When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 25

Everything seemed gray and gloomy the next day to Molly. Her mood, her morning porridge, the sky, each cup of tea she poured for the ladies during dramatic reading practice, the limp cards she held during the incessant games of whist she played.

Athena had informed the men at noon, when they’d returned from shooting, that Joan was abed with a slight chill she’d acquired from romping about naked in the creek during the fencing tournament.

Their party was further depleted when Harry made himself scarce during much of the afternoon, claiming he had unexpected estate business to attend to in the library.

Molly suspected he was trying to avoid her as much as she was attempting to avoid him.

But at the dinner hour, he reappeared.

“You ladies are unusually quiet tonight,” he said from the head of the table after the first course.

Molly exchanged a brief look with Bunny and Athena and read in their eyes the same concern she had: Where was Joan? And how much longer could they cover for her?

She should have been back by now. Dusk had fallen, and the woods were thick and deep.

“I’m simply famished,” Bunny said hastily, and spooned some soup into her mouth.

“And I’m thinking about how ruggedly handsome all of you gentlemen are,” said Athena, batting her eyelashes. “Shooting every morning has brought out the beast in each of you.”

Molly thought Athena was taking her efforts to be distracting a little too far, but no man seemed at all suspicious that her remark wasn’t sincere.

Oh, well. Molly was learning a lot about men this week.

She yawned modestly behind her hand. “I am a little tired.”

“Me, too,” said Hildur, yawning so wide Molly could see down her throat.

“Don’t be too tired,” said Sir Richard, chuckling with anticipation. “Tonight we have the kissing closet game. One more time, according to Prinny’s schedule.”

No. Molly had hoped never to deal with the kissing closet again! She didn’t know if Lumley or any other bachelor would be content with conversation about tarts and family members this time.

And she would absolutely die if she wound up in the closet with Sir Richard.

Of course, there was the slight chance he wouldn’t be…in good health by that time. He might retire to bed early.

Not that she knew of any reason why, she lied to herself on purpose.

Because if she thought about the truth at all, Harry and everybody else would see that she was guilty.

Not that she was guilty yet. But perhaps she soon would be, if Finkle and Cook had listened to instructions correctly.

To throw Harry off, she graced him with an angelic smile. He really was a beast to ignore Bunny’s unseemly situation as Sir Richard’s mistress.

Molly couldn’t wait to be rid of Harry at the end of the week, even though she was spending most of her time daydreaming about their bodies pressed close, and the way he’d…he’d brought her such incredible pleasure. And, um, the way she’d done the same for him.

Perhaps, if she won the contest, he would introduce her to a London gentleman who did all those things better than he did, although she had a gut feeling that no man did those things better than Harry did—or looked better than he did when he was doing them.

She sneaked a peek at his profile, at those lips that had aroused such delicious sensations in her, and the jaw that always scratched her mouth and breasts in the most pleasurable way when he kissed her. Then, of course, there were his hands, one of which was wrapped around his wine goblet right now. Those tapered, masculine fingers knew exactly where to touch her to make her—

Oh, dear. Her body was starting to wake up in, um, that way. She forced herself to stare intently at the footman, who was serving a course of lamb. Then she locked eyes with Athena, whose brow was furrowed with worry about Joan.

Joan.

A sliver of panic sliced through Molly’s middle, dissolving the mental pictures she had of Harry naked and completely ruining her appetite. She moved her food around her plate and took the occasional sip of wine. But by the second-to-last course, there was still no sign of Joan.

Athena, Hildur, and Bunny had barely touched their plates, as well. Bunny’s eyes were wider than usual, and there was the gleam of tears in them.

Finkle brought in the last course, thank God, a fine distraction for all the mistresses present.

It was a tart.

A tart Molly had made.

A tart she hoped no one else would notice she’d had a hand in creating.

“Oho!” said Lumley. “Did you make this tart, Delilah?”

“No,” she lied. “Not this time.” She lifted herself up to take a closer look at it. “How lovely! What kind is it?”

“Cook made the tart,” said Finkle grandly to the room. “And it contains wild currants.”

“Yum,” said Lumley. “But it surely isn’t as good as the blackberry tart Delilah made me yesterday.”

Molly smiled at him. That had been a delicious tart.

“Shall I prepare a slice for everyone, milord?” Finkle addressed Harry.

Harry smiled. “Yes, Finkle. Do that.”

There was a whimper from Hildur. Almost a small shriek, actually.

Everyone turned to look at her.

“Are you all right?” Captain Arrow asked her, and placed a hand on her back.

Hildur nodded glumly and sniffed. Finkle set a piece of tart in front of her, but she pushed it away. “I save this tart—for Joan.” She gripped the edge of the table, her lower lip trembling.

Harry shifted in his seat. “Joan may have a piece when she feels better, Hildur. Please. Eat the tart.”

Hildur lowered her brows and gave a low moan. Molly bit her lip and looked at Bunny. She saw reflected in her eyes her own panicky thoughts. Joan was either lost in the woods, or she was on her way home and about to be found out. Neither possibility was at all reassuring.

Harry looked at the frightened expressions on all the women’s faces. Something was vastly wrong at the table tonight.

“We all miss Joan,” said Molly in a calm, decisive voice to Hildur. “But she’ll be better by morning.”

“I should check on her,” Lumley said. “After the last course. Where is she again?”

“The nursery,” Athena said.

“We have no nursery,” Harry said.

Molly smiled. “You might call it by another name. It’s the room—”

“At the top of the house,” Bunny said.

“To the right of the kitchens,” said Athena at the same time.

What the devil?

Harry put his wine glass down. “So she is somewhere in this house,” he said plainly.

“Yes,” said Molly, and looked at Lumley. “And we mustn’t disturb her, kind as you are, Viscount Lumley. She needs her sleep.”

Hildur let out a small whimper, and the other women exchanged glances.

“Tell me, Lord Maxwell,” said Harry, on high alert because really, something was not right here and Molly obviously wanted to change the subject. He trusted she had good reason, so he would. “Is it true that Parliament is—”

But Sir Richard made an odd noise. And spat something out on his plate. “What the hell is that?” He pushed his chair back, stood up, and pointed a finger at the—

What was it?

Harry leaned forward.

Oh, yes, a tiny, petrified frog—

No.

It couldn’t possibly be!

Harry stared rather goggle-eyed at Sir Richard’s plate, but he was in good company. Everyone was staring. There the offending frog lay, apparently smashed flat by a man’s boot or a carriage wheel and left to dry in the sun.

Harry stole a quick glance at Molly. Her brow was smooth, and her hand covered her mouth. She appeared almost too shocked and not shocked enough—all at the same time.

She was a terrible actress.

He snapped his fingers. “Finkle?”

Finkle reappeared. “Yes, milord?”

“There appears to be a strange substance in the tart. I suggest you remove all our plates.”

“Yes, milord.”

Harry caught Molly’s gaze again. She took a sip of wine, no doubt to conceal a triumphant smile, but her eyes gave her away. They were sparkling with satisfaction.

Satisfaction derived from petty revenge.

Finkle moved around the table, picked up the plates, and left the room.

Sir Richard wiped down his tongue with the edge of the tablecloth and was in the midst of taking a swig of wine, swishing it around his mouth, and spitting it back into a goblet when a loud crash resounded through the front hall.

Harry pushed back his chair.

“Finkle must have dropped something,” Molly said quickly.

“I’ll check,” said Harry. Yes, he trusted Molly had her reasons for hiding something, but he also felt the need to know what was going on in his house, especially when dead frogs or loud crashes were involved.

Athena jumped up and posed at the entryway to the hall. “No leaving this room until you pay the toll, you beast.” And she puckered her lips.

Harry paused only a moment. “No, thank you,” he said, and tried to get around her.

But she threw her arms around his neck. “He’s so handsome, ladies! Let us all kiss him!”

Harry was surrounded by feminine forms. Normally, he would have endured—perhaps even enjoyed—such over-the-top attention but not tonight. Not when something was badly out of place.

He tried to pry the women off, but the petting and kissing and hugging continued. “Enough, ladies!”

“I shall check on that noise for you, Traemore,” said Captain Arrow and rose from the table.

Bunny and Hildur dropped their attention from Harry and moved to Arrow.

Which left Harry with Molly and Athena.

“No more,” he said firmly to Athena—Molly seemed too nervous to kiss and hug him with much vigor—and in one quick movement, he slid out from under their grasp.

“Get him!” cried Athena, and lunged at Harry. But he slipped past and went out into the hall, certain he’d find something odd.

But there was nothing there.

At first. But then he saw a female outline backing out of the library, pulling the door shut behind her.

Joan.

He smelled fresh air. She’d obviously come into the house through the library window, which was low to the ground. Someone must have unlocked it for her.

A massive Grecian urn stood near that window, a Grecian urn which was probably no more.

When Joan turned around, her eyes flew open wide.

Harry pressed his mouth into a thin line.

Her gaze was beseeching. She pointed upstairs and mouthed some words.

Please, she was saying. Let me go upstairs. Don’t tell.

Harry looked at her a split second longer, then he turned his back on her and returned to the dining room.

“Finkle must have cleaned it up,” he said to the group.

The women all had expectant looks, as if they were afraid of something.

And now he knew why.

He took his seat again and sighed. He felt weary. Confused. What had Joan been up to? And why did she need the help of the other mistresses?

“I suggest we repair to the drawing room,” said Captain Arrow.

“We’ve still the kissing closet to occupy,” Sir Richard reminded everybody.

Harry restrained a sigh. Damned kissing closets. Why did Prinny ever think they were amusing?

“Very well,” he said, ever the proper host. “To the drawing room.”

Everyone stood. Molly bit her lip. Harry knew why. She dreaded meeting Sir Richard in the kissing closet. Every woman probably did, particularly after he’d almost swallowed a frog.

But the mood in the room swiftly improved when Joan walked in.

Viscount Lumley’s eyes lit up. “Joan!” He went to her, drew both her hands to his lips, and kissed them, one by one. “I’m so glad to see you. Feeling more the thing?”

Harry tilted his mouth into a discreet but welcoming smile—the perfect host’s smile. Whatever Joan had been up to, she looked quite well—in fact, better than she’d appeared all week. Her eyes were clear and full of something…happiness.

Harry looked at Molly, who was grinning like a fool, and lofted a brow.

I know, he meant the brow to convey.

He saw her intake of breath. Are you angry? she said back with her eyes.

He paused, thought, then shook his head.

Molly smiled.

And despite his best efforts—because he knew Molly had somehow arranged this escapade with Joan and put that frog in Sir Richard’s tart—he couldn’t help but smile back.

She had that effect on him.

The minx.

Molly, against her better judgment, couldn’t help but be happy that she and Harry were communicating again, even if it was simply with their eyebrows. And she was so happy that Joan was back, and apparently much better for having made her trip. She carried herself like a new woman, and the light in her eyes was impossible to miss.

Joan chuckled. “I’m feeling much better, Lumley. All that sleeping did me good.”

There were murmurs of affectionate greeting from everyone, except for Sir Richard, who stared malevolently at Molly.

Had he guessed about the frog? She tried her angelic smile on him and hoped it worked. But he turned away before she could see if it did.

“We were on our way to the drawing room,” said Harry to Joan.

“To the kissing closet,” said Sir Richard for the umpteenth time, leading the company to the drawing room.

Molly sat on the settee awaiting her turn, closed her eyes, and felt temporarily dizzy. Not only did she not want to participate in the silly kissing closet ritual, she didn’t want Harry to, either.

It didn’t feel right, his kissing someone else. Not after he’d kissed her and turned her whole world upside down! He couldn’t go round making the world topsy-turvy for every female he met, now could he?

She opened her eyes. Athena walked into the closet, and Lumley followed her.

And now Molly must wait the three minutes. Everyone began to chat loudly—just like last time. But she was in no mood to join in. She didn’t care how many votes she lost because of it. Her poor attitude tonight was her armor.

She wanted to be finished with being a false mistress!

She felt weary with pretending.

Weary with emotions she didn’t understand.

She had a brief flash of her life the day before she and Cedric had eloped. She’d been so different then. So naïve. So untried.

Now she felt years older in less than a week’s time.

And she wasn’t sure why. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it had everything to do with Harry. Annoying, stubborn Harry, who’d thrown her over his shoulder and brought her here against her will.

Someone called her name, and she sighed. Time to go in the closet. But she didn’t care. She would tell whoever came in that she was too tired to play silly games, and would they like to talk about politics instead?

Although if it was Sir Richard who entered, she would feign illness and beg to be excused. If he didn’t let her, she—she didn’t know what she would do. Pretend to faint, she supposed.

Please don’t let it be Sir Richard, she begged God, and pulled the door shut behind her.

She waited, but no one came. She heard voices, low and insistent.

She waited some more.

Tapped her foot.

Tried to whistle.

Whatever they were talking about, it really was taking too long. She opened the door a crack and peeked. Everyone stood around Joan, who no longer had a blissful look on her face. Her lower lip pouted out, and her eyebrows were slashed low.

Oh, dear. Molly’s heart sank to her feet. The old, angry Joan had returned!