When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 40

It was four-thirty in the morning. And Harry was properly drunk, as the winner of the Impossible Bachelors wager should be, in his estimation. He lay sprawled on his back on the floor of the library, Maxwell, Lumley, and Arrow lounging in leather seats surrounding him. The fire was low. An empty decanter of brandy sat on Harry’s father’s desk.

“You know, Delilah’s not a real mistresh,” Harry mumbled, looking up at the ceiling, which began to spin slowly to the right. It was such a dizzying sight, he accidentally let his empty glass roll out of his palm. “She’s falsh. Falsh as they come.”

And God, it was driving him crazy.

Maxwell rubbed his eyes. “If Delilah’s not a real mistress, then I’m a woman.”

Arrow laughed. He laughed so hard he snorted brandy through his nose.

“Really,” said Harry, turning his face toward the men. The Aubusson rug scratched his cheek. “She’s a virgin, dammit.” And he shook his head and moaned. Because shaking his head hurt. And spending all his time pining after a virgin was…torture.

Lumley threw a cheroot at him, and it bounced off Harry’s nose. “Shuddup. Arrow’s the good joke teller. Not you. Stick to riding curricles to Brighton.”

“We don’t need jokes anyway,” Maxwell said to them all, and rubbed his eyes. “We’ve another year in which to run riot.”

“Egg-zhackly,” muttered Arrow.

Maxwell raised his glass. “Here’s to…escaping the marital noose,” he said. “And to Sir Richard’s choosing the short straw instead.”

“Hear, hear!” came the chorus from Harry and the others.

Lumley hiccupped. “And to Sir Richard’s shoon-to-be bride. The poor woman. Whoever the club board chose for him.”

“Yessss,” Harry said. “I feel for her.”

Everyone but Harry touched snifters. His was somewhere near the hearth, out of reach.

“We must let Bell know she’s off limits for beatings, too,” said Harry. “Else we shall make him most unhappy.”

There was a murmur of assent.

“Where is Bell?” asked Maxwell.

“He took off…in a snit,” said Lumley. “Got a servant to prepare his carriage. And Bunny wouldn’t go with him. She says Delilah gave her the hundred pounds she won. Bunny’s setting up her own sewing shop.”

“Good for her!” said Harry.

“Here’s to Delilah, as well,” said Lumley. “She should set up her own tart shop.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Not that kind of tart. The kind you bake in the oven. With losh and losh of apples.”

Harry contemplated that possible future for Molly for a fuzzy minute.

Arrow sighed. “I suppose I’m free now to go on another voyage round the Cape.”

“How many times is that?” Harry asked.

“Five,” Arrow replied.

Maxwell lofted a brow. “And I’ll continue minding my own business when I’m not pulling my brother out of scrapes.”

“Sounds…thrilling,” said Harry.

“I’ll travel to my new castle,” said Lumley, kicking his shoe at nothing.

“You’ve another?” Harry laughed.

Lumley sighed. “It’s in the north of Scotland.” He turned his brandy glass upside down and held it over his mouth. One drop fell out. “I think I’ll learn how to shear sheep. You know how difficult that izzh?”

None of them did.

“Izzh difficult,” said Lumley sadly. “Sheep shmell. Would any of you like to try?”

Arrow shrugged. “Sure. Why not shear sheep?”

“Tha’s right,” said Maxwell. “Ish as good an occupation as any.”

“And no one’ll miss me if I take a bit of shore leave,” said Arrow.

“I’m up for it,” said Harry. Certainly, no one would miss him, either. Except, perhaps, Anne Riordan.

“Good. I’ll lesh you know when.” Lumley turned to Harry. “What will you do in the meanwhile, Traemore?”

Harry scratched the side of his nose. “Oh, you know. The usual. Go to London, meet some beautiful women.”

“Izzhat all?” asked Arrow.

Harry shrugged. “I suppose.”

He had something else to do in London, but he couldn’t remember it at the moment. It was the real reason he’d gotten so drunk tonight.

What was it again? It caused his gut to ache, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember.

Good.

Because he didn’t want to remember.

There was a bleak silence in the room.

Harry rolled over onto his stomach. The rug fibers tickled his nose enough that he found the focus he needed to stand on rather wobbly legs. “Thank God we’ve made it, gentlemen. But I think I’ll retire now. My head…ish becoming a bit sore.”

“More drink will cure that,” said Maxwell, with a hiccup. He handed Harry his empty brandy glass. “Here. Have mine.”

Harry stared at it. “Thank you, Maxwell.”

“You’re welcome, my friend.” And then Maxwell’s head fell back and he began to snore.

“Lesh carry him up,” said Lumley. “Whaddya say?”

Harry took Maxwell’s arms. Arrow and Lumley took his legs. And somehow they managed to get him up the stairs and to his bedchamber.

Harry made it to his own, even though the hallway was spinning. He wished it would stop.

Molly. He needed Molly.

She would help his bedchamber stop spinning. And she would kiss him and tuck him in and maybe get under the sheets with him. He wouldn’t bother her. He just wanted her to sleep next to him.

He would hug her close because it was going to be a chilly night and he didn’t want her to catch cold.

A gray light seeped between his bedroom curtains. Was it close to morning already?

Damn, but he was starting to feel chilled. And his room was still spinning. He’d best get Molly. She was only next door.

Molly gave a shriek. There was a ghostlike figure, smelling strongly of spirits, swaying right above her. “Harry. What are you doing in here?”

“The room’s spinning, Molly. I need—” He paused as if he couldn’t remember what to say.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“You,” he said.

“Whatever for?”

He shrugged. “Because. Just because.”

“Harry.” Molly blew out a breath. “You’re drunk.”

“I am?”

“Yes.” She threw back the covers. “Now come with me.”

She took his arm and led him from her room, through the dressing room, and into his own.

He groaned a little. “D’ya have to go so fast?”

He stood near the side of his bed and she pushed him down on it. He immediately lay back and groaned some more.

She took off his boots.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbled. “I can’t stop thinking about that dress you wore tonight. The one with the holes…”

He trailed off.

“You need to sleep,” she said, and laid a blanket from the bottom of his bed over him.

He patted the bed. “Come lie down with me. I won’t touch you. I just want…a kiss. How’s that?”

“How can you not touch me—and kiss me—at the same time?”

“Wha’?” He lifted his head for a moment and let it drop.

She leaned over him, pushed his jet-black hair out of his eyes. “You sleep, Harry. We’re leaving here in a few hours. I suspect you’ll be miserable, but at least sleep now.”

He grabbed her elbow. “I want you to stay.”

She shook her head. “No, Harry.”

“But you’re my mishtresh,” he said.

“You know I’m not,” she said back. “I’m a respectable female again.”

He closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh, God. I remember now.”

“Remember what?”

“Nothing.”

But a terrible crease furrowed his brow. He’d surely remembered something unpleasant. Or perhaps he was ill from drink. She’d heard of men getting awful headaches after a night of drinking. She’d be cruel to leave him in such a state.

She went to the other side of the bed, crawled onto the feather ticking, and lay down gently beside him. “I’m here,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said, his eyes still closed.

She didn’t know who made the move first—it seemed as if they’d both thought of it together—but they laced hands.

“G’night, Molly.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. “Don’t forget, all right?”

“Don’t forget what?”

“The Moroccan tent,” he whispered. “Or the lake. When we threw the blackberries.”

She bit her lip. Hard. The pain helped her keep the crying at bay. “I won’t, Harry,” she eventually managed to say back.

But he was already fast asleep.