She was a lady. And he wouldn’t have the others thinking he and Molly were up to no good in here—
Although that was exactly what he was supposed to want them to think. Wasn’t it?
And they were up to no good, weren’t they?
It was all very confusing.
When they came up for air, Molly’s cheeks were pink and her eyes, a simmering brown. She looked incredibly desirable, Harry thought, more desirable than any mistress he’d ever had. But even through the blinding haze of his lust for her, his head was asking, Why? What was it about Molly that made his blood quicken to a fever pitch the moment his lips touched hers?
In light of their bitter history and the fact that he could very well wind up married to her if all went wrong with this caper, his desire for her made no sense. All she would have to do was tell her father and his about their week at the duke’s hunting box, and Harry was a doomed man.
And she’d fare no better. Even he believed she deserved someone with an unsullied reputation, a husband who could hold his head high and make a fitting partner for her.
All the more reason for the fire between them to be extinguished. If only he could resist her soft lips, he’d put it out right now!
But Molly beat him to it. She pulled away from him and stood, smoothing down her skirt. “It was once again a very good practice,” she said shyly. “I think everyone will believe we’re…a couple, don’t you?”
He struggled to recover from the abrupt end to their lovemaking by appearing completely aloof in expression.
“Yes, I do,” he replied, but his voice was still gruff with unspent desire and a need for something he couldn’t name, a vague something that went beyond a lustful bed ding—although he had no idea what it was.
He stood. “Keep your door locked,” he instructed her in the clipped way he would a foot soldier, “and come get me if you’re frightened.”
Molly looked up at him with trust in her eyes. “I’ll knock on your door if I get scared. I know you’d make me laugh, Harry.”
And for some reason, that look of hers—and those simple words—almost penetrated the invisible armor he wore, the armor that kept him detached and alone. She actually seemed to need him, and no one had ever needed him before.
The army had needed the soldier. His family had needed the second son. But who had ever really needed…Harry? For being Harry?
Not a single person.
At least until now.
Chapter 16
The next morning, Molly woke up when the sun was already slanting across her pillow. She sat up and looked at the clock on the mantel. Nine! That was a late hour for her. But she didn’t care. She felt happy for some reason, and then she remembered why.
Harry.
Well, Harry and Samuel Taylor Coleridge actually.
A smile tugged at her mouth. She’d gotten better acquainted with both of them last night. Her body literally tingled at the memory of Harry’s kisses and caresses—and her heart beat faster thinking about the thrilling “Kubla Khan,” which she’d decided to perform at the dramatic reading competition.
She wondered how Athena and Joan could have possibly overlooked Coleridge’s poem, but when Molly had tiptoed down to the library with a candle in the middle of the night (she’d kept waking up and thinking about Harry), she’d found it on Harry’s desk.
Then she’d realized Athena would no doubt read Shakespeare, and Joan—who knew what she’d read?
Molly had also found something she thought Hildur might like to explore with her, a book of poems by Lord Byron. She’d approach her about it today if Hildur were in a better mood than she’d been yesterday evening.
She leaned back on her pillows to read “Kubla Khan” again when a tap sounded at the dressing room door.
She felt a quickening in her middle. It must be Harry! So she shut the book, placed it on her bed table, and threw the covers back. Then she pulled a luxurious wrap over her nightdress and turned the doorknob.
And there he was, leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest, his hair mussed and his eyes bright with mischief.
“My, my.” He took in her state of dishabille and grinned. “Aren’t you looking and acting like a mistress today!”
She blushed. “I’ve never had such, ah, lovely nightclothes. Nor slept so late, I admit.”
“I thought I’d say good morning. The other bachelors and I—save Sir Richard—went out for an early morning ride. I believe he’s still snoring away. And the others might have, um, returned to their beds.”
But not to sleep, she guessed, and felt heat rise in her face.
There was an awkward beat of silence, and Harry pushed off the doorjamb. “May I come in, please? We’ve a business matter to discuss.”
“Oh.” She fumbled with her wrap. “Of course.”
He entered the room, filling it with his presence. “I’ve been thinking about your dramatic reading,” he said. “Something from Shakespeare might suit. A woman’s soliloquy, perhaps? Or a sonnet?”
“I thought of that,” Molly said. “But I couldn’t hope to compete with Athena. No doubt she’ll read from Shakespeare.”
“Good point.”
“But don’t worry. I’m thrilled at what I’ve found—’Kubla Khan’!”
Harry brightened. “Excellent choice. I was reading it yesterday. Wait—when did you find the time to retrieve it from the library?”
Molly hesitated. “In the middle of the night. I took a candle.”
“Molly,” he chided her. “What about Sir Richard?”
She shrugged. “I had a candlestick in my possession, didn’t I? And it’s not as if you and the whole house wouldn’t have been able to hear me if I screamed. Besides, he’s too lazy to be up and about in the middle of the night. We both know that.”
“Still, you should have come to get me if you couldn’t sleep.” Harry chucked her chin. “I would have escorted you.”
“I wouldn’t dare knock on your door at three in the morning!”
He lifted a brow. “Whyever not? Am I the big, bad wolf?”
She put her nose in the air. “Yes, as a matter of fact, you are. Why should a girl take any chances?”
Harry threw her a wry glance. “Let’s get back to the dramatic reading, shall we? I’d like to hear you practice. Perhaps I could give you some tips.”
“All right.”
He sat in a chair by the window. “I’m ready when you are.”
She took a moment to retrieve the book and find her place. Then, clearing her throat, she began to read aloud:
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.”
Harry held up a palm. “Very nice,” he said. “Although perhaps you could move about a bit while you read. The way a stage performer would. Remember that walk I taught you?”
“Oh, yes.” She moved her hips back and forth.
“Perhaps you could also read the lines slower…and as you do, think about—”
He steepled his hands and thought for a moment.
“About what?” She blinked.
His mouth turned down. “With sincere apologies to Mr. Coleridge, I must say you’ll have more of a chance to win the contest if you pretend Xanudu is the site where you and your lover escape to be together.”
Molly pursed her lips. “That’s rather ridiculous.”
Harry gave a short laugh. “I know. But try it anyway. We want to win, remember. And Mr. Coleridge will never know.”
Molly sighed. “Very well. Although it goes against everything in me to imbue his lovely poem with an…an overtone that’s not there.”
“If it’s any comfort to you, no one is sure how to interpret ‘Kubla Khan.’ Look at the subtitle. He wrote it in some sort of opiate haze or dream.”
“All right,” Molly said, still feeling relu
ctant, although she did try to imagine what Harry had asked. But after a moment of quiet thinking, she released a frustrated breath. “I—I don’t think I can do it. I’m sorry.”
He stood. “Perhaps I can help you achieve the right frame of mind.” His tone was kind and brisk. “Come to the window and see the beautiful morning.” He beckoned her with a hand.
She rather doubted he knew what he was doing, but she did as he asked. He pushed the window up, and the sweet smell of morning rushed in.
When she leaned out to look, she saw that the day was, indeed, beautiful. A bit of mist still clung to the treetops. The dew had yet to dry off, as well, and several birds were busy flying from bush to tree, while others hopped about the grass, seeking their breakfasts.
When she straightened, Harry moved behind her. “Now I want you to pretend that just beyond those woods is Xanadu, the place where you and your lover meet.” He pulled her close and wrapped his hands around her middle. “Lean back into me.”
Carefully, she did.
“All right,” he whispered, “pretend that we’re there and that we’re in love. Can you do that?”
Molly nodded slowly.
“I’m going to act like your lover while you read. You won’t be able to move around this way, but you’ll get a better feel for how I want you to sound. Understand?”
“Yes,” she choked out.
He nuzzled her neck. “Relax.”
She giggled.
He ran his hands up and down her waist, slowly, as if he were luxuriating in the feel of her, and she sort of melted into him.
“Better?” he asked her.
She nodded. Wonderful was more like it.
“Now,” he said. “Start reading.”
She took a moment to focus on the words, then began to read the poem aloud again:
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:”
The difference in the sound of her voice was amazing! She went on, and as she read, Harry lifted aside her hair and pressed light kisses on her neck. And then her ear. And all the while, his hands worked their magic on her waist and hips.
At the third stanza, he pressed a hand to her stomach and made lazy circles. At the same time, he slid a shoulder of her gown aside and pressed kisses on her shoulder.
The feeling was heavenly, and her legs could barely hold her up. But she continued reading:
“The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.”
Meanwhile, the circles Harry was making with his hand went lower.
And lower.
“Harry,” she said, overcome with sensation.
And dropped the book.
“You were perfect,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and turned her slowly around. He smiled sweetly and pulled a lock of hair back from her face. “And I’m proud of you.”
She couldn’t look away. “Th-thank you.” She felt the fullness of her mouth and couldn’t make her lips meet, no matter how hard she tried. Her whole body felt open, like a flower. Ready to receive a honeybee’s visit.
And then Harry put his hand at the back of her neck and oh so gently drew her face to his. The kiss was sweeter than any honey, and magical—absolutely magical.
He pulled back from her with a sigh, and she opened her eyes slowly and smiled.
Perhaps Xanadu wasn’t so far away, after all.
“I hate to go,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. “But as host, I’m in charge of the shooting every morning. And I’ve a few things to do in the stables, as well.”
“That’s fine,” she said lightly. She didn’t want him to see how much his touch enthralled her. “I’m famished, anyway. I’d like some breakfast.”
“Good idea.” He tugged on a lock of her hair. “A mistress needs to stay well nourished—not for all the lying about she does during the day, but for her more strenuous nighttime activities.”
“Harry,” she chided him. “You know I won’t—”
But before she could think of a delicate way to express herself, he took her in his arms, leaned her back, and kissed her one last time.
“You know I’m only jesting,” he said, a mere inch from her mouth. His eyes radiated heat, along with a healthy dose of good humor.
“I like seeing you happy,” she whispered.
And he tilted her back up. “I’m always happy,” he said, and swaggered toward the dressing room door.
“No you’re not,” said Molly. “Being an Impossible Bachelor isn’t the same thing as being happy.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave you with the last word this morning.” He opened the dressing room door and went through it, then popped his head back in. “Enjoy yourself with the ladies!”
And he shut the door.
Which meant he’d had the last word. Molly bit her thumb. Somehow she found she wasn’t angry.
“Oh, well,” she said. And sank onto the edge of her bed. It was time to stop thinking about Harry and how vexing and charming he could be, all at the same time, and how utterly disoriented she felt after being with him.
She must make some headway with the other mistresses.
Chapter 17
At breakfast, Hildur was delighted when Molly told her about the Byron volume.
“Your alphabet is rather similar,” Molly said to her, as she broke her fast with some coddled eggs, bacon, and toast. “Although your pronunciations differ in some ways, of course. But I think that if we practice enough, you can succeed at reading one of Byron’s poem in English. We’ll find a shorter one. I know you admire him, don’t you?”
“I love him.” Hildur slapped her on the back and chuckled. “And I will win. The men hear my voice and want to bed me. Who cares I’m no actress?”
Molly almost choked—but didn’t—on her toast.
Athena glared at Hildur then back at Molly. “You’re being rather generous with your time, aren’t you, Delilah?”
Molly smiled. “Why not?”
A vertical line formed on Joan’s forehead. “Because you are setting up other people to defeat you, obviously.”
Molly felt her cheeks redden. “I’m sorry you’re unhappy about my arrangement with Hildur. But I shan’t change my mind.” She took a large bite of toast and gazed first at Athena, then at Joan, while she chewed it.
So much for trying to make headway.
Joan slammed her teacup onto her saucer. “I can’t take any more of this nonsense.” She pushed back her chair and left.
But then a loud exclamation came from the drawing room.
Hildur slipped a piece of bacon into her bodice, pushed back her chair, and hurried to the drawing room, Athena on her heels.
Molly exchanged an amused glance with Bunny, and then together they followed to see what the fuss was about.
“Well, blow me down,” Hildur said.
“I told you,” said Joan with a smirk.
“You did not tell. You screamed,” corrected Athena.
But Joan, thank goodness, didn’t bother to answer. She was staring, along with everyone else, at five chairs arranged in a semicircle. On the chair seats were small heaps of glittery baubles. And behind them, displayed on the chair backs, were five spectacular—and truly scandalous—gowns.
Molly could already tell all the bodices were too low. Her nipples would show, which was a problem she’d have to take up with Harry, although she knew what he’d say: she’d have to wear the luscious creation anyway, nipples be damned.
Joan waved a note. “We’re to wear the gowns and the jewelry during the dramatic reading. Prinny’s orders.”
Damn Prinny and his blasted kissing closets and his blasted gowns! thought Molly treasonously.
Athena picked up a matching ruby necklace and bracelet and tossed them aside. “They’re paste. We use them in the theater, so I should know.”
Hildur let a pair
of emerald earrings slide through her fingers and drop to the chair. “I have many jewels in Iceland,” she said with contempt.
“But we can still have fun with them, can’t we?” Molly held an earring to her ear.
“Indeed.” Bunny stretched out her arm, adorned now with a diamond bracelet. “I feel like Cleopatra. And look at the gowns!” She picked one up and examined it. “This one’s exquisite. Made by His Royal Highness’s own seamstresses, no doubt.”
Each gown was of a different design and color, all made with the finest silk and lavishly ornamented.
“Which gown belongs to whom?” Molly asked, and immediately regretted her words.
The other mistresses stopped oohing and ahhing over them. Then Athena sprang at one chair and snatched up a gown. “This one’s mine!” she cried.
“And I’ve got this one!” echoed Joan, pushing past Bunny to get to a gown.
Hildur sat on a pile of jewels and crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Mine,” was all she said.
Which left Bunny and Molly to choose a gown.
“I don’t mind which one you take, Bunny,” Molly said.
Bunny looked doubtful. “Are you sure I can choose first?”
“Of course I’m sure.” Molly forced herself to smile. It was sad, really, how unused to kindness the other mistresses were.
Hildur looked at Molly suspiciously. “No friends. We are enemies.”
“Why?” Molly’s voice cracked. “Why can’t we be friends?” It had been a difficult few days. Friends made things so much easier, didn’t they?
Joan shook her head. “I wonder how you’ve ever survived as a mistress,” she said to Molly, her mouth twisted in scorn.
Athena sighed. “There’s your explanation, Delilah. It’s a matter of survival. Mistresses can’t afford to befriend one another. We are all one another’s competition. One can never assume one’s protector will remain faithful. There are always…other women.” She looked Molly up and down as if she found her wanting. “Of course, some are more competition than others.”
“But can’t we—for this one week—let down our defenses?” Molly asked.
“When we are competing with each other not just in the usual underhanded way of women but openly, as well?” Joan shook her head. “I should think not.”
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