When Harry Met Molly

by Kieran Kramer

  He gained courage at her passive acceptance of the kiss, although he sensed, and was mildly entertained by, the stiffness of her posture. Praying that she’d not balk—because the chaste kiss they were now sharing wasn’t nearly the kiss a man and his mistress would share at a ribald gathering—he teased her mouth open further.

  Harry heard her small intake of breath at the invasion, but he trusted in his kissing skills, pushing farther and farther into the sweet boundaries of her mouth until he sensed himself reacting, really reacting.

  And it was because she was responding. She sort of melted into him across the space separating them in the carriage, and he pulled her onto his lap, and he pressed her lower back just so, to settle her.

  She was molded perfectly to his body now. She lifted her hand and placed it tentatively around his neck, gripped him, and drew him even closer. One part of his mind was appalled at himself, kissing a girl whom he wouldn’t mind seeing fall off a cliff, and the other demanded that the pleasurable sensations continue.

  Of course, the side demanding pleasure won.

  And then she said something like, “Mmmmm,” deep in her throat, a wholly unexpected response which took him to the next level of…of need, he supposed. Not that he needed to kiss Molly.

  He needed Fiona, the lightskirt to end all lightskirts, whose company he’d been deprived of—thanks to the woman sitting on his lap right now.

  Abruptly, he pulled back and took a measured breath.

  “Samson,” she murmured, like a baby whose toy has been taken away, and opened her eyes. But they were heavy-lidded, her gaze dreamy.

  “What did you say?” His own voice was rough—with irritation, he was sure, brought about by unsated desire for Fiona.

  Molly’s eyes widened. “Nothing.” And with a polite, nervous smile, she stumbled backward into the opposing seat.

  He didn’t know how to respond. He could have sworn she’d said Samson. Who the bloody hell was he? Then light dawned. He was playing the Samson to her Delilah. Molly was pretending he was someone else while he kissed her. No woman, as far as he knew, had ever had to pretend he was someone else to enjoy his kisses! While he’d been very aware throughout the whole, insanely delicious kiss that she was Molly.

  Yes, Molly the termagant. And Molly the shrew. But Molly, nonetheless.

  “I suppose that was adequate practice,” she said, and looked out the window at the passing countryside. She appeared bright as a daisy now, her lips cherry red.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Harry answered, his mood completely soured.

  “That fainting spell was a fluke,” she insisted. “I’ll be the best false mistress ever.”

  “Um,” was all he responded. He wasn’t interested in talking to a female who’d used his body to enjoy a fantasy kiss with a biblical figure.

  “But Harry.” She nudged his knee again. “I’m getting safe passage back home simply for being with you, correct? For giving you that fighting chance. Because if you show up without a mistress, you forfeit the contest and head to the altar with a squint-faced bore.”

  “Right. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Good.” She smiled. “Because if I win, I want something more.”

  He felt his palms dampen. He hadn’t even contemplated the prospect that Molly could win. He should have been better prepared. He should have thought of all the angles this scenario could take. There was a very remote chance she could win.

  She was pretty, in the way an apple sitting on a blue plate is pretty. Most definitely not the way a velvety rose in a crystal vase is pretty (her sister Penelope was that). But pretty nonetheless. He should encourage Molly to win. In fact, he was embarrassed that she’d thought of the possibility first.

  “That’s right,” he said. “If you win, I shall be prepared to reward you a little something extra. Perhaps a bonnet, or a new gown.”

  “No,” Molly retorted. “If I win, I want something much more substantial than a new bonnet or gown.”

  Every woman of his acquaintance loved new bonnets and gowns! He felt his brows come together. “What, exactly, would you want?”

  Knowing Molly, she would hit upon something that would hurt him to have to pay. He would do the same thing if he were in her position. It was the nature of their…relationship. If you could call it that.

  The carriage was well sprung, but Harry felt tension gather in the muscles of his back. “Do go on with your pronouncement.”

  “My demand,” she corrected him.

  “Your demand, then,” he said, feigning nonchalance.

  But when she opened her mouth to speak, he braced himself for the worst.

  Chapter 7

  “If I win, I want you to find me a husband,” Molly said to Harry, her heart pounding with excitement at the thought of taking London by storm in the coming Season. “A good one.”

  A strange look of relief appeared on Harry’s face, as if he’d been expecting her to exact from him a ship full of silver and gold if she were to win the Most Delectable Companion title. She had gone rather easy on him, she realized now, but she couldn’t regret her choice of prize.

  He bit his lip, hard, as if he were trying not to laugh.

  Which made no sense, as her plan was brilliant.

  “Don’t you see?” she said. “In town I must steer clear of men like you and Cedric if I’m to make a good match. I’ll rely on your expertise as an Impossible Bachelor to detect that tendency in my suitors. It should make the going much easier.”

  She was very pleased with her plan, so pleased she’d regained her appetite. She took a lovely green apple from a basket on the seat next to Harry and bit into it.

  Harry still didn’t say a word. “A good match,” he finally croaked, his eyes appearing rather glazed. “For you.”

  She swallowed a chunk of apple. “Have you the headache?”

  He shook his head.

  She needs must explain further, obviously. “I daren’t make a mistake, Harry. If I don’t marry this Season, I’ll be firmly on the shelf. And I don’t want to be Cousin Augusta’s companion forever.”

  While she waited for him to say something, anything, she surreptitiously adjusted her bodice with one hand (it was still somewhat askew from their kissing practice), nibbled on the apple, and tried not to blush at the remembrance of Harry’s kiss.

  That morning Cedric’s lips had been cold as ice and he’d never opened his mouth, or hers.

  The sensations she’d felt with Harry’s kissing were entirely different and…completely unsettling. In fact, she looked forward to more kissing practice. Even if it was with Harry. She would continue pretending he was Samson, of course.

  Finally, Harry cleared his throat.

  “Yes?” She lowered her apple, now more a core than anything else.

  She knew him. He’d do something, anything, to deny her her wish. But she so wanted to go to London. She so wanted to dance! And find a husband, too, she supposed—someone who would understand her.

  Harry had a solemn expression on his face, even though his lips kept twitching. “If you win the Most Delectable Companion title,” he said, “I will do my very best to locate a gentleman with serious intentions toward you. In fact, I would like nothing more than to see you settled.”

  “Thank you.” She opened the door to the carriage and tossed the apple core out, then returned to a demure position and clasped her hands in her lap.

  “Preferably on the Continent,” he added. “Or the far north of Scotland.”

  “Very funny.”

  “With someone who can…contain you.”

  “Enough.” She slapped his leg, but she was too excited to give real credence to his insults. He had agreed to her terms, after all.

  She grabbed a roll from the basket, and leaning back on the squabs, said, “Do your best to see that he’s handsome, Harry. And he should not be either too old or too serious—I’ve had enough of serious with Cedric.”

  “But Molly—”

  “
Yes?”

  “You do know you must be like honey to attract a bee.”

  He was talking nonsense.

  “I want no bee,” she said. “I want the best bachelor on the market. And you shall find him! Have you any cheese in that basket?” She rummaged through.

  “In the bottom,” Harry said, then added, “I can’t do it alone. You must entice this bachelor. That’s where the honey plays a part.”

  “Oh, bother with honey,” she said, topping her roll with cheese and taking a bite. “Although I am perfectly good at enticing if I have to. Look at Cedric.”

  “There is Cedric,” Harry granted rather dubiously. “Tell me, how many gentlemen, all told, have brought you flowers?”

  She was reluctant to answer. She was also loath to tell him that the only reason Cedric had eloped with her was because he wanted her father’s wealth to back his own digging expeditions.

  So instead she ate her bread and cheese and watched a field of cows pass by her window. They swung their tails, and one cow nudged another. When Molly’s neck grew pained from twisting, she finally returned her gaze to Harry.

  “No man has brought me flowers, actually,” she confessed.

  Even though Cedric had had no idea he was to elope with her until she told him to, he should have brought her flowers. She hoped Harry’s lightskirt was taking her former fiancé for all he was worth.

  “All the more reason for me to tutor you in the ways of men, then,” Harry said. “Because aside from a decent fortune and good name, the skills you must have to win a proper husband are actually very similar to the skills you’ll need to be an excellent mistress at the house party. Which I was about to detail for you anyway, before we started practicing our—”

  “Kissing,” she interjected quickly, wishing they could do it once or twice more. But she didn’t want him to know that he was any good at it, so she supposed she would have to wait until the house party to try it again.

  “Yes, well”—Harry gave a short laugh—“in either case, whether you are mistress or wife, you will have to be…beguiling.”

  “I can do that,” she said, starting on her second roll and slice of cheese.

  His lips twitched again. Really, he must have a tic of some sort.

  “Watch the other mistresses at the house party,” he advised her. “Notice how they act around the men. Every night we’ll cast a vote for our favorite mistress of the day—we can’t select our own, so this is an opportunity for you to work your charms on the other men.”

  She sat quietly for a moment. “What will the other men find, as you say, beguiling?”

  “What most men do. A beautiful woman, of course, is always a pleasure. And if she doesn’t speak too much, if she is mysterious at times, dangling only occasional tidbits of warmth in her speech and manner, then men will find her most intriguing. They will want to see what fire lurks beneath the surface.”

  Molly scoffed. “That sounds very complicated. And silly.”

  Harry sighed. “You asked.”

  “What else is there?” Molly wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. “I’ll try to be so good at it, they won’t mind that I natter on now and again.”

  Harry sighed. “Men like biddable women, Molly. Someone they don’t have to take too seriously, someone who entertains them but knows when to leave them to their other duties and interests.”

  “Then I’m disgusted with all men.”

  Harry jetted a breath. “Do you want me to help you find a husband or not this Season?”

  She felt like sulking but couldn’t afford to. “Yes.”

  “If you have any hope of that happening, then you’d best listen to what I have to say. Because if you don’t win the Most Delectable Companion title, I most certainly will not be looking out for your interests in London.”

  “And if I don’t win the Most Delectable Companion title, you might have to marry this year.”

  They glared at each other.

  The carriage pulled up to the inn. Thank God. She needed to get away from Harry. Their relationship—if you could call it that—was entirely too provoking.

  In a private room at the inn, Molly opened Fiona’s trunk and gasped.

  Goodness. She was looking at a veritable treasure chest filled with shimmering, rich fabrics! In hues that a respectable young lady was never permitted to wear.

  She bit her lip to restrain her excitement. Fiona was so very lucky, wasn’t she?

  Had been lucky, Molly corrected herself, her chest expanding with a glorious, warm feeling. She was the fortunate owner of the trunk now!

  Pressing a dainty undergarment to her breast, she felt extremely possessive already, although she had no idea what the dainty undergarment was. She peered through its diaphanous panels and wondered, but only for a moment.

  Because there were elaborate slippers. Fringed and beaded shawls. Two bonnets wrapped in paper, both of them stunning. (The others must be in those hat boxes strapped to Harry’s carriage). And nightclothes so sheer, Molly could see right through them.

  But the gowns…oh, the gowns! In the next few minutes, Molly tossed dress after dress aside, oohing and aahing at the varied fabrics, the elaborate detailing of each one, until she found a dress that was—

  Breathtaking.

  The most beautiful shade.

  And entirely unsuitable for a proper young lady.

  It was a bishop’s blue muslin sheath spangled with matching bugle beads at the waistline and elaborate flounces at the hem. The bodice plunged to nothing, rather like a sharp cliff.

  She sighed, trying not to think of Miss Dunlap and her lectures on modesty.

  All Fiona’s bodices plunged to nothing. Molly had dutifully looked but found no tuckers to put into those bodices.

  “Oh, dear,” she said aloud to no one (Harry was having a tankard of beer downstairs). “These gowns are a disgrace!”

  She laid her favorite gown on the bed and glared at it.

  For another five minutes, she tried to be upset and disappointed at the disgracefulness of that gown. She would ignore it. So she searched through the trunk once more and found a bottle of perfumed oil, quite exotic smelling. She also discovered, of all things, several dyed feathers.

  She’d no idea why Fiona would carry such feathers.

  But her gaze kept returning to the gown on the bed. Her heart raced. Somehow, she knew wearing that daring dress would feel like a great adventure.

  The truth was, she’d be delighted to don it.

  She held it up. She should wear a shawl to cover her exposed flesh. And…and if Harry required her to remove the shawl, then—then she would simply have to do so, against her will.

  It would be all his fault.

  Besides, she shouldn’t worry overly much even if she were half naked. The men would be drunk. And they wouldn’t recognize her because she would be disguised.

  Yes, that was it! Miss Dunlap couldn’t fault her for wearing scandalous gowns if she were disguised.

  Feeling rather righteous—she was a good girl, after all—Molly sat at a dressing table and applied Aphrodite’s—rather, Fiona’s—face powder and then rouge to her cheekbones. She did the same for her lips. She also located a stub of kohl, with which she rimmed her eyes and blackened her eyebrows.

  And then she remembered that Fiona had had a beauty mark.

  After another moment’s work, Molly was done. She couldn’t help but gasp at the image in the mirror. Gone was the Grecian look she so favored—and there was absolutely no trace of the milkmaid look she preferred on Sundays.

  Now she resembled a…a real tart.

  Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she skirted around the trunk and opened a door to the hallway. Harry was already there, looking impatient, but also rather serious. As serious as a man about to buy a horse, which was serious, indeed.

  He circled her. “Remove the shawl, please.”

  Biting her lip, she looked down at the floor and did as she was told. And felt an instant draft.
She would die of a horrible illness now and be sent to hell.

  “Well,” said Harry, in a soft, surprised voice.

  She looked up and met his eyes. There was something new in his expression. Something that made her heart beat faster. His pupils were large and black, and his mouth curled up in the slightest smile.

  “You look…perfect,” he said, his gaze heating something in her.

  “Really?” She gave him a rather wobbly smile back.

  He nodded. “The dress fits you better than it did, um, Fiona.” He cast a quick glance at the bodice. “Especially there.”

  “Oh, right.” Molly nodded, looking down at the tops of her breasts straining against the fabric. “Thank you.”

  He walked around her. “Now don’t forget. It looks more pleasing without the shawl.”

  Suddenly, Molly felt better. She had a job to do. And that job was to look more pleasing. She had no time to waste on frivolous thoughts of hell.

  “Then I shall not wear the shawl.” She dropped it on top of the open trunk.

  Harry’s gaze lingered once more on her bosom. “Um, perhaps in the carriage you should wear the shawl.”

  “Of course.” She looked down at the scandalously deep neckline. “I wouldn’t want to spill crumbs or anything.”

  “Right,” he said briskly.

  She retrieved the shawl. “Are you sure I’ll pass the test?”

  Harry’s eyes gleamed like—

  Like she wasn’t sure.

  But it scared her. And excited her. And sent tingles down her spine. He looked at her as if he would slay a dragon for her and demand she pay him afterward with something akin to what they’d done in the carriage.

  Which was perfectly all right with her. She’d gladly pay him that way!

  Any nice person would repay someone that way for slaying a dragon!

  He took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. “I think you look as if you belong at this house party.” His voice was a bit rough around the edges. “No one would possibly guess you don’t belong, unless, of course—”

  “I open my mouth.” She grinned.