’d told the servants to disappear until morning.

“And thirteen hours,” she said simply.

“Indeed.” He continued carrying her down the corridor. “But there’s food to be obtained. At our very own, intimate wedding feast.”

She kicked her legs. “Lovely!”

In the kitchens, he set her on her feet and looked around, wondering if Cook had followed orders.

Ah, there it was.

He strode to a large, well-worn table and whipped off a napkin. A delicate plate of iced Queen cakes appeared. And to the side was a sweating pitcher of milk.

He’d not been oblivious to Molly’s lack of appetite that morning. So he’d sent a runner round to their new residence and given orders for this little meal to be provided. Cook must have left the premises not thirty minutes ago, judging from the coldness of the pitcher.

Molly clasped her hands together. “Oh, Harry. You’re so thoughtful.”

“Am I?”

She went to him and kissed him soundly. “Yes. You are.”

Then she sat at the chair and devoured two Queen cakes in a row before she swallowed half a glass of milk.

She sighed, a contented sigh this time, he thought. And then she stood. “I think—”

“No thinking,” Harry said, unwrapping his cravat. “Doing. That’s what we’re up to right now.”

“Really?” She gave him an impish grin and pulled off his cravat.

“Yes, really.” He bent and kissed her, his hands wrapped around her waist, and then he pulled her closer.

“Harry,” she murmured. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“I believe I’ve heard you say that before,” he teased her.

“It’s true.” She drew back. “No more talking.”

“Yes, no more talking. At least until we’re naked.”

And before they knew it, their clothes lay in a heap on the kitchen floor.

“We’re supposed to do this upstairs, in our marriage bed,” Harry murmured against her breast. “Shall I carry you there now?”

“No,” Molly gasped. “I can’t wait that long.”

“I see. Only Queen cakes can divert you from your sensual purpose, eh?”

“Not even Queen cakes now,” she said, her breath feather light on his jaw.

“I’m honored. I think.” Harry kissed her without stopping and lifted her to sit on the table. “You know,” he whispered in her ear, “I might want a Queen cake, as well.”