When Harry Met Molly (12 page)

Chapter 13

Harry stood on a small ottoman to gain every person’s attention—although Molly thought he really didn’t need to do that as he had the sort of personality that drew attention like a magnet.

“We shall now gather on the side lawn for the first game—a sack race,” he announced.

“A full accounting of which must be relayed to the Prince Regent,” Maxwell reminded the crowd.

“Exactly,” Harry said. “The winner of the sack race will accrue ten points in her favor, to be tallied into the final count at the end of the week. And don’t forget, for both winners and losers, a fine picnic will be served afterward.”

There was much clamoring to go out. It was a beautiful day, after all. And Molly was thrilled to hear the game was a sack race. She might not be a proper mistress, but she had a long history of winning sack races at the village fair.

And she’d always employed a brilliant strategy.

The women assembled at a chalky line drawn on the grass. Molly pulled the sack up over her shoes and gown to her waist. Her hands felt clammy, and her heart beat at a brisk pace already. She really needed to win this race, so she must—

Hop,
she reminded herself as she gripped the edge of the sack.
Hop and don’t stop
.

“I hope you trip,” Joan said to her out of the corner of her mouth.

“I won’t,” she said, staring Joan down. “I’ve a strategy.”

Joan curled her lip. “A strategy? For a sack race?”

But before Molly could reply, Harry blew a whistle, and they were off.

She’d forgotten how ridiculously awkward it was to make one’s way forward inside a burlap bag. Holding tight to the sack, she hopped her way across the grounds. Hers was an unseemly, awkward advance, but it appeared that everyone else was having the same difficulties.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joan fall, then Athena. Bunny was a few hops behind her, and Hildur was nowhere in sight.

Molly had the fleeting thought that she just might win this one!

She heard Harry saying “Go, Delilah, go!” and for a moment, she was upset at his lack of loyalty, but then she remembered
she
was Delilah.

She’d told him she wouldn’t forget, and here she was forgetting—

But no time to think. It was time to hop for all she was worth. It was time to
win
. Yet she was laughing so hard at the madness of it all that she almost tripped and fell.

She caught Harry’s eye and heard him urging her onward.

“I’m trying!” she yelled, but she was so out of breath, she didn’t think Harry or anyone else heard.

Athena began catching up again. She was almost to Bunny, and then Bunny was almost to Molly.

She couldn’t allow that, as much as she liked Bunny.

Hop,
she urged herself when Bunny appeared at her elbow.
Hop and don’t stop!
Lunging forward with all her might, Molly finally crossed the finish line—

In first place!

She dropped her sack, jumped up and down, and clapped her hands. Oh, to win! It was a lovely feeling.

She sought Harry’s face, but he was still watching the other mistresses intently. All the men were, so Molly decided she must, too. She would stop clapping and be a good sport. So she praised the other women when they each crossed the finish line and helped them get out of their sacks.

When all was said and done, Bunny came in second; Athena, third; Joan, fourth; and Hildur, dead last.

“You’ll do better in the next game,” Molly said to Hildur, who gave her a look that could kill.

The men stood to the side, beneath a large oak tree, conferring. And none of the women congratulated Molly. She folded up her sack and pretended that it didn’t hurt. Everyone was ignoring her silly victory. And the sack race had been so much
fun
.

Finally, Harry emerged from the circle of men. “We have our winner,” he announced.

But Molly noticed that he wasn’t making eye contact with her, and he didn’t seem all that happy. Whyever not? Perhaps he had to hide his gladness so he would appear to be a fair master of ceremonies.

Yes, that was it, she decided.

“The winner,” Harry said—Molly felt her face heat up, and she bit her lip so as not to giggle—“is…Joan.”

Joan?

Joan jumped up and down and clapped her hands.

That made no sense at all!

Molly stared at Harry. She had obviously come in first place, and even if the men had judged her wrongly, Bunny had clearly come in second, followed by Athena. And
then
Joan, before Hildur.

Didn’t the men have eyes in their heads?

Viscount Lumley went up to Joan and put a ribbon around her neck. “You had the bounciest pair of all,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on her neckline.

Bounciest pair?

Molly looked down at her own neckline, where her cleavage was well in sight. Lumley couldn’t mean
those,
could he? She looked up and stared at Harry, who was still evading her gaze, and her blood turned to fire. Was that how the men were judging this sack race?

The winner was the mistress who had the bounciest breasts?

“Yes,” said Athena, guessing her pique. “Disgusting, isn’t it? Especially as I’m sure Joan stuffs.”

Molly blinked several times. She felt so…humiliated. And angry.

She’d won that sack race fair and square! But not only had she
not
been declared the winner, she’d fared poorly in a contest judging…bouncy breasts.

Not that
she
cared about having bouncy breasts. But somehow it hurt to know that the men—why, Prinny himself!—cared about that more than they did about the mistresses’ ability to hop in burlap sacks, which was a silly skill, too, Molly knew, but—

At least it took some physical prowess to win the sack race.

One couldn’t really control one’s bouncy breasts, now could one?

Her blood grew hotter and hotter. She knew if Harry came over to her now, she wouldn’t be able to contain herself. She wouldn’t be biddable.
Nor
beguiling. She would not act like a mistress
at all
.

But there he was, striding toward her, his face carefully arranged in a pleasant mask. “Don’t be too despondent,” he said tersely. “It’s how things are here. Prinny’s orders.”

“I see,” she bit out.

She had to leave. She would cry if she stayed talking to Harry because she had never been more mortified in her life.

All that fun she’d had hopping. And yelling. She’d felt this wonderful feeling that had been buried deep inside her coming to the surface. But it was gone now.

The fun might as well have never happened.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “It’s nothing personal…Delilah.”

She looked around to ensure no one was listening. Fortunately, the others were preoccupied with flirting, folding sacks, and setting out the picnic.

“Right,” she whispered. “Thank you for reminding me that I shouldn’t take offense.”

He grabbed her hand. “Molly,” he said. “I
told
you to expect the unexpected.”

She tugged her hand back and strode off.

“What about the picnic?” he called after her.

She whipped around. “I’m not hungry,” she said stoutly. “And kissing practice is canceled!”

“Molly—” Lines formed about Harry’s eyes. “Please come back when you feel better. I’ll miss you. And I mean that. According to most of the world’s rules, you really did win the sack race, and I want to make it up to you somehow.”

“I—I’ll think about it,” she said.

In a million years!

She turned her back on him. She didn’t need his concern. She wanted to leave this place, and she didn’t care if she looked like a poor sport. She headed toward the house, toward the paltry comfort of her bedchamber, where nothing was actually her own, except for her parasol and reticule and the now grimy walking dress she’d worn on her elopement day.

If only she could rewind time and go back to that inn, before Cedric met his Aphrodite. If only she could have made sure that they had left the inn and gone to Gretna. Right now she would be a married woman, and married to one of the handsomest—albeit annoying—men in England!

She forced herself to slow down and blow out a breath.

Who was she kidding? She didn’t want Cedric. She deserved better. And after this miserable week was over, she was going to make sure her life
became
better.

But—she stopped walking and sighed—she needed Harry’s help to do that. She obviously didn’t understand men at
all
. She needed him to find a good one for her, a man who was the opposite of these ridiculous Impossible Bachelors.

Oh, dear. She would have to go back to the picnic, wouldn’t she?

She looked back at the group, everyone laughing and talking and making merry. She would put on a cheerful face, too, like all the other mistresses. Bunny, especially, looked happy. If Bunny could pretend that everything was all right—when Sir Richard was so despicably rude and selfish—then so could Molly.

Harry had dreaded seeing Molly’s face when he announced the winner of the sack race. She’d looked so damned happy when she’d crossed the finish line. And then her expression had changed, like a sunny sky going to gray in an instant.

He tried to be angry with her for ruining the fun of the game, but he couldn’t. He’d felt like the worst scoundrel.

Especially when she came back to the picnic smiling, doing her best to be dignified and pleasant to everyone—even him—when he knew he didn’t deserve it because he, after all, was the one taking advantage of the fact that she had damned little choice but to cooperate this week.

At supper, she was still showing the same dogged spirit.

Watching her now, as she labored at trying to entrance her tablemates in the way
he
had advised her, Harry knew it was all wrong, that she had not a hope of winning. But he also had no alternative ideas to offer her, a fact that made him entirely frustrated.

“Lord Maxwell,” she was saying now, “you seem the observant sort. Do you think dogs laugh with their tails?”

Athena narrowed her eyes at her.

Lord Maxwell looked thoughtfully at the tablecloth then back at Molly. “I believe the tail wag signals a certain contentment on the part of the dog, but not laughter, per se. Dogs don’t laugh.”

“But of course they do!” Molly said with surprise. “I even had a dog who could talk. His name was Bounder. Once he said ‘Fork.” Clear as day. Right after he’d stolen Papa’s beefsteak off the table. And another time—”

“Delilah.” Harry slammed his wine glass on the table. A bit of it slopped onto the pristine white tablecloth. Not that he really noticed or cared. It was his father’s tablecloth, after all. “The men need to depart—to vote.”

He was certainly not looking forward to adjourning to the library to hear yet again how poorly his mistress was performing in the competition.

Molly’s brow puckered. “Already? We’ve still one course to go.”

“That’s right,” Harry said, drumming his fingers on the table. “I meant
after
the last course.”

“Oh.” She stared at him as if he were from Bedlam, then leaned closer to him. “Are you all right, Harry?” she whispered.

“Fine,” he muttered back.

Which was a lie. He felt the weight of an imminent wedding pressing on his head. He would be the groom, and Anne Riordan would be the bride.

Chapter 14

Goodness,
Molly thought. Harry had put his wine glass down with such force! And his mouth was so tight. She knew he was disappointed in her lukewarm presence at the table.

As she was herself. Perhaps she’d overestimated her acting abilities. All she knew was that here, in this house, she felt overwhelmed and…and not delectable at all.

She thought she’d make a fine make-believe mistress but she’d have to talk about something
real
or she would
burst
. She’d been about to, when she’d spoken of Bounder, but Harry had cut her off, and then when she’d looked back, Lord Maxwell had been immersed in conversation with Athena.

Molly would try to speak to someone else.

“Viscount Lumley,” she said, clenching her hands in her lap. “I—I have your tart to bake, and I must ask Cook to set aside the ingredients. Do you have a preference in fruit fillings?”

There was a silence around the table.

But Viscount Lumley came through soon enough, dear man. “I think I should prefer—”

“Delilah, whyever do you bother making
tarts
?” interrupted Joan. Her tone was snide.

“Because she’s good at them,” Bunny answered roundly for Molly. “What skills do
you
have, Joan?”

“Aside from the obvious ones, that is,” said Sir Richard in his silky voice, and ran his licentious gaze over Joan’s form.

Joan winked at him, then glared at Bunny. “What do you care?”

Bunny shrugged. “I was simply asking.”

“Do less asking, Bunny.” Sir Richard pressed his fingertips into her arm. Too hard.

Bunny blinked and turned red.

It was an obvious warning from Sir Richard, and Molly didn’t like it. Not one bit.

She would return to the subject of her tarts. “If I don’t have all the ingredients, I might have to go out and find them, Viscount Lumley. So do tell me your preference.”

“Berries,” he replied. “But I also love a good apple tart.”

Harry eyed her, a small grin lifting the corner of his mouth. “We’ve loads of blackberries around the lake.”

The lake?

Molly’s heart raced. She wouldn’t think of Harry swimming there…
naked,
or any other guests doing the same.

“Perhaps another expedition there is in order,” Harry went on. “We missed the first one, remember?”

“Oh, no,” Molly said hurriedly. “We needn’t bother. I could always use apples instead.”

“I ate the last apple just this morning,” said Sir Richard.

Vile man.

“So we most certainly shall have to go to the lake,” Harry said.

Oh, dear. Molly wasn’t sure she could escape going to the lake
now
.

She absolutely refused to ponder how everyone at this table would look naked, especially Sir Richard—although she noticed that refusing to ponder it just made her wonder all the more!

She was becoming just as bad as the rest of them.

She was relieved in a way when Harry suggested the men adjourn for the daily vote. She was glad they were leaving, but she wasn’t pleased she wouldn’t be getting any votes again. Of that, she was sure.

Fortunately, tonight the other women were too preoccupied with talking about how much they enjoyed the scandalous waltz, so none of them went to extraordinary, last-minute efforts to bewitch the men into voting for them, either.

Thank God. Molly didn’t think she could take any more of Athena’s drama or Joan’s cleavage spilling out.

“After you,” Harry said coolly to Sir Richard as they left the dining room to go vote in the library.

Molly could swear Harry stared daggers through Sir Richard even as he was being polite, but then again, she might be wrong. Harry might simply have indigestion. He’d been awfully grouchy all through supper, until the end, when he’d perked up a bit at the prospect of going to the lake.

Perhaps some brandy and a cheroot would improve his temper. Molly knew it was caused mainly by her weak showing as a mistress.

He turned back around to face her and the other women. “One last thing, ladies. In the drawing room, you’ll find a note from the Prince Regent. He requests that you give it your most prompt attention.”

And then he left.

Joan pushed back her chair, but Athena pushed hers back even faster. They raced each other through the door to the drawing room, Hildur not far behind them.

“Mine!” yelled Athena.

There was a loud noise of disgust, presumably from Joan.

By the time Molly and Bunny found their seats, Athena was standing by the pianoforte, her nose in the air, an eyebrow arched high. She held a large envelope in her hands. “Are you ready?”

She eyed the company quite as if she were already the winner of the Most Delectable Companion contest and the other ladies, her minions.

“Yes, we are, thank you,” Bunny said in her soft voice.

Athena removed the wax seal on the back, pulled out the paper inside, and opened it with a flourish.

“Get on with it!” Joan snarled.

Athena narrowed her eyes at her then cleared her throat. “His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent,” she read in stentorian tones, “requires all participants in the Most Delectable Companion contest to perform a dramatic reading at the conclusion of the house party, in a grand finale. You are to scour the library for your material.”

She adjusted her chin one invisible notch higher: “Most of you have no chance to win this portion of the contest, so don’t feel guilty about giving up in the face of better talent. Good luck, and Godspeed.”

Oh, for goodness’ sake! Molly rolled her eyes at Bunny, who responded with a stifled laugh.

Athena folded the paper and stuffed it back into the envelope.

“Let me see that.” Joan grabbed the envelope from her hands, pulled out the note, and skimmed it. Her eyes snapped with unholy fire. “It doesn’t say that last part! You
lied
!”

Athena colored. “I’m only trying to let you down easily. Of course I’ll win this portion of the competition. I’m a trained actress.”

Hildur’s blond eyebrows flew up. “I don’t understand. What is this thing we are to do that Athena lies about?”

Joan tossed the letter onto the pianoforte. “You must perform a dramatic reading.” She spoke so slowly to Hildur, it was obvious she meant to be rude. “And Athena wasn’t lying about you—you really
will
lose because you can barely speak English, much less read it from a book.”

And then she laughed.

“Is not fair!” A sheen of tears appeared in Hildur’s eyes.

Molly placed her hand on Hildur’s arm. “
I
can help you.”

But Hildur yanked her arm away, stomped to the windows, and pretended to look out at the grounds.

“You’ve no room to laugh, Joan,” Bunny said in a gentle but chiding voice. “Athena’s right.
She’s
the actress among us.”

Joan scowled. “That’s not fair.”

“Who said this contest had to be fair?” Athena tossed her hair.

Hildur was still pouting by the window. “Remember my offer,” Molly told her, but the Icelandic beauty wouldn’t answer. So Molly stood and bestowed an apologetic smile on Bunny. “Good night, ladies. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Delilah.” Bunny smiled back with understanding, but no one else said a word.

Molly sighed. At the moment she’d rather not think about Joan’s and Athena’s childishness. Nor about Hildur’s pouting, nor about the dramatic reading, nor about the fairness versus unfairness of the whole competition.

But on her way out of the drawing room, she heard Athena whisper, “I’ll bet she’s going to stand outside the library and try to get in after the men leave. So she can get the best choice of reading material.”

“Does she think we’re stupid?” Joan whispered back. “I shall beat her to it!”

“So shall I!” said Athena.

Just in time, Molly flattened herself against the corridor wall to avoid being run over. Joan and Athena lifted their skirts and practically ran past her toward the library.

“You’re right to get out of our way,” Joan called back to her.

But Molly ignored the jibe and headed in the opposite direction. She had no intention of trying to get into the library. She was going to check with Cook to see if she’d any fruit for the tarts—perhaps Molly could avoid going to the lake to pick blackberries, after all.

But sadly, Cook had no fruit left. However, she did insist on showing Molly the tomatoes growing in the greenhouse. Ten very comforting minutes went by in which Cook and Molly held a plain conversation about sunlight and water and vegetables—with no double entendres or wagging eyebrows involved. Cook—well pleased by Molly’s compliments on her tomatoes—finally went back to the kitchens, and Molly decided to stay outside and look at the stars.

The night was beautiful. Wending her way past a hedge of boxwood, she entered a more formal garden, where she wandered past lithesome statues and neatly trimmed rosebushes, eventually stopping to stare at the moon.

She sighed. In the grand scheme of things, even if she were to lose the competition, she’d land on her feet, wouldn’t she? Harry would take her home at the end of this week, and no one there would be any the wiser about where she’d been.

So why did she feel so blue?

“You look alluring bending over that flower,” a voice behind her said.

She jumped, and her heart began an immediate fast tattoo.

It was Sir Richard.

“Aren’t you voting in the library?” she asked, and knew her voice sounded rather weak.

“We’ve finished faster than expected,” he said. “Thanks to the disruption of Athena and Joan, who were whispering outside the door. Do you wonder if you received any votes?”

“No,” she said more firmly, recovering somewhat from her surprise. “I assume I didn’t.”

Sir Richard laughed. “No one could ever call you a coquette.” He advanced toward her. “I must say, I find you a most…
unusual
mistress.”

She backed away, but a thorny rosebush stopped her retreat. “I think I shall be rejoining the others now. If you’ll excuse me.”

She attempted to walk around him.

Once again, he caught her before she could escape. “There must be something more to you,” he murmured. “I would like to find out what it is.”

Harry had spoken to her about mysterious women being so intriguing to men. She wasn’t mysterious, but she
was
carrying a secret, wasn’t she?

She was pretending to be a mistress.

“I assure you,” she said, forcing a laugh, “there is nothing mysterious about
me
. I have no hidden fires. No secrets at
all
.”

She hoped she was a good liar.

Sir Richard ran his hand up her arm. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said. “You’re hiding something. And I shall find out what it is.”

“I am
not
hiding anything,” she said.

“I like when you get heated,” he replied, his eyes getting darker.

“I’m not yours to like,” she said, pulling away from him.

“You could be,” he said. “What is your price?” His hand was like a vise. She remembered how he’d used it on Bunny at supper and on her own wrist the first time she’d met him.

“Let go of me,” she said, and slapped his hand.
Hard
. “I am
not
for sale.”

He laughed, but his mouth thinned into an ugly line. “Showing some spirit now, eh?”

“Go away,” she hissed.

She struggled and twisted, but he caught her from behind and held both her upper arms in a viselike grip.

“I shall have you before the week is out,” he whispered in her ear.

“Never,” she said, and threw her elbow back into his stomach. She was pleased to hear his sharp exhale. “Stay
away
from me.”

She ran through the garden hedge, back to the kitchen garden, followed a small path, and slipped into the house through a side door. Leaning against it a moment, she caught her breath. It had been a bad idea to go into the garden alone at night. But she was in the country, and everyone had been occupied. She’d had no reason to worry! Or so she’d thought.

On trembling legs she crept up the back stairs to her bedchamber. She opened her door, stepped into her room, and closed the door behind her, feeling more alone than ever.