Molly sat up straighter. She’d moaned when Harry had kissed her. And when he’d touched her. She’d thought that was a particular quirk—actually, a shortcoming—of hers. But perhaps the other women made…noises, as well.
She was afraid, however—and a little curious, she admitted—to contemplate in what circumstances shrieking would be considered appealing.
“We’ll tell them you’re indisposed for the day,” said Bunny to Joan.
“But I won’t be in my bedchamber,” she replied. “What if Lumley comes looking for me?”
“We can tell him we put you in the nursery,” said Bunny.
“Is there one?” asked Molly.
Bunny laughed. “Not that I know of.”
Joan laughed, too.
“If Lumley goes searching for you, we’ll tell him you need absolute quiet and that he should go have a brandy or two,” said Molly.
The atmosphere was much more congenial now. The women continued practicing their dramatic readings, each pacing about in her own little corner, except for Molly and Hildur, who sat together on the couch. But this time, Athena intervened and told Molly that Hildur would be much better off whispering a certain line of her poem than speaking it at a normal volume.
“Thank you, Athena,” Molly said. “What a wonderful tip.”
Joan stopped pacing and looked at Athena with worried eyes. “When should I…act sick?”
“You’ll know,” said Athena in a comforting tone. “And when you do, you’ll have four nurses ready to take you to your bed.”
Everyone chuckled.
But Molly realized something. “This plan seems most logical, but we don’t want Joan to lose any ground in the contest, do we?”
“She shouldn’t have to fall behind in the gentlemen’s assessments as a result of her visiting her sister,” agreed Bunny.
“But sick women aren’t seen as very…tempting,” said Athena thoughtfully.
“No man likes—” Hildur pointed to her throat and gagged.
“Exactly,” said Molly. “So we need to find a way to make Joan’s illness…alluring.”
“Moaning and groaning,” Hildur said again. “And shrieking.”
“No,” said Athena firmly. “Although I’m sure you mean well, Hildur.” And Athena actually smiled at her.
“I agree with Athena,” said Molly, pleased to see everyone being kind. “We don’t want the men to see Joan…in an unappealing way.”
“So how do you make illness appealing?” asked Bunny.
Molly thought for a moment. “It must be the circumstances in which she gets ill. You know how mothers”—she swallowed because this was her earliest memory of her own mother—“tell their children not to go out in the cold without wrapping up?”
Everyone nodded.
“So we can say Joan stripped off her clothes and bathed in the stream,” Molly said. “And caught a chill as a result.” She paused. “And I believe I’ve the perfect circumstance by which we can create that very scenario. One that will give us a few laughs—at the men’s expense.”
“Really?” Joan’s brows were arched high, and she grinned.
“Really,” said Molly. “Listen closely.” She took her time explaining, and when she was done, the women laughed and clapped.
“It’s perfect,” said Athena.
“You’re a genius, Delilah,” said Bunny, and Hildur thumped Molly on the back.
“You’re not nearly the featherbrain I thought you were,” Joan admitted.
Molly bit her lip, incredibly pleased that they were all becoming friends. The easy companionship of other women might be the only type of intimacy she would have for the rest of her life.
She couldn’t think about having a great love. Marriage was a contract. It was business. And dreaming about finding a husband who loved her and whom she loved back was crazy. The best she could hope for was a husband who was trustworthy. Hopefully fun and kind, too.
And if she won the Most Delectable Companion title, Harry was obligated to help her find him—a thought which didn’t make her as happy as it had when she’d first come up with it.
Chapter 23
That afternoon Harry opened a small wooden chest by the library fireplace. Inside were the masks the men would use with their foils, and the wax Harry would form into buttons to blunt their tips. As he worked the wax, he relaxed a little. He’d simply have to focus during the tournament. Rely on his experience and his gut instinct.
He formed the wax into balls, stuck them rather viciously on the tips of the foils, and sighed.
Dammit all, he couldn’t focus. He thought about Molly all the time, especially at night. As he tossed and turned in the sheets, his dreams were consumed with images of her, elusive pictures that were never clear in meaning. When he awakened, hard and frustrated, he knew exactly why—
Molly.
He hadn’t had a decent night’s rest since they’d arrived at the hunting box, to tell the truth. And he probably wouldn’t have another one until he was safely away from her.
He gave a short laugh. Safely away. He was admitting that he needed protection from Molly. Today, especially, he had cause to be en garde in more ways than one. He had no doubt Molly would try something unusual while the women were in charge during the fencing tournament.
He couldn’t imagine what. But he’d find out soon enough. It was time to take the foils and masks outside. The others were waiting. The mistresses laughed and chatted under the tree that had become their gathering spot of sorts. Harry sensed their added excitement—they were in charge today, after all.
The men, on the other hand, stood off to the side, silent and straight-faced, each one of them. There was an awkwardness about them that he’d never seen before. He felt it, too. And he suspected it came from knowing they were being judged by the women. No doubt all the Impossible Bachelors felt a new appreciation for what the mistresses had already endured this week.
The ladies clustered around him as he leaned the weapons against the tree and handed the masks to Molly. Bowing low, he said, “Enjoy. The game belongs to the ladies now.”
There was a chorus of feminine cheers.
Molly smiled a bit giddily. She was to speak for the women, and Harry could tell she felt nervous about that. But excited, too. Which was exactly what worried him. With her in charge, anything could happen.
“It appears we’re ready to begin the contest,” she said to the men. “You’ve already chosen straws. Captain Arrow and Lord Maxwell will go first. The winner of that match will go up against Lord Harry; that winner, against Viscount Lumley; and that match’s winner, against Sir Richard. The winner of each match will be the gentleman who completes the first touch to the chest, arms, or head.” She paused. “Clear so far?”
“Clear!” said the men as one.
“All right, gentlemen,” she went on, “the ladies won’t presume to tell you how to fence properly, but we do have a few rules. You forfeit no points for losing a match, but the winner gains three. The champion of the tournament shall win ten. A word of warning”—she raised her index finger—“any man who leaves the tournament area before today’s event is officially concluded will forfeit ten points for his lady at the end of the week.”
Harry’s stomach unclenched. He felt rather disappointed, actually. “We’re not such poor sports that we would leave our competitors to struggle alone in their quest.”
Molly smiled. “Of course not. We just want to be perfectly clear. Are there any questions?”
No man ventured one. Harry thought the rules seemed straightforward, if a little childish.
“Good.” Molly looked toward the house and beckoned someone with her hand. “There is one more thing,” she said, “though it’s not a rule.” She smiled at Harry, quite as if she were an angel.
Which didn’t bode well, he knew.
“We shall ask Finkle to declare the winners of each match and mark the official conclusion of the tournament,” Molly said. “He’ll be assi
sted by two footmen if there’s any confusion.”
Harry turned around. Sure enough, Finkle was slowly walking toward him, accompanied by the footmen.
“Why Finkle?” Harry asked.
“Because we women shall be otherwise engaged,” Molly replied, her tone rather too pert for her own good.
Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “Otherwise engaged doing what?”
“You won’t be watching us?” cried Sir Richard.
“No,” Molly and all the women said together, happy grins on their faces.
Blast it all. The proverbial axe was about to fall. Harry could see it in Molly’s eyes.
“Why not watch us?” asked Captain Arrow. “I should very much like to impress you with my parrying and, uh, thrusting skills.”
He eyed Hildur with a lascivious grin. She batted her eyes at him.
Molly bit her lip. “We’re—”
“Hot,” said Athena, and began fanning her face.
“We need shade,” said Joan.
“There’s shade here, under the tree.” Lumley threw out his arms.
“We’re hotter than that,” said Bunny. “We’re going swimming.”
“Where?” asked Harry.
“Over there,” said Molly. “In the stream.”
She pointed to a location surrounded by a thick grove of trees hugging the bank. “Have fun,” she said brightly.
She headed toward the clump of trees. The other women followed. Soon every female had disappeared.
“What the devil—” said Lord Maxwell.
“What do they mean by swimming exactly?” said Lumley.
“Dipping their feet, no doubt,” said Captain Arrow.
But there wasn’t time to ponder anything else. Because Finkle called Captain Arrow and Lord Maxwell up and handed them their foils and masks.
Harry politely turned his attention to the match, although his insides were churning. What was Molly about, leaving the contest when she had been the one to think of it?
Arrow and Maxwell, meanwhile, had donned their masks, inspected the wax buttons at the end of their foils, and made a few practice thrusts.
“Salute,” Finkle said.
The two men saluted each other with their weapons.
“En garde!” Finkle cried.
The two men posed for a brief second, and then Captain Arrow made an dramatic thrust, which was parried expertly by Lord Maxwell.
The foils hissed as they made contact, the blades sliding away in a blur of silver. Maxwell lunged to the left and, after a beat, attempted a quick thrust at Arrow’s right shoulder. But Arrow sidestepped the maneuver, and the hissing of the foils began again.
Harry’s heartbeat quickened. There was nothing like a good fencing match to get one’s blood moving. The two men’s styles were impressive, and at this point, he could see no clear leader.
The thrusting, parrying, and ripostes continued unabated. Arrow had just raised his foil to strike when something bright blue appeared on the grass near the clump of trees where the women were.
And then something red. And something green, and several beige items. Plus slippers—ten, to be exact, and they were tossed out of the bushes one by one.
“Oh, my God,” said Sir Richard. “They’re disrobing.”
“Getting stark nekked, you think?” croaked Lumley.
There was a loud squeal of feminine laughter, followed by much chatter.
And splashing.
Bloody hell. Harry had known Molly would pull something extraordinary, but he hadn’t envisioned this!
He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. She’d read them wrong, though. What sort of man would put a foil down or cease watching a manly contest such as this to go view women unclothed? In the stream? Splashing and playing and—
He swallowed hard. He’d like just one glimpse. One glimpse!
He was tempted to run right now, before his turn, but wait—that would be against the rules. He’d thought the rules redundant at the time, but now he saw why Molly had said them out loud. He couldn’t leave. None of them could. Not unless they wanted to lose ten points.
Harry jetted a breath. Molly was turning the screws on the bachelors in the most frustrating way possible.
The vixen!
By the time the last match arrived, all the men were in foul moods. Maxwell had defeated both Arrow and Sir Richard. Lumley had won against Maxwell. And now Harry was in the midst of his bout against Lumley.
“This is torture,” Lumley groaned.
And Harry knew he wasn’t referring to the fencing match.
Lumley made an awkward thrust—not at all in character for him—and Harry evaded it in an equally inelegant way. Harry knew they were both losing their usual finesse with the foil—thanks to the women.
The splashing grew louder. “You’re welcome to come join us, Viscount Lumley and Lord Harry!” the mistresses yelled as one.
Lumley gave his longest pause yet, his foil quivering. “Damn them!” he yelled, and made a thrust that narrowly missed Harry’s chest.
The fencing went on, the squealing and giggling of the women did as well, and Harry did his best to channel every bit of his frustration into the foil.
Finkle called, “A hit!”
For a half second, Harry held the foil to Lumley’s heart. When he pulled back, Lumley threw down his own foil and ripped off his mask.
Finally, the most frustrating fencing tournament in history appeared to be over.
Slowly, carefully, Finkle held up Harry’s arm. “You’re the winner, Lord Harry,” the old servant rasped, “but I’ve yet to draw the event to a conclusion. That shall take a few more minutes. Footmen,” he commanded, “do your duty.”
The footmen were already over at the bushes, picking up the ladies’ clothes and tossing them on top of the shrubbery hiding the women from view.
Harry gave a short laugh. Yes, Finkle had declared him the winner, but Harry was no fool. He and every other Impossible Bachelor knew who’d truly won this particular battle—and it wasn’t anyone in breeches.
Molly watched from her perch in a tree as the footmen picked up the ladies’ garments and laid them on the bushes near their bathing area. She couldn’t help but chuckle when she saw how forlorn Harry appeared, the foil and mask dangling from his hand, even after he’d won the tournament so handily. The other bachelors appeared equally unhappy as well. Maxwell raked a hand through his hair and let out a gusty sigh. Captain Arrow stood with his legs apart and his fists balled on his hips. Sir Richard scowled, his arms folded. Lumley sat on the ground, his face in his hands.
The men couldn’t leave the tournament area until Finkle called an official conclusion to the day’s game. So they were trapped, watching helplessly as from behind the bushes, the women giggled and laughed and put their clothes back on.
It was too delicious. All Molly’s frustration at losing the sack race, all that nervous energy she’d expended worrying while competing against the other women each day…
She’d gotten sweet revenge.
But no time to bask in it. Yet.
She’d told the other mistresses she’d be the lookout in the tree to ensure that the men played by the rules. But she’d had to throw her clothes out in the grass just like everyone else. Harry had sharp eyes. He would have noticed if she hadn’t.
From her perch, which had been quite dangerous to arrive at safely without being poked in the wrong places by twigs, she’d arranged her body strategically so that the leafy branches below her masked her vulnerable state in much the way that Eve covered herself in the Garden of Eden.
As a crowd of men and women alike surged toward the house, Harry held aloft by Lumley and Arrow, Molly felt a thrill of happiness. She couldn’t wait to tell him how proud she was of him! Of course, he’d done his best to triumph so he wouldn’t have to get married, but—
She wouldn’t think about that right now.
She’d be sure to kiss him in front of the others to celebrate his win. Th
ey’d expect that of her, wouldn’t they? She must oblige. And truth be told, she’d be glad to oblige. Even now, watching him from behind, she grew breathless at the memory of his intimidating style in the tournament—his easy grace, his broad shoulders and muscular back, his fierce thrusts with the foil.
Wait a minute. How could she congratulate him while she was stuck up in this tree?
“Bunny? Athena? I need my clothes, please!” she called.
But no one answered.
Certainly, the other mistresses hadn’t forgotten about her!
She’d try again. “Hello! Isn’t anyone still down there?”
A few birds chirped, the wind blew through the branches—and a sick feeling grew in her middle. She’d been so wrapped up in enjoying her little prank and then being distracted by Harry’s superb form that she’d lingered in the tree too long.
But she wouldn’t worry. Surely her clothes were on top of the bushes.
Determinedly, she began her slow descent. Once halfway down the trunk, she peered below, hoping to catch a glimpse of her things. She bent out as far as she could to get a better view, but—an awful buzzing sensation began in her head and found its way down to her toes—her garments were nowhere to be found.
And everyone, absorbed as they’d been in rehashing the tournament and exclaiming over the women’s mischievous role in it, had left her behind. Even Harry. Of course, he’d had little choice, being carried off like that. No doubt when he got put down, he’d realize she was missing.
But, still. She was alone.
The wind picked up, and her branch began to sway. To tell the truth, she was feeling a bit…vulnerable.
She dared another peek below to see if somehow she’d overlooked something.
And saw a masculine boot.
“Delilah,” called Sir Richard in that oily voice of his. “I know you’re in the tree. And I have your clothes.”
Molly shook a branch in frustration. “Just leave them there, Sir Richard! And walk away.”
“I don’t see why I should,” he said. “Everyone else forgot about you, after all. I’m the only one who noticed you were missing. You should be grateful.”
“I’d be grateful,” she bit out, “if you weren’t such an ass.”
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