When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 9

Several hours later, after a thorough reading of several of Wordsworth’s poems and after Molly had recovered from the shock of finding out that her bedchamber was connected to Harry’s by a dressing room, she placed her hand on the knob of her door and took a deep breath. She’d changed gowns (the one she wore now was even more scandalous than this afternoon’s) and fixed her hair.

It was time, time to be a mistress.

A false mistress.

She walked out into a quiet hall. Candles burned in the simple sconces standing sentry outside every door. Turning right, she made her way back to the oak staircase.

As she did, she nearly bumped into a an elaborately dressed gentleman, a good ten years older than Harry. The candle flame highlighted his carefully arranged chestnut locks. His waistcoat was beaded and embroidered, and his coat fit like a glove.

He would have been terribly handsome if it weren’t for his unfortunate nose. Not that Molly didn’t appreciate a fine, Roman nose, or a distinguished craggy one such as her father’s—but this man’s was almost, um, long enough to hang a hat on, if she were to be truthful.

“And who might you be?” he asked her. From the sensual tone of his voice and the curve of his lip, she could tell he believed he was every woman’s dream.

Molly remembered Harry’s advice: Be biddable.

“I’m Delilah.” She curtsied.

“Sir Richard Bell.” He paused, lifted her hand, and kissed her knuckles. Then he smiled. It was a well-practiced smile, one designed to weaken knees.

But Molly’s were comfortably locked. “I shall see you in the drawing room, shall I?” she returned brightly, and before he could answer, slipped around him.

“Not so fast,” he growled, and caught her elbow. Then he leaned toward her to…to kiss her!

Molly slapped his face.

“You bitch,” he said low. “What kind of lightskirt are you?”

“I’m not yours, that’s for certain.” She threw up her chin and continued down the hallway, ignoring her stinging hand.

“You aren’t very obedient, are you?” he called after her.

For a fleeting second, she felt almost guilty. But then she came to her senses. Surely Harry wouldn’t expect her to endure pawings from other men, especially a scoundrel like Sir Richard.

So she pretended not to hear him and made a beeline for the stairs, slipping down them in Fiona’s slippers, which thankfully were only a tiny bit tight. She approached the well-lit room where she knew everyone, save Sir Richard, had gathered.

Before she entered, she took a breath and steadied herself. Her stint as a false mistress had begun on a rather frightening note. But she must do her best despite it.

She must believe she could actually win the contest.

She strode in, smiled at everyone around her—at the ladies lounging in their finery on the sofas, and at the men, who were playing cards in the corner—and sank onto an Egyptian-style chair in the midst of the women. There. No one said a word to her. She appeared to fit in. Which was a good thing.

But her relief was short-lived. Three of the women were now staring at her in a most unfriendly fashion, including Athena Markham, the actress.

Oh, dear, was all Molly could think. She so admired Miss Markham’s acting talent. It was a pity she didn’t seem approachable.

Molly supposed all the other women in the room wanted to win the Most Delectable Companion title, too. And she was obviously part of the competition, which must explain why they appeared so cold, except for the fourth mistress. She didn’t look at Molly at all. She was focused on the door, which she watched with anxious, almond-shaped green eyes, in between sipping furtively at a drink. Perhaps she was waiting for Sir Richard, which would make her the unfortunate Bunny.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” Molly said.

“I hadn’t noticed,” one woman replied, her shiny brown hair drawn back in a tight chignon.

She had a stark beauty, Molly thought, like a painting she’d seen once of a saint on her way to being martyred. Perhaps it was her golden eyes. They seemed to see right through Molly, deep into her very soul.

“I’ve been too busy beneath the sheets,” the woman said, and knocked back a small glass of an amber liquid in one gulp.

“Um, all right then.” Molly folded her hands in her lap. They were shaking just a tad. “I’m Moll—I mean, Delilah. What’s your name?”

“Joan.” The beauty narrowed her golden eyes, but even half-lidded, they were intense. Hypnotic. Molly could see how a man might think her gaze captivating. It was hard to look away.

Joan smiled, a small, mean smile. “Feeling guilty about something, Delilah?”

Molly put her hand to her throat. Yes! Yes, she did feel guilty about something! She was lying right now, pretending to be a mistress. But she shook her head. “Of course I don’t feel guilty about something. Why—why do you ask?”

Joan shrugged. “I know a lot about guilt. It eats away at your soul. Until you’re nothing more than a shell.”

“Oh,” said Molly.

That’s what Miss Dunlap always told her, too!

How odd to hear words like that from a mistress at a social gathering. Joan and Miss Dunlap didn’t look at all alike. And they certainly had opposing occupations. But somehow, they reminded Molly of each other.

Dear God, the last thing she needed was another Miss Dunlap to remind her that she was doing something very bad!

“Why do you wear a preponderance of rouge?” Athena tossed her dazzling mane of auburn hair, which complemented her gorgeous ivory skin and emerald gown. She gazed at Molly’s cheekbones with an amused expression. “Subtlety is more sophisticated, don’t you think? And so much more unexpected in a mistress.” Her arm was draped clear across the small sofa, quite as if she owned it. “We must keep our men guessing, mustn’t we?”

“Of course. They love mystery, don’t they?” Molly swallowed. “But I—I…I have a sickly constitution.”

She couldn’t very well admit to them that she was trying to disguise her appearance!

A third mistress, a very tall one who hadn’t spoken yet, fluttered her hands like a bird in flight and pointed to Molly’s hair. Then she giggled. “Seagulls,” she said. “In crow’s nest.”

Hmmm. A foreigner making fun of her attempts to beautify her hair with Fiona’s feathers.

Molly was tempted to tell the girl that her strawberry blonde hair, worn in a braided crown at the top of her head, could serve as the nest of a large goose. But one should always be particularly friendly to guests in one’s country, even if they insult one.

“I quite enjoy my feathers,” Molly said.

“I use my feathers for a different purpose altogether,” Joan said, rather slyly.

Athena laughed. “Me, too. I employed the feather treatment just last night!”

“Was it a success?” Joan winked.

“Oh, yes.” Athena winked back.

Molly’s eyes flew wide. The…the feather treatment? Perhaps Fiona employed the feather treatment, too.

What was the feather treatment, exactly?

Of course, she couldn’t ask. She must change the subject. “What’s your name?” she inquired of the tall woman with the foreign accent.

“Hildur,” she responded, expanding her already voluminous chest. “I come from Iceland.”

Heavens. Molly noticed that every word Hildur spoke sounded as if she were inviting someone to ravish her. Perhaps it was her large mouth and the languorous way she spoke. Or perhaps it was the way her finger played with the ribbons at her very low neckline.

Athena flipped her hair again. “Hildur sneaked aboard Captain Arrow’s ship. She claims to be of the nobility. She had the notion Lord Byron would fall in love with her if he were ever to meet her, so she’s come to England. I told her he’s moved to the Continent, but she doesn’t believe me.”

“I don’t think she understands much English beyond what Captain Arrow taught her on the ship,” said Joan with a snide laugh.

“Either that or she’s stupid,” said Athena.

Joan laughed again.

“Fall overboard, please,” Hildur said, in her slow, lush voice, looking at Athena and Joan. “You and you.”

A directive which shut everyone up for a moment.

Molly hoped to defray the tension by leaning toward Athena and smiling. “Are you Miss Markham, the actress?”

Athena’s mouth bowed slightly. “Why, yes. Have you seen me perform?”

“No, but my sister has. And she says you’re very gifted.”

But Athena didn’t thank Molly. Instead, she yawned.

How rude. Molly pulled back and sat stiffly in her chair. She might make a bad mistress, but she certainly had wonderful posture and better manners.

It was going to be a long week.

“Whatever they say about your rouge and hairstyle, I think your gown is quite appropriate,” blurted out the fourth girl, the one Molly was sure must be Bunny.

“Do you?” Molly swung to see her better. “I wasn’t sure if it was a trifle overdone.”

Molly’s gown was a dull gold satin sheath with Grecian trim composed of silhouettes of small people frolicking among letters of the Greek alphabet. The trim marched boldly across the appallingly low scooped bodice and around the hem.

“Yes,” said the girl. “It’s very overdone. And those silhouettes are quite entertaining.”

Molly looked closer at the silhouettes and gasped. She wasn’t sure what the tiny people were doing, but there were several male and female figures whose limbs were entangled in a shocking manner.

“I’d say your gown is perfect for this gathering,” the girl finished with a smile.

“Thank you,” said Molly, blushing. She paused. “Are you Bunny?”

The girl nodded, but she couldn’t say more because at that moment, Sir Richard walked in. It was as if an atmosphere of poison immediately enveloped the room. Or perhaps it was Sir Richard’s cloying cologne.

Molly had to restrain herself from visibly showing her revulsion at his presence.

Bunny, dressed in a carmine gown with a scalloped hem, swallowed, and stood up stiffly. She began to walk to Sir Richard, her hips swaying slowly.

It was the mistress walk! The one Harry had taught her! Molly felt a little less nervous. She was catching on to this mistress business—she knew the proper walk. She knew about feathers and how one uses them to—to—

She had no idea. But next time someone mentioned them, she would wink the way Athena and Joan had.

By the time Bunny arrived at Sir Richard’s side, she’d opened up like a flower. Her eyes began to glow and her lips parted, quite as if she had an amazing secret to share.

She’d become a vibrant, gorgeous mistress.

Molly bit her lip, amazed at Bunny’s transformation.

The men at the card table stood as well and dropped their cards. They were laughing and talking, clearly finished with their game.

Molly sat up even straighter. The other bachelors were approaching! She tucked a curl behind her ear and tried to look tremendously beguiling, which she wasn’t sure how to do, so she stole a glance at Hildur.

Hmmm.

Molly mimicked Hildur by pursing her lips, lowering her chin, and watching the men cross the room, all the while batting her lashes. But her neck began to hurt and her eyes to water. Her lips felt funny, too, all scrunched up like a pillow.

So she stopped trying to look beguiling.

Good thing, too. She could concentrate on Harry. His jet-black hair reflected the light from numerous candles, and he was freshly shaven. He looked splendid, even intimidatingly handsome, in his dove gray evening coat, black breeches, and immaculately starched cravat stuck with a discreet diamond pin.

He caught her staring, and his mouth curved in a slow, devastating grin that made her want to hop up from her chair and pace about the room and…and kiss him until that odd, frenetic, molten energy he caused in her was released somehow. But instead she bowed her head and pretended that her slipper had come loose.

When she glanced up again, she could also observe the other bachelors, who now stood before the women in a row. And an impressive group they were in their elegant waistcoats.

Molly instantly recognized Captain Arrow. He wore a uniform with braided epaulets at the shoulders. Tanned and virile, he was obviously born to command.

Viscount Lumley was easy to spot, as well. He had beautiful eyes and a grin that probably got him whatever he wanted.

She’d already met the odious Sir Richard, who lounged at the edge of the group, so the fifth gentleman—the one who’d maintained a cool albeit pleasant demeanor at the card table—must be Lord Maxwell. Ridiculously handsome, he exuded complete confidence and an intensity of purpose that could easily intimidate lesser mortals.

“Now that we’re all gathered…” Harry looked pointedly at Molly and held out his arm. “Shall we?”

Shall they what? Oh, of course! She must join him. She and Harry must seem like two peas in a pod.

She stood and took his arm, her heart racing. He smelled wonderful, like clean linen and soap, and his arm was firm and muscular beneath his coat. She would like to cling to that arm all night long, rather the way she used to cling to a favorite fuzzy blanket she’d had as a little girl.

Everyone else joined up two by two, as well. But Molly noticed that every single woman was now laughing and vivacious and somehow glowing with…promises unspoken.

That was it—the secret to being a good mistress must be unspoken promises!

But what were those promises?

Molly swallowed hard, found it difficult to breathe, and clutched her shawl around her neck.

Athena laughed and whispered in Lord Maxwell’s ear. Captain Arrow pinched Hildur’s bottom and she slapped his arm, giggling all the while. Joan rubbed against Viscount Lumley as if he were a lamppost and she were a cat. Sir Richard bent Bunny backward and kissed her neck, quite as if he were nibbling on an ear of corn, the disgusting man.

Poor Bunny. Although the almond-eyed beauty gave every impression of enjoying Sir Richard’s attention.

Molly looked at Harry, who stood stoically waiting for the romping to cease. Either that, or he was attempting to figure out what to do with her. “Where are we going?” she asked him, their noses mere inches apart.

“To break the ice,” he said.

“The ice hardly needs breaking here.”

“The night has just begun,” Harry murmured, his words tickling her ear.

What a shame. Molly was already exhausted from being a mistress. She did feel a delicious sensation thrumming in her middle caused by the mere sight of Harry. But she would prefer to go to her room this very minute, slide under the sheets, read more of Wordsworth’s poems, and fall asleep. Alas, no. She must act as if being a mistress were the most exciting thing in the world!

“Off to the kissing closet,” Harry said to the party gathered around him. “Prinny believes there’s no better way for the contestants to begin to know each other. The ladies shall enter one at a time, and the man who draws the short straw shall follow. The two must remain in the closet for three minutes.”

Molly could hardly believe her ears. A kissing closet?

There was a chorus of enthusiastic responses, especially from the men. And Sir Richard, she noticed, was looking at her with peculiar intensity.

Now Molly was no longer tired—she was simply terrified.