When Harry Met Molly

by Kieran Kramer

  “Oho!”

  “And then Imogen twirled one time too many and got sick—”

  “Children seem to do that when they’re wearing their best clothes.”

  “Yes, and Papa insisted on dancing with me, which made me cry…and—”

  She stopped.

  “And?”

  “Every time I looked at you, I became excited thinking about…now.”

  He grinned. “Now?”

  She nodded. “It’s been so long, Harry. Since that night in Prinny’s tent.” A becoming pink crept up her cheeks.

  “Yes, three months and five days ago,” he murmured, glad he’d told the servants to disappear until morning.

  “And thirteen hours,” she said simply.

  “Indeed.” He continued carrying her down the corridor. “But there’s food to be obtained. At our very own, intimate wedding feast.”

  She kicked her legs. “Lovely!”

  In the kitchens, he set her on her feet and looked around, wondering if Cook had followed orders.

  Ah, there it was.

  He strode to a large, well-worn table and whipped off a napkin. A delicate plate of iced Queen cakes appeared. And to the side was a sweating pitcher of milk.

  He’d not been oblivious to Molly’s lack of appetite that morning. So he’d sent a runner round to their new residence and given orders for this little meal to be provided. Cook must have left the premises not thirty minutes ago, judging from the coldness of the pitcher.

  Molly clasped her hands together. “Oh, Harry. You’re so thoughtful.”

  “Am I?”

  She went to him and kissed him soundly. “Yes. You are.”

  Then she sat at the chair and devoured two Queen cakes in a row before she swallowed half a glass of milk.

  She sighed, a contented sigh this time, he thought. And then she stood. “I think—”

  “No thinking,” Harry said, unwrapping his cravat. “Doing. That’s what we’re up to right now.”

  “Really?” She gave him an impish grin and pulled off his cravat.

  “Yes, really.” He bent and kissed her, his hands wrapped around her waist, and then he pulled her closer.

  “Harry,” she murmured. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  “I believe I’ve heard you say that before,” he teased her.

  “It’s true.” She drew back. “No more talking.”

  “Yes, no more talking. At least until we’re naked.”

  And before they knew it, their clothes lay in a heap on the kitchen floor.

  “We’re supposed to do this upstairs, in our marriage bed,” Harry murmured against her breast. “Shall I carry you there now?”

  “No,” Molly gasped. “I can’t wait that long.”

  “I see. Only Queen cakes can divert you from your sensual purpose, eh?”

  “Not even Queen cakes now,” she said, her breath feather light on his jaw.

  “I’m honored. I think.” Harry kissed her without stopping and lifted her to sit on the table. “You know,” he whispered in her ear, “I might want a Queen cake, as well.”

  “Really?’

  He nodded. Then swiped a finger through the icing of one of the cakes on the plate.

  She had an adorably befuddled look on her face.

  “Part your legs, my sweet,” he murmured against her mouth.

  She gulped. “Oh, my God. You’re—you’re—”

  “Hungry.” He smiled into her eyes, then slowly ran his iced finger over her sweetest, most vulnerable flesh.

  “Harry.”

  He sank down before her and plundered her with his tongue. She ran her fingers through his hair, leaned on his shoulders, and moaned her delight.

  “I need a little more icing,” he said at one particularly luscious moment, and took his time running his finger through the top of another cake.

  “Please,” Molly cried. “Hurry up!”

  He laughed, and when he returned to her, he lavished her with every bit of loving attention he could give his new bride. After a few more heady moments, she arched her back and called his name.

  It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

  When she was done, her whole body was rosy.

  He pulled her up and kissed her. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “And quite delicious. I’ll have to share Queen cakes with you more often.”

  She smiled. “You’re wicked, you know that? And I love you. More than words can say.”

  There was a silence between them, a shimmering, golden silence.

  “I love you, too,” he said. “And you’re right—words can’t express—” He sighed and ran a finger down her cheek. “Come. Let me show you.”

  Molly held Harry’s hand tightly as they climbed the stairs.

  Last night—her last as an unmarried woman—she’d been visited by Penelope in her bedchamber at Lord Sutton’s rented mansion on Jermyn Street. Penelope had held her hands, and they’d cried together, both of them wishing aloud that their mother could have been there to speak to Molly about her wedding night.

  Penelope, of course, knew Molly and Harry had already, ahem, spent time together—what were sisters for, after all, but to share in such wondrous news?

  “But nothing can prepare you,” Penelope had said, swallowing hard and rubbing the backs of Molly’s hands with her thumbs, “for the actual…act.”

  “Really?” Molly grew breathless just thinking about the possibilities.

  Penelope nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes. There’s nothing like it. Especially when you’re in love.”

  “And are you in love with Roderick, still?” Molly whispered, and pulled her hand out of Penelope’s to push a curl behind her ear.

  Tears flooded Penelope’s eyes. “More than ever. If Harry is at all like him—and of course, we know he’s cut of the same noble, kind, handsome, and irresistibly amusing cloth—you’ll be tremendously happy as his wife.”

  “And married to two brothers, our sister bond will be stronger than ever, won’t it?” Molly said, wiping at her own eyes.

  “Stronger than ever,” Penelope choked out.

  They hugged. And cried a few more happy tears.

  Now Molly was about to find out what Penelope had been talking about so feelingly. Penelope and Harry’s mother—now Molly’s mother-in-law—had seen to it that their bedchamber was warm and welcoming. Vases of white roses decorated both sides of the mantel. The bedclothes had been drawn back, and a small, cheerful fire laid.

  Molly looked at the far wall, where Harry was staring. It held numerous oil paintings in gilded frames, fronted by a bust of Lord Nelson on a pedestal, a gift from Captain Arrow, who practically worshiped the man.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “See that picture of the hunting box?” Harry said. “Father told me we’d find another wedding present in our bedchamber. I’ve always loved that painting. So has he. He probably has a dark rectangle on the wall in his library where it’s resided for decades.”

  Molly smiled. “How sweet of him to give it to us.”

  Harry gripped her hand. “No, Molly. You don’t understand. This means…he’s given us the hunting box, as well.”

  “It does?”

  Harry gave a soft laugh. “Father’s a slave to family tradition and expects me to know every nuance of it, as well. In our family, whoever owns the painting owns the property.”

  He turned to her and kissed her, his naked form pressed firmly against her own.

  “He must know it’s special to us,” she murmured against his lips.

  “It’s where we fell in love,” Harry said, his hands kneading her bottom, her hips, and then sliding up to cup her breasts.

  Several delicious moments later, they were on the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, their kiss unbroken, the need between them palpable. He was hard against her belly. She could barely breathe when he nipped teasingly at her breasts and then suckled them. And the exciting way he pinned her arms above her head and kissed her
as he stroked the soft core of her drove her mad with longing.

  She loved him. She loved him so much it left a knot in her middle that begged to be loosened. Harry, she knew, was the only one who had the power to do so.

  “Please, Harry,” she managed to say around their kisses.

  He was already between her legs. “This might hurt,” he said. “But just for a moment. If you can trust me—”

  “You know I do.” She smiled at him, drew an invisible line down his cheek with her index finger, a line that ended at his lips.

  He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Molly—” he whispered raggedly.

  And then he was inside her.

  There was a split second of pain between her legs, but she hardly noticed. Because Harry was kissing her mouth and then her breasts as he began a sweet tempo of movement. The feeling of fullness inside her was so pleasurable—so right—that she lifted her hips to bring him deeper.

  “Oh, Harry…” she whispered.

  Everything they’d shared before this moment was in his gaze—their outrageous, thrilling courtship, their childhood, their years of separation and suffering, and the wedding promises they’d made that very morning.

  He pressed a hand against her brow and swept her hair back. “You’re my love,” he said simply. “Forever.”

  “And you’re mine,” she said, smiling at him. “Forever.”

  But words, wonderful as they were, and so true—were not enough.

  Molly felt Harry’s fierceness, his craving, as their rhythm took on a new intensity. He dipped his head and kissed her, holding her tight in his embrace as their tongues melded in a dance of desire. She clung to him, wanting…wanting—

  And then she was suddenly there—she’d no idea where she began and where Harry ended. All she knew was wave after wave of intense pleasure.

  Of love.

  Of oneness.

  All in a rapturous moment.

  She was exactly where she belonged—with Harry.

  Her husband, her lover, and her best friend.

  Sighing, she sank back down into the pillows, her arms still wrapped around his neck.

  He rolled to the side and pulled her on top of him, a lazy smile on his lips. “So, Lady Harry—” he said in his very best Adorable Man voice.

  She laughed. “Is that my new name?”

  “Only at stuffy social occasions.” He grinned and wrapped one of her curls around his finger. “I’ve a question.”

  “Ask away, my lord.”

  “How do you feel about Lord Nelson being so close by? Arrow insisted he must reside in our bedchamber. He said something about hoping his presence would ensure we become the parents of at least one great naval hero.”

  She turned around and stared at the bust of the revered admiral, who appeared to be watching them with a grim, determined expression. “He’s welcome to stay, of course,” she said blithely. “But I can tell by the look in his eye, he expects us to do our duty often.”

  “And with the uncommon zeal particular to sailors and their wenches,” Harry added.

  Molly grinned, laid her cheek on his chest, and listened to the beating of his heart. “What about Maxwell and Lumley? Did they give us a present?”

  “They did, as a matter of fact.”

  Molly lifted her head and gazed around the bedchamber. “I don’t see anything…out of the ordinary.”

  “Well, the presents aren’t exactly here. Lumley has purchased and named a noble ram after me and a gorgeous ewe after you at his newest estate in Scotland. He has high hopes, he says, for a magnificent herd to rise from their union. And if you look in the little greenhouse in the back garden, you’ll see that Maxwell’s commissioned a botanist to experiment with cultivating a white rosebush named Harry with a pink rosebush named Molly in one pot. He predicts they’ll spawn a new, hearty, attractive, and clever generation of rosebush.”

  “Clever roses?” Molly laughed.

  “Yes. Clever. And I told Maxwell I insist one or two must have your hair color.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  She grinned. “And they must have your smile.”

  Harry chuckled. “We’re no botanists, obviously.”

  “Nor sheep breeders. But clearly we’ve deduced your Impossible Bachelor friends are trying to tell us something.”

  “That they are,” Harry replied, and rolled her beneath him again. “Shall we get started proving them right, my love?”

  Read on for an excerpt from the next book by Kieran Kramer

  DUKES TO THE LEFT OF ME, PRINCES TO THE RIGHT

  Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  In a proper English drawing room on Clifford Street in London’s Mayfair district, Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes, daughter of the widowed Earl of Derby, threw down the newspaper and stood up on shaky legs. Finally, the secret passion she’d been carrying around with her for almost six years would have its day in the sun.

  “He’s here,” she announced to Aunt Charlotte. “Sergei’s in England.”

  She could hardly believe it. She’d resigned herself to being a Spinster—she was in good company, after all. But now…in a matter of a moment, everything had changed.

  Her prince had arrived.

  Aunt Charlotte, tiny in her voluminous, outmoded gown, stopped her knitting. “Are you sure?”

  Poppy found the paper again and put it under her aunt’s nose. “He and his sister are touring with their uncle’s last portrait and unveiling it for the very first time here in London. They intend to enjoy the social whirl while they’re visiting, of course.”

  “Oh, Poppy!” Aunt Charlotte’s eyes were a bright, mischievous blue above her spectacles, and her powdered white wig sat slightly askew on her head. “He’s the only man on earth who could coax you out of the Spinsters Club.”

  “Indeed, he is.” She hurried to the front window and looked out, expecting something to be different. But the day appeared like any other day. She knew, however, that it wasn’t. It was special.

  Sergei—the perfect boy, and now the perfect man—was in town.

  She spun around to her aunt. “Do you think he’ll remember me? It’s been six long years. I was fifteen. We had only a week. It seems a lifetime ago.”

  “How could he forget you?”

  She shrugged. “So much has happened to him. He’s been traveling, he was in the military—I kept up with him as best I could through the papers. I’m afraid…I’m afraid he’ll see me at a ball and walk right by me.”

  Aunt Charlotte laughed. “No one walks right by you, dear. Not with that fiery hair of yours. Or that mischievous grin. You’re an impudent thing, you know. Just like me. He’ll notice you, all right.”

  Poppy went to her and squeezed her hand. “But I’ve got to get through Eversly’s proposal first. I’m dreading it, Aunt, more than any other offer I’ve ever had. He’s such an amiable sort.”

  Aunt Charlotte calmly resumed her knitting. “Yes, he is. But you must stay true to yourself. He’ll survive the turn-down, and you will, too. It’s not as if you haven’t had a great deal of practice.”

  Eversly was due to arrive within the hour, and his would be the twelfth marriage proposal Poppy had turned down in the three years she’d been out. Two of those offers had rather predictably taken place during the fireworks at Vauxhall. Another two had transpired at Rotten Row in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, both times while she’d sat astride docile mares (Papa wouldn’t let her take out the prime-goers). One proposal had taken place in front of a portrait of a spouting whale at the British Museum at eleven in the morning and two more at the conclusion of routs that had dragged on until dawn. One had transpired in the buffet line at a Venetian breakfast after she’d overfilled her plate with wedges of lemon tart to make up for the dull company, two had occurred in her drawing room over cold cups of tea—tepid because her suitors had prosed on so long about themselves—and one had taken place, inexplicably, at a haberdashery, where she’d gone to buy buttons for Pap
a’s favorite hunting coat.

  Two barons, a baronet, three viscounts, four earls (one of them only nine years old at the time), and one marquess had proposed to her. Two had had large ears. Five had had small eyes. Three had smelled of brandy, and one had lost his breeches in a fountain. One had been missing his front teeth (and it hadn’t been the boy).

  Stay calm, she told herself. More than ever, you have a reason to say no to Eversly.

  As the clock ticked closer toward the earl’s arrival, Aunt Charlotte kissed her on the cheek and left the room. Poppy waited another agonizing twenty minutes. Finally, there was a knock at the front door, and she put her newspaper under a pillow. Kettle, Lord Derby’s elderly butler, greeted the visitor in his usual sober way.

  Poppy stood.

  Then she sat.

  And then she stood.

  Finally, the earl, a veritable Adonis, entered the room. He had gleaming blue eyes, a golden curl on his forehead, and shoulders so broad she should feel weak in the knees.

  But her knees stayed firm.

  “You’re alone.” Eversly’s eyes were warm. She could tell he had genuine affection for her, and she did for him, actually. He was sporting, congenial company, but she couldn’t help thinking of him only as a friend. It was always that way with her suitors, as if there were a big NO stamped on all their foreheads.

  Thanks to Sergei.

  “Yes,” she told Eversly, swallowing hard. “I am alone.”

  They both knew what that meant. Without her father or Aunt Charlotte by her side, she was unchaperoned. Only an engaged or married woman could meet a man alone in a room.

  But she wasn’t quite alone, was she? There was her mother—sedate, mature—smiling down at her from her portrait, her wedding rings sparkling on her pale, slender hand. Her hair was the same shining copper color as Poppy’s own wavy locks; her eyes, the identical emerald green.

  Lord Eversly moved toward Poppy, skirting a small table and rounding a chair. He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a soft kiss against her knuckles. “We shall do well together,” he said, in a low-timbered voice which should have sent shivers up Poppy’s spine.