None of them did.
“Izzh difficult,” said Lumley sadly. “Sheep shmell. Would any of you like to try?”
Arrow shrugged. “Sure. Why not shear sheep?”
“Tha’s right,” said Maxwell. “Ish as good an occupation as any.”
“And no one’ll miss me if I take a bit of shore leave,” said Arrow.
“I’m up for it,” said Harry. Certainly, no one would miss him, either. Except, perhaps, Anne Riordan.
“Good. I’ll lesh you know when.” Lumley turned to Harry. “What will you do in the meanwhile, Traemore?”
Harry scratched the side of his nose. “Oh, you know. The usual. Go to London, meet some beautiful women.”
“Izzhat all?” asked Arrow.
Harry shrugged. “I suppose.”
He had something else to do in London, but he couldn’t remember it at the moment. It was the real reason he’d gotten so drunk tonight.
What was it again? It caused his gut to ache, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember.
Good.
Because he didn’t want to remember.
There was a bleak silence in the room.
Harry rolled over onto his stomach. The rug fibers tickled his nose enough that he found the focus he needed to stand on rather wobbly legs. “Thank God we’ve made it, gentlemen. But I think I’ll retire now. My head…ish becoming a bit sore.”
“More drink will cure that,” said Maxwell, with a hiccup. He handed Harry his empty brandy glass. “Here. Have mine.”
Harry stared at it. “Thank you, Maxwell.”
“You’re welcome, my friend.” And then Maxwell’s head fell back and he began to snore.
“Lesh carry him up,” said Lumley. “Whaddya say?”
Harry took Maxwell’s arms. Arrow and Lumley took his legs. And somehow they managed to get him up the stairs and to his bedchamber.
Harry made it to his own, even though the hallway was spinning. He wished it would stop.
Molly. He needed Molly.
She would help his bedchamber stop spinning. And she would kiss him and tuck him in and maybe get under the sheets with him. He wouldn’t bother her. He just wanted her to sleep next to him.
He would hug her close because it was going to be a chilly night and he didn’t want her to catch cold.
A gray light seeped between his bedroom curtains. Was it close to morning already?
Damn, but he was starting to feel chilled. And his room was still spinning. He’d best get Molly. She was only next door.
Molly gave a shriek. There was a ghostlike figure, smelling strongly of spirits, swaying right above her. “Harry. What are you doing in here?”
“The room’s spinning, Molly. I need—” He paused as if he couldn’t remember what to say.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“You,” he said.
“Whatever for?”
He shrugged. “Because. Just because.”
“Harry.” Molly blew out a breath. “You’re drunk.”
“I am?”
“Yes.” She threw back the covers. “Now come with me.”
She took his arm and led him from her room, through the dressing room, and into his own.
He groaned a little. “D’ya have to go so fast?”
He stood near the side of his bed and she pushed him down on it. He immediately lay back and groaned some more.
She took off his boots.
“You’re so pretty,” he mumbled. “I can’t stop thinking about that dress you wore tonight. The one with the holes…”
He trailed off.
“You need to sleep,” she said, and laid a blanket from the bottom of his bed over him.
He patted the bed. “Come lie down with me. I won’t touch you. I just want…a kiss. How’s that?”
“How can you not touch me—and kiss me—at the same time?”
“Wha’?” He lifted his head for a moment and let it drop.
She leaned over him, pushed his jet-black hair out of his eyes. “You sleep, Harry. We’re leaving here in a few hours. I suspect you’ll be miserable, but at least sleep now.”
He grabbed her elbow. “I want you to stay.”
She shook her head. “No, Harry.”
“But you’re my mishtresh,” he said.
“You know I’m not,” she said back. “I’m a respectable female again.”
He closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh, God. I remember now.”
“Remember what?”
“Nothing.”
But a terrible crease furrowed his brow. He’d surely remembered something unpleasant. Or perhaps he was ill from drink. She’d heard of men getting awful headaches after a night of drinking. She’d be cruel to leave him in such a state.
She went to the other side of the bed, crawled onto the feather ticking, and lay down gently beside him. “I’m here,” she whispered.
“Good,” he said, his eyes still closed.
She didn’t know who made the move first—it seemed as if they’d both thought of it together—but they laced hands.
“G’night, Molly.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. “Don’t forget, all right?”
“Don’t forget what?”
“The Moroccan tent,” he whispered. “Or the lake. When we threw the blackberries.”
She bit her lip. Hard. The pain helped her keep the crying at bay. “I won’t, Harry,” she eventually managed to say back.
But he was already fast asleep.
Chapter 41
An hour later, Molly slipped out of Harry’s bed before he awoke and met the mistresses for an early breakfast. Molly doubted she would ever see them again. She couldn’t very well give them her address at Marble Hill, could she?
But saying good-bye to Bunny was proving to be too difficult. The footman left the dining room to bring several platters back to the kitchen, and the other mistresses excused themselves to finish packing.
Both Molly and Bunny stood in the doorway, watching Athena, Joan, and Hildur ascend the stairs.
Bunny turned back to her. “Before I go, I must thank you again, Delilah, for the money.” She hugged Molly, then drew back and took her by the shoulders. “I know I’ll never forget you. And I hope you shan’t forget me.”
Bunny’s gaze was warm, trusting. It was enough to make Molly come to a decision.
“Of course I won’t forget you,” she said. “And perhaps I’m rash to confide in you, but—” She swallowed hard. How could she tell her friend that she’d lied all week?
Bunny took her arm and drew her deeper into the drawing room, to the corner by the sideboard. “Please do tell me what’s bothering you,” she said, affectionate concern in her voice. “You’ve always been such a help to me.”
Molly bit her lip. “Would you hate me too terribly much if”—she turned to face her friend squarely—“if I told you that I’m not a real mistress?”
Bunny blinked several times. Then she put her hand to her mouth, which was open in a wide O, and after an awkward few seconds, she dropped her hand and chuckled. “Delilah, are you telling another amusing anecdote?”
Molly shook her head. “It’s true. I—I’ve been an imposter. All week.”
Bunny went back to the dining room table and sank into a chair. Molly sat down next to her, took Bunny’s hand, and squeezed it. Then she proceeded to explain, in a low voice, how she’d come to be at the house party.
Bunny pressed a palm to her chest. “So your real name is Molly.” She smiled. “It suits you.”
Thank God. Thank God she hadn’t gotten up and walked away in a huff.
“Yes,” said Molly weakly. “I like it better than Mary. I’m actually…Lady Mary Fairbanks. My father is the Earl of Sutton.”
Bunny’s mouth fell open again. “No.”
Molly nodded vigorously.
Bunny clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. But she couldn’t. She laughed aloud, her beautiful face alight with mirth. “Oh, Molly!
”
Molly laughed, too. She should have known—Bunny was a true friend.
Bunny sighed. “What a tale. But I’m delighted. I’m so happy to know that”—she hesitated, looked around to make sure the footman hadn’t come back, nor any other guests—“perhaps you have a chance with Lord Harry.”
Molly’s heart sank. Just thinking of Harry and how unattainable he was made her depressed. “I don’t think so, Bunny. He enjoys being a bachelor.”
Bunny squeezed her elbow. “They all fall at some point. And I—I think he has feelings for you. In fact, I’m sure of it. Please don’t give up hope.”
The footman came back then, and their cozy talk was over. But when Molly hugged Bunny good-bye this time, she felt worlds better, even as her heart was heavy about Harry. If he had feelings for her, nothing would stop him from acting upon them! And he hadn’t acted. So that was Molly’s answer.
She gave Bunny her address at Marble Hill and begged her to write as soon as she got settled into her new situation, which Bunny promised to do.
And then it was time to leave.
The subsequent journey to London was a miserable affair. Molly had to endure the powder and rouge and kohl for another day, and she wore Fiona’s most voluminous bonnet. It wasn’t safe to be seen so far from home without a disguise.
Harry had to exit the carriage twice within the first hour of leaving the hunting box to be sick. Eventually, he decided to ride on top of the carriage with his coachman.
But Molly wasn’t alone in the interior of Harry’s vehicle. He’d procured a maid from the village to act as chaperone. All morning, she chattered away. Molly barely listened. Instead, she reflected on the fact that she was going back home to her old life.
Without Cedric, thank God.
But still. Her old life.
She tried to be excited about the possibilities, but she couldn’t. What possibilities were there? Too much had happened in the past week, the main thing being that she’d fallen in love—with the wrong man.
“You all right, miss?” the maid asked her sometime after the sun had risen above the trees.
Molly sighed. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“We’ll be stopping soon.” She took Molly’s shawl and draped it over her. “You seem a bit ill. Perhaps a special punch would do you good.”
An hour later at a small posting inn, Molly shared a “special punch,” prepared at the maid’s direction, with Harry.
“Good afternoon,” he said to her, his voice rough. He drained his cup of punch and stared at her, quite as if he didn’t see her at all.
It was the first they’d spoken all day.
“Good afternoon,” she said back, and took a reluctant sip of her punch. But it was good, and powerful. It warmed her, so she finished it quickly.
“It seems we’re both under the weather.” The corners of Harry’s eyes were etched with creases.
“Perhaps the punch will do the trick and return us to fine fettle.” Molly gave him a wan smile to mask how little she believed that.
“Indeed.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to tell you: I haven’t forgotten our bargain.”
“Oh?” She pretended she’d forgotten, when really, it had been all she could think about since she’d won…Harry going back to his disgraceful ways. And Harry using those selfsame skills to weed out bad potential mates for her.
“Yes,” he said rather stiffly. “Our bargain. You won the contest, so I shall be looking for a suitable husband for you in London.”
“Oh. How kind of you.” She didn’t know what else to say.
His eyebrows lowered. “I’m not being at all kind. A man doesn’t go back on his word.”
She clenched her reticule and backed away. “Very well. I think I shall go back to the carriage now. If you don’t mind.”
He seemed to realize he’d been not as charming as he should. “Wait. Please.”
She hesitated.
He attempted a smile. “Pray forgive me my ill manners today. I was foolish to overindulge in spirits the night before a long journey.”
She nodded and withdrew her hand. “Apology accepted.”
Oh, well.
Her ills wouldn’t be cured after a day, that was certain.
She hastened back to the carriage.
Chapter 42
Harry sat at his club, nursing a brandy a little past noon. He was reading the newspaper and contemplating how he would spend the rest of his day. Gaming right here at the club? More boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s? Or finally calling upon the widow who’d been pestering him for a discreet affair?
None of those options appealed to him—the affair, least of all.
Clamoring in his brain was a tiny yet strong voice, the one he’d first heard in Molly’s presence. Dare he? Dare he attempt to follow through on what he’d told her?
He wanted to do something—be something—of value.
After all, look at the other Impossible Bachelors: Maxwell, with his scientific papers; Arrow, the brave sea captain.; and Lumley, who was capable of running more than several estates and managing a very large fortune.
Tentatively, Harry put aside his newspaper and pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. He would call for a quill and some ink. And then he would write down all his plans.
“Enjoying yourself, eh?” said an old gent, Lord Humphries.
Harry raised his glass and quirked his mouth in a pleasant grin. “That I am, sir.”
Lord Humphries laughed and punched his shoulder.
Dear God. The shoulder punch. Harry knew what that signified. He forced himself to smile at Lord Humphries…and waited to hear the dreaded words.
The old gentleman opened his mouth. “If only I were—” he began.
“Excuse me!” Harry leaped up. If only I were your age again was surely the phrase Lord Humphries was about to utter. “I believe someone is calling your name for a game of whist, sir.”
“Whist?” Lord Humphries eyed the crowd at the tables. “Who? Where?”
“I—I’m not sure.” Harry gave the man a respectful bow, scooped up his notebook, and left his half-drunk glass of brandy on the table. He didn’t know how many more congratulations he could take. Or the punches to the shoulder. Or the reminiscences of youth.
Really, being the winning Impossible Bachelor had its merits, but it had its flaws, too. Every rout, every ball, he attended in town in the Little Season was but a precursor to what he was to expect when a greater portion of the ton descended upon London for the regular Season come springtime.
Already matchmaking mothers, restrained by Prinny’s decree from pestering him, spoke about him from behind their fans and gave him calculating looks. Young misses ran as if he were a scary monster rather than a mere rake of somewhat undeserved repute. The men mobbed him, peppering him with questions about what it was like to be able to remain free—free of legshackles.
Free of expectations.
He’d always been free of expectations, hadn’t he? So this notoriety—as well as every man-about-town activity he’d once viewed with enthusiasm and pleasure—was actually somewhat…
Boring.
Predictable.
Harry was at serious loose ends, for the first time in his bachelor existence. Which was why he would hold on to this idea of his. And if he worked hard enough, he could present it to his father next time he saw him.
Which would be soon. The duke had summoned Harry to come home for a small country ball to be held in honor of Roderick and Penelope’s return from Italy. And Harry was actually looking forward to going. Not so much to see Roderick and Penelope and their girls—although he had a great deal of affection for all of them—but in the hopes that he’d see Molly there.
Everything he’d done since the week of the wager, he wondered what she would think of the activity. Which was why he’d been with no lightskirt or society widow since he’d last seen her.
He’d feel…disloyal somehow.
Not prepared f
or the anonymity of the act when it took place with a hired girl—and certainly not ready for the jaded outlook of the widows who made clear their desire to be with him…that way.
He smiled to himself. That way. It sounded like something Molly would say.
But then he frowned. Because, really, he must find her a suitable husband. It was another duty of his.
Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone, bring several potential grooms with him for Molly and pay his respects to his father and the rest of his family.
That’s what he’d do.
He looked around him. The club was full. Surely in the next half hour, he could drum up three or four respectable friends who’d be willing to come with him to his father’s country ball. On the way down, he’d drop little hints about the wonderful young ladies they’d be sure to meet there, especially one named Molly Fairbanks, a sweet little heiress whose father had buried her in the country the past three years. But had she been to London, he’d tell them, she would have taken it by storm.
And she would have, he thought, as he searched the gaming tables, and even the seats in the bow window, for appropriate candidates for her hand.
If only she’d been given the chance.
Any woman who could win the title of Most Delectable Companion when she wasn’t even a mistress could even take Paris by storm, much less stuffy old London. Not that he could put it quite that way to his friends. But somehow, he would convey her allure. And were he to fail, when they saw her in person they would understand.
If they didn’t, they’d have to be asleep. Or dead.
Of course, he hadn’t noticed her allure until recently himself. But that was because of their long history, starting with that damned Christmas incident.
Suddenly, he felt the fiercest anger about that. He and Molly had been children. Penelope, too, for that matter. But for years Harry and Molly had paid the price for that one, silly kiss between him and Penelope, and a poem expressing a young girl’s infatuation with an unattainable boy. It was time for a new page in their lives, wasn’t it? It was time to get past that Christmas incident once and for all.
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