When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 35

The men were getting impatient. It was taking longer for the ladies to get ready than they’d anticipated, so they lit more cheroots and drank more brandy.

Sir Richard leaned over to Harry. “I still believe something’s not quite right with you and Delilah, Traemore, and I shan’t give up trying to find out.” He’d spoken loud enough for all the men to hear.

Now that Harry knew why Sir Richard disliked him more than he disliked everyone else, he tried to be—maybe not completely kind, but kinder. Especially as he was still not at liberty to divulge the truth to Bell about what had really happened to his sister.

“Try all you want, “Harry told him. “I couldn’t give a fig, to tell the truth. Would you like a light for that cheroot?”

“No.” Sir Richard scowled. “Not from you.”

“Do you really think any of us will be inclined to wish you good luck tonight when you are such a horse’s ass, Bell?” said Maxwell, blowing a smoke ring in his direction.

“I don’t need your good wishes,” Sir Richard replied. “You are obligated by oath to choose the best mistress tonight. I know how honorable you gentlemen are. You won’t allow personal differences to stand in the way of fairness.”

“If you mean we won’t let Bunny pay the price for your shortcomings, then I suppose you’re right,” said Arrow.

“See?” said Sir Richard. “I can count on you fools to be sickeningly honest in your assessments of the women.”

“We most definitely can’t count on you to do the same,” stated Lumley.

“An Impossible Bachelor stops at nothing to retain his lofty status as a man among men,” said Sir Richard. “My tactics are perfectly unexceptional and, sadly for you dolts, unidentifiable. They shall remain locked in the vault of my brain, only to be shared perhaps with the occasional by-blow who might seek advice about how to avoid the parson’s mousetrap.”

“Advice which includes ensnaring respectable virgins and seducing them,” said Arrow, “then threatening to deny everything if they dare tell their mamas how you crawled through their windows past midnight to deflower them.”

“And you object to that sort of thing?” Sir Richard said in that world-weary voice of his.

Harry stamped out his cheroot. Sir Richard was an enigma. He was angry because he was sure Harry had seduced his sister, yet his whole adult life he’d prided himself on seducing everyone else’s sisters.

“I object to any young lady being taken advantage of, Bell,” said Harry.

“I don’t believe that,” Sir Richard growled. “Your history says otherwise. Prove it by marrying one of those young ladies, Traemore. I’ll be laughing from the back of the church.”

Ouch. Harry knew he should marry Molly, shouldn’t he? He was suddenly unable to think of a single retort.

Lumley filled in for him. “Don’t be so sure you won’t be the one at the altar, Bell.”

Bunny came to the curtain and announced that the ladies were ready.

Harry stood, vowing not to let Sir Richard disturb his equanimity again tonight. Facing the other bachelors, he held up an envelope. “Tonight we come to our last competition. According to Prinny’s wishes, the women will perform dramatic readings they’ve selected themselves. I’ve a note from His Royal Highness that I must read aloud to you.”

He took a few seconds to remove the note from the envelope, and read:

My Impossible Bachelors, you shall judge the ladies tonight on many things: beauty, comportment, originality, charm, and dramatic skills. But, above all, before you cast your last vote for this year’s Most Delectable Companion, you might ask yourself the following crucial question: Which lady, other than my own, is the most unforgettable, and why?

Of course, at the start of this week, you might have wondered why your Prince Regent takes so much interest in your lives that I would arrange this extensive wager and command you to participate.

Gentlemen, I write to you in confidence. The people claim the merry path I’ve chosen has exacted a great price not only on my country—but on my very soul. I am ceaselessly urged to bolster the health of both.

Well, my friends, you must know serious endeavors bore me. But in a nod to my detractors—and with a devilish wish to irk them as well—I created this frivolous bet as a means to share with you, the next generation of English gentlemen, what paltry wisdom I may have accrued in this lifetime.

You know as well as I how difficult it is to behave. A wastrel they may call me, but I’m not completely addled. And one thing I’ve learned in this wicked life of mine is that women don’t need us as much as we need them.

Lowering, isn’t it, to find that your own best destinies may very well lie in the hearts of those women who deign to love you?

My Impossible Bachelors, I leave you to ponder that possibility in your own brandy-soaked hearts. Good luck and Godspeed.

His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent

“Ye gads,” said Sir Richard.

Harry folded the note and put it in his breast pocket. “I rather like Prinny better when he’s not so acute in his perceptions,” he drawled.

“Those moments are brief, I assure you,” Maxwell commented dryly.

Lumley scratched his head. “The woman he was with at the club probably dictated that in his ear.”

“Must forget the letter ever happened,” Arrow muttered around his cheroot. He waved at Harry. “Let’s move on, as quickly as possible.”

There was a chorus of affirmatives.

Harry was glad to know he wasn’t the only bachelor discomfited by Prinny’s words. “Remember,” he said, “at the conclusion of the show, we shall tally the votes, add them to those accrued by the mistresses all week, and if all goes accordingly, present the title of Most Delectable Companion to one of these lovely ladies.”

He went to the curtain and pulled it to the side. “Let the finale begin!”