He gave a little laugh. “Exactly.”
The strange tension between them was gone, thank goodness. Now she could breathe again.
He chucked her under the chin. “Just remember what I said in the coach. Be beguiling. Mysterious.”
“Biddable,” she repeated, and watched him shut the trunk.
“Yes,” he said, as he heaved the trunk over his shoulder.
God, she hated biddable. But even as he carried a large trunk which hit the side of the door on the way out of the room and caused him to swear, Harry looked tremendously pleased with her, which, she supposed, was a good thing. She needed him on her side. They must appear compatible. Otherwise, someone might catch on to their ruse, and she would never win the contest.
Because now returning home scandal-free was not enough. She wanted that husband. He was her ticket out of what would surely be an even more ho-hum existence at Marble Hill, now that Cedric was out of the picture. And as soon as she got this husband, she could cease with the silly nonsense involved in entrapping a man, except for the dancing part and the beautiful-gowns-and-bonnets part.
She would be mistress of her own household in London, and she would tell her doting spouse that she had no intention of shutting up or wearing pale muslin every day, and he wouldn’t object because Harry would have found the right man for her, one who enjoyed her conversation and wanted her to dance all the time and ride her horse and attend humorous plays.
She would read scandal sheets and pore over dress patterns and read exciting novels, just like all the other women she knew, and she would most definitely stay away from conversations about ancient relics. She’d still pour tea for Cousin Augusta when she went home to visit Papa, but she’d have friends with her who would divert Cousin Augusta from the brass band in her ears.
Yes, being biddable now was a means to an end—Molly’s freedom. And there was nothing she desired more than that.
Chapter 8
Despite the comfort of Harry’s carriage, which sported tasseled curtains and seats of the softest leather, Molly was relieved to arrive at their final destination in the late afternoon. As soon as she’d reentered the carriage that afternoon, all resplendent in her newfound finery, she recalled the kiss she and Harry had shared in the vehicle’s cozy interior. She remembered sitting on Harry’s lap, smelling his deliciously woodsy man smell, running her fingers through his silken curls, and being crushed to his chest while he kissed her senseless.
It was torture, as if the carriage itself kept whispering, “That kiss,” in her ear, especially when she caught Harry staring at her shawl, around the area of her bosom, and once or twice licking his lips. And then something compelled her to accidentally on purpose drop an apple and her shawl. She and Harry had both searched for the apple on the floor for ages—it rolled around quite a bit—and their hands kept touching.
And her shawl had conveniently fallen off, which meant even longer searching for the apple because Harry kept forgetting to search and stared again at her bosom.
Yes, Molly thought, the afternoon’s journey had been torture. A delicious kind of torture—but torture, nonetheless.
She must get out of the carriage before she burst with wanting to be kissed again, and by Harry, of all people.
Not a moment too soon, John Coachman brought them round to the front door of the house.
“Welcome to my favorite hunting box,” Harry said, and held out his hand.
Molly took it and imagined yanking him close for a practice kiss that would harm no one. Instead, she jumped down to the gravel. “Oh, is it yours, then?” she said mildly. “A gift from your father?”
Harry hesitated. “The duke knows how much I love it here,” he said, sounding a bit gruff. “So yes, he gave it to me.”
“How generous of him.” Molly gazed at the neat façade of a three-story gray stone manor. A gravel walkway lined with bright red geraniums led to a front door painted blue. It was tucked neatly into the side of a small, forested hill. “It’s lovely,” she added.
And it was. She’d quite like to churn butter here. Or knit. Not that she knew how to do either. But she could borrow a good book from the library. And she could eat biscuits and drink milk while reading it.
She found herself smiling.
Harry offered her his arm, and she took it gingerly.
“We keep a very limited retinue of servants,” he said. “All men, except for Cook. The house isn’t particularly grand, but considering what will go on here, it needn’t be.”
Molly paused, her cozy daydream dissolving like mist. What would actually go on here? She was supposed to be Harry’s mistress. And all the other women here would be mistresses, as well, which meant there would be lots of dalliances, and she knew what that involved—bare skin being exposed in private nooks or even bedchambers, secret kisses in the garden, and…and worse than kisses, according to all the little tidbits of information she’d picked up from Penelope.
“There’s a stream that meanders through the forest, and ends up in the lake on the other side of the hill,” Harry added, and strode to the front door.
Molly hesitated there. “Really? I adore lakes.”
Harry threw her a sly glance. “I always swim in it naked. And I never come here without swimming in it at least once. I’ve told my guests they have that option, too. It’s quite private.”
“Harry.” She scolded him with a glance, but she felt a bit breathless. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned that a lady such as myself might be exposed to unseemly sights?”
“You’re the one who took off to Gretna, did you not?” he said with a grin that made him look like a devilish boy in need of a comeuppance. “Should I sacrifice a chance to remain free for another year because of your harebrained idea?”
“I’m not the first person to attempt an elopement to Gretna,” she said, her chin rising a fraction, “nor the last.”
“It wasn’t the elopement that was harebrained—it was whom you decided to elope with that makes me doubt your judgment.”
“As your choice of lightskirt makes me doubt yours. Fiona never said a word, that whole time in the inn. What kind of woman doesn’t speak? Ever? It’s unnatural. Perhaps all her teeth were missing. Was that it?”
He gave her an impenetrable look. “Truce, Molly. We can’t afford to argue. There is much at stake here.”
She sighed. “Oh, very well.” Arguing with Harry took her mind off more pressing concerns, such as how she was going to be a false mistress. And how she was going to stop thinking about him swimming naked in that lake.
He opened the door. “Anybody home? We’re rather informal here,” he told her over his shoulder.
Molly walked in behind him and saw a butler walking at a snail’s pace up the hallway toward them.
Before he arrived, Molly glanced around and saw a man’s evening shirt flung on top of an ornate blue Chinese vase on the hall table, red patches of paint shaped like a pair of lips on the sleeve.
“Harry,” she whispered, pointing at the shirt.
“Up to no good already, I suppose.” He chuckled and stuffed the shirt deeper into the vase.
Typical man.
Molly forbore to huff, as the butler reached them and bowed. “Good day, Lord Harry. It’s good to have you back. It might interest you to know that just this morning, we received a cask of exceptional brandy delivered by a messenger from His Royal Highness with his best wishes for a successful week.”
Molly drew in an appalled breath. A whole cask of brandy? The men would be constantly drunk, constantly drunk and pawing at the women. She knew this for a fact because Penelope had warned her that husbands, when they drink, sometimes do naughty things to you with their hands under the supper table when you have company, especially if the company are old schoolmates who are equally drunk.
Molly yawned into her fan and then began to wave it languidly in front of her face to disguise her rising panic. And her interest. Harry had nice hands. How would they f
eel running over her thigh while they sat together at the table eating their turtle soup?
Would she flinch? Would the soup go everywhere?
Or would she do nothing?
She suddenly felt very hot.
“According to the messenger,” Finkle went on, “Prinny shall be awaiting the results of the wager with great interest.”
“Is that so?” said Harry mildly. “I was hoping he’d rather forgotten about us. Left us to our own devices.”
Finkle’s face remained somber. “No, indeed, he has not forgotten, Lord Harry. To quote the messenger, the drunken old fart is bored and is seeking—ahem—a bit of fun.”
Harry sighed. “With copious amounts of exceptional brandy on the premises, no doubt we’ll have some amusing stories to tell His Royal Highness by week’s end.”
Molly hoped none involving her, of course.
A footman appeared at her right and took her wrap. “I shall see to it that this is placed in your room, madam,” he said, looking vaguely over her head.
“Thank you,” she said, and wondered if he thought her rouge and gown were scandalous. Then she wondered if he was thinking of her naked, because she was, after all, supposed to be a mistress.
Oh, God. Was everyone thinking about her naked?
She whirled around to see the butler’s face, but thankfully he appeared more interested in Harry than in her at the moment.
“Are we the last to arrive, Finkle?” Harry asked, putting his arm around the servant’s decrepit old shoulders.
“Indeed you are, sir,” said Finkle. “The others were beginning to wonder if you didn’t have a…a young lady to bring to the house party.”
Molly blushed.
Harry threw back his head and laughed. “They would doubt me? You wouldn’t, would you, Finkle?”
“Never, sir.”
“Good man.” Harry gave the appearance of slapping him on the back, but Molly could tell it was more of a gentle pat.
Finkle almost smiled, and then, just as suddenly, he appeared to be falling into a deep sleep, his head lolling on his shoulders.
Harry gestured to Molly to say something.
“Wh-where is everyone?” Molly piped up.
Finkle blinked, opened his eyes. “Why, they are at the lake, dear lady. Taking a dip.”
She caught Harry’s gaze. He smiled, and she froze. That little smile couldn’t mean that his guests were all taking a dip together…naked, could it?
Molly felt herself blush. “Will—will they also be swimming later in the week?”
“They might be so inclined,” said Finkle.
“I hope not,” she said, and restrained a shudder.
“Why is that, my lady?” Finkle responded politely.
“I—I would rather not catch cold.”
“Ah, but it is the height of summer,” Finkle said. “The lake will never be warmer than it is right now. You might change your mind when you see it. Especially in the moonlight.”
Did—did Finkle assume that everyone went in the lake…naked? Was he envisioning her going in the lake naked, in the moonlight?
And for that matter, was the footman? She swung around to look at him, but he was already gone.
She attempted to smile at Finkle, but she sensed it appeared more as if she had an upset stomach. “I suppose I shall have to see the lake. Eventually. Although we might be so busy, I might never get around to it.”
“Oh, we’ll make time.” She was sure Harry said that with a wicked glint in his eye, and she swore Finkle responded with an old man’s leer.
Were they thinking of her naked again? She would never know, really. But if they were, how could she make them stop?
She was terrified and embarrassed to be a mistress, even a fake one, if it meant everyone was thinking of her naked all the time! Especially Harry! Because she was already thinking of him naked, and that wouldn’t do.
That wouldn’t do at all. Cousin Augusta and Papa would disapprove, and so would Miss Dunlap.
People shouldn’t see each other naked. Molly already felt naked when Harry kissed her, and that was bad enough. Maybe if she acted sickly, everyone would leave her alone all week. No one wanted to imagine a sick person naked.
“I—I have the headache,” she said. “And, I think, a crumbling spine.” She’d once heard an old woman at church complain of that. She put her hand on her lower back for emphasis.
But no one seemed to care. Finkle’s chin rested on his chest and he began a light snore. All Harry said was, “Why don’t you rest in your room until we gather in the drawing room tonight before supper?”
She was feeling rather exhausted, to tell the truth. “What time will that be?”
“I’ll send a footman up to let you know.”
“Fine.” She could hide from the fact that, even though she’d yet to set eyes on a lake, she was already in well over her head.
Harry watched Molly ascend the stairs, daintily lifting her hem as she did so. He hardly recognized her in that revealing gown and the paint, especially the kohl around her eyes, which made her look a bit like Cleopatra. Which was a good thing. It wouldn’t serve to have any other bachelor at the party be able to identify her here or in town.
She was climbing the last few steps now, her back ramrod straight, her hips stationary. The way a lady would walk, Harry thought with concern. He knew the other mistresses would move with a sinuous languor born of long experience with the lustful imaginings of men.
Perhaps Molly would learn through observation. Or a little brandy might loosen her up.
But even if she never lost that ramrod-straight back, Harry couldn’t help feeling heat in his belly at the sight of her climbing the stairs. She was round in all the right places. And her back was so delicate and fine! When he’d run his hand up and down it in the carriage, he’d felt a crazy impulse to lower her onto the carriage seat and make mad, passionate love to her—to show her all the things he sensed her untouched body longed for that she was missing and could be doing.
With him.
And he with her.
He suddenly realized it was going to be a difficult week, in more ways than one.
At the top of the stairs, she turned and saw him watching her. “You’re still here, Harry?”
He gave her a small bow. “Indeed, I am. I just thought of something. There’s a certain walk I’d like to teach you. May I?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Of course.”
He ascended the stairs three at a time and stopped right behind her. “It’s the mistress walk,” he said, placing a light hand on both her hips. His face was in her hair, which smelled sweet, and his mouth nearly touched the delicate rim of her ear. “Imagine yourself having to use your hips—and nothing else—to touch something out of reach,” he said quietly. “Every step you take, you’re reaching out to touch that thing with your hip. Don’t move. Let’s try it in place.” He gently pushed her left hip to move her to the right, which she did.
“Like this?” she asked him, sounding a little nervous.
She was so anxious to please. And her hips…so pliable.
“Yes,” he said in professorial tones. “Exactly. Now do that with the other hip.”
He kept his hands on her as she moved her other hip.
“Now back and forth,” he said. “Slowly.”
She did as he asked, and he pressed his eyes closed, letting his hands ride her undulating hips. She was tantalizing him without realizing it, of course, and he was no gentleman to enjoy this practice so, but—
He forced himself to step back. “All right, that’s enough.”
She turned to look up at him, her brown eyes huge. “Are you sure I did it correctly?”
“Yes.” He smiled at her. “Now try to make that same side-to-side hip motion as you go forward. Slowly. As if you’re walking through a large vat of honey.”
She nodded back, biting her lip, and did as she was asked.
“A little less side to side,” he said, hidin
g a grin.
She instantly complied.
His breath caught in his throat. “That’s perfect,” he managed to say.
And it was. He rather felt like picking her up and taking her to bed.
She turned to him with a grin. “Are there any other things you can teach me?”
He was tempted to kiss her on the tip of her nose. “Er, yes, of course. But for now, rest. Would you like me to send the footman up with a book?”
She smiled. “Yes, thank you.”
He could tell that she needed a distraction from her impending role as false mistress. Maybe an hour with a book would settle her nerves.
“Would a volume of William Wordsworth’s poetry do?” he asked.
Her eyes lit up. “That would be just the thing.”
He hid a smile. Molly Fairbanks was quite the easiest person in the world to understand.
In the small but well-stocked library, Harry easily located the volume he sought. He’d read it many times himself and kept it on a shelf close to the desk.
He rang for the footman, who appeared immediately, and handed him the book. “Please take this to the young lady upstairs.”
The footman hesitated a fraction of a second.
Perhaps, Harry thought, most mistresses didn’t read poetry. None of his ever had. They’d been more preoccupied with sleeping until noon, practicing their smoldering glances in any looking glass they could find after they woke up, and shopping.
However, one could never make assumptions. No doubt Lord Maxwell’s mistress, Athena Markham, was very familiar with poetry.
Harry gave the lad a stern look. “Deliver it with the utmost respect. Every visitor to this house is my guest.”
“Yes, sir.” The chastened footman turned on his heel and left the library.
God forbid anyone else this week question Molly’s tastes. Or Harry’s, for that matter.
He needed a drink. A large drink. So he poured himself a double brandy from his father’s supply in a decanter on the desk.
Soon his other guests would return from the lake. And when they did, he’d have to put his seriously limited acting skills to the test. He must pretend Molly was the most alluring woman in the world. Even though she obviously wasn’t. She could certainly pass muster, but win the contest? With her testy temper and outspoken ways?
When Harry Met Molly Page 7
