When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 45

When Molly saw Sir Richard accompanied by Harry’s old mistress, her heart beat so fast, she was afraid she might faint.

“I have an announcement to make,” yelled Sir Richard from the balcony at the top of the staircase into the silent ballroom. “And it’s of vital importance for the Duke of Mallan and all this company to hear it, if they value honor!”

Molly locked gazes with Harry.

Their charade was over.

She fought to maintain decorum as the footmen struggled to contain Sir Richard.

“Your Grace! I implore you to hear me out!” Sir Richard cried.

The footmen managed to drag him almost to a doorway, but he kicked and struggled all the way. Fiona appeared unmoved by his distress and not at all surprised by it, either.

“Release him!” commanded the duke from the ballroom floor.

The footmen were slow to do so. But they finally dropped Sir Richard’s arms, and he stood, his chest heaving.

“What have you to say?” the duke called up to him from the ballroom floor.

But before Sir Richard could answer, a rather ridiculous thing happened. Molly’s father appeared at the entrance to the ballroom, nimbly sidestepping the gasping Sir Richard and the two footmen.

“What the devil is going on here?” Lord Sutton asked over his spectacles to no one in particular.

Oh, Papa.

Molly so wished he weren’t here to witness his daughter’s downfall.

He was followed into the ballroom by a man with golden hair and the face of an angel.

Cedric.

Molly gasped. What was he doing here? Unless her father had concocted some sort of plan after all, a last-minute effort to get Cedric and Molly married before she had a Season in London.

Or perhaps Cedric himself had had second thoughts about abandoning her.

Harry moved a step forward, his hands clenched into fists. “Alliston…the bastard.”

Molly laid a hand on Harry’s arm. “No,” she insisted.

He mustn’t waste his time on Cedric. Because, after all, what did his perfidy matter now anyway? She had no future. And Harry’s was sealed. He would be marrying Anne Riordan once Sir Richard revealed the lie they’d perpetrated at the Most Delectable Companion contest.

She kept her hand on Harry’s arm and saw him uncurl his fist. But he looked as if he could murder a whole slew of giants if he wanted to.

She stood quietly, refusing to think about her father and his desire that she marry Cedric. Both of them stood next to Sir Richard. Her father ogled him as if he were a strange sea creature. And Cedric, the fool, was looking at Fiona with poorly masked horror, which only proved to Molly that he was once more angling for her hand.

She felt only indifference and a vague pity for the man. And a weary acknowledgment of her father’s refusal to hear what she wanted or didn’t want in a husband.

Their indifference to her desires seemed less important than what was happening now, in this ballroom, the same ballroom where she’d stood at age thirteen concocting dreams that never came to pass.

Now she was like a criminal at the guillotine, hands tied, eyes bound, waiting for a final, miserable fate to befall her.

And it wasn’t long in coming.

Sir Richard pointed a trembling finger at Harry. “Your son, Your Grace, was conscripted into Prinny’s Impossible Bachelor wager.”

“Yes, we all know of the wager, Bell.” The duke sounded weary. It wasn’t his first ball to be ruined by a shocking display. “Do get on with it.”

The crowd was perfectly still. Molly could hear her blood pounding in her ears.

Sir Richard lofted a brow. “As you know, I am also one of this year’s five Impossible Bachelors.” He was obviously quite impressed with himself. “Each of us was to bring a mistress—”

“Roger!” That was Harry’s mother remonstrating with the duke.

Molly saw the duke put his hand over hers. “We are all adults here, Jane. But any lady who cares not to hear may leave the room at once.”

There was a stirring and a shifting of the crowd, but not a single female left the room. Not even the vicar’s wife.

The focus of attention returned to Sir Richard.

He strutted to his left, then turned and strutted to his right, stopped, and cleared his throat. “To see the wager through,” he said in that pompous voice of his, “we were each required to bring a mistress to a week’s house party. To be held at one of your hunting properties, Your Grace. My understanding is that we used your favorite hunting box.”

There was a huge rumble of protest in the room. The noise went on and on, and Molly looked at Harry. “Wasn’t the hunting box yours?” she whispered.

Harry shook his head. “I’ve much to explain about me and my father,” he whispered. “But it’s all past now. I was planning on talking to him tonight. And to you, too, Molly.”

He sounded fierce. Desperate. Yet there was also something warm and true and so…loving in his eyes. Could he—did he—have feelings for her?

He squeezed her hand. “I want to tell you everything. I—I was trying to get the words out during our waltz. I want to be with you.” He took a sharp breath. “More than anything else in the world.”

Molly nodded, her heart in her throat. “I want to be with you, too, Harry.”

The loud, condemning voices around them continued, but for at least a few seconds, nothing came between Molly and a huge surge of happiness and love welling inside her.

But the duke’s voice, commanding everyone to silence, drew her out of her reverie. Harry, too.

When order reigned once again, Sir Richard continued his speech. “According to the rules of the wager,” he said, “the women at the house party were to compete for the title of Most Delectable Companion. And the bachelor whose mistress won the title at the end of the week would be guaranteed another year of freedom from the marital noose. The rest would have to draw straws to see who would be required to get legshackled.” Sir Richard stared at Harry. “Your younger son, Your Grace, won the wager and was exempt from the drawing.”

“Yes,” the duke drawled. “We know. As does every disappointed virgin and matchmaking mama in town.”

There was a ripple of laughter.

Molly kept her hand on Harry’s arm. His mouth was a thin, threatening line. And his eyes—hard and cold—were locked on Sir Richard’s.

“But it has come to light, Your Grace,” said Sir Richard, “that your son violated the rules of the contest. And he should thereby forfeit his win.”

There was another huge rumble from the crowd.

“How so?” asked the duke equably.

My goodness, the man was cool under pressure, thought Molly. And she began to admire him.

Sir Richard scratched his chin. “Your son’s mistress abandoned him at an inn the day the contest was to begin. In fact, she is here, to prove my story.” He looked at Fiona.

“I am that woman,” she said in a soft, breathy voice. “I did, indeed, leave Harry. There are many witnesses at the inn to support my claim. He wouldn’t let me bring my lapdog to the house party! And he didn’t even care when I cried.” She batted her lashes and put her fists on her curvaceous hips.

The crowd went mad.

“Silence!” the duke’s voice rang out once more.

There was one last gasp from somewhere to Molly’s left, and then utter quiet once again.

“Do go on, Sir Richard,” the duke said.

Sir Richard drew a breath. “Your son didn’t know what to do, Your Grace. If a bachelor arrives at the site of the wager without a mistress, he forfeits the wager and must propose to a young lady almost immediately.”

The men in the ballroom looked warily at each other. What a nightmare! their glances said. And the women in the room seemed to roll a collective eye.

“As I was saying,” Sir Richard asserted, “your son would forfeit the wager unless he brought a mistress with him. So in place of a real mistress in the competition, he put a false mistress.”

There were more gasps. Even a shriek.

“What in the world is a false mistress?” someone near Molly called out to the company.

“A false mistress,” Sir Richard explained, “is a mistress in name only.”

“How do you know she was a mistress in name only?” another anonymous nosy-body cried.

“Because the two parties involved had a shouting match about it outside the inn where they met,” Sir Richard said with a laugh. “Their terms were clearly outlined and overheard by the innkeeper and his barmaid. As well, the imposter masquerading as a mistress barred her bedchamber door.”

Molly gripped Harry’s arm and her eyes widened.

“I heard her myself,” said Sir Richard. “Every night, she’d push a large piece of furniture across the floor.” He had the effrontery to yawn. “There were no shenanigans going on in that room, I assure you.”

There was yet another clamor from the floor. When it died down to a murmur, Sir Richard crossed his arms, tapped his foot, and looked accusingly at Harry. “As a consequence, this woman’s claim to the title of Most Delectable Companion is invalid. Which, in turn, makes your son’s win of the general wager, Your Grace, invalid, as well.”

More gasps from the crowd.

Sir Richard raised his hand in the air. “I’m no longer the loser of the wager. And I’ll not propose to the young miss ascribed to me by the board of our club. Your son is the loser, Your Grace, by default. He is the bachelor to be legshackled, and according to the club’s wishes, to none other than Anne Riordan, who is in this very room.”

Molly’s knees turned to jelly. But she straightened them. She must. If not for herself, then for poor Anne. Granted, she was a squint-faced bore, but to be considered the punishment for the loser of the wager?

No one deserved such ignominy.

“If all you say is true,” said the duke to Sir Richard, “then so it shall be done.”

Sir Richard smiled and bowed in the duke’s direction.

Harry’s jaw clenched.

“Is that all you have to say, Bell?” the duke went on.

“No,” he said. “Because the perfidy of your son goes beyond this, Your Grace.”

The crowd was silent, the mood of the room having grown noticeably more tense.

Harry took Molly’s hand.

Sir Richard looked directly at them both. “Your son, Your Grace, has ruined a respectable young woman, the one who played at being his mistress. She is in this very room.”

There were so many gasps, Molly almost screamed at everyone to shut up and raised her hand to confess. But she couldn’t do it. Not with her father looking on.

“And your son should be challenged to a duel,” Sir Richard said.

A duel? Why, that was ridiculous! Molly looked helplessly at Harry, but his eyes were frozen on Sir Richard’s face.

“A duel, my friends,” Sir Richard went on bitterly. “For he shall not be able to reverse the fate of this heretofore respectable young woman. He’s to marry Anne Riordan, after all.”

Molly’s heart sank at those words.

Sir Richard lowered his brows. “The pity is, Your Grace, that the girl’s father is too old to avenge her honor in a duel. So her brother-in-law must.”

And he looked directly at Roderick.

As one, the whole crowd swung around to look at Roderick. If he was the brother-in-law, then who—

The mass of people pivoted to look at Molly, including her father, who peered at her from over his spectacles and gave a start so sudden that a footman took his arm to steady him.

“Molly?” Lord Sutton called out, his voice wavering. “You have nothing to do with this, have you?”

A spark of understanding traveled through the crowd at lightning speed. If Molly were Harry’s false mistress, then Roderick would have to challenge his own brother to a duel!

The room broke out in noise so overwhelming, the massive chandelier above the ballroom floor trembled.

Molly felt her face redden, but she kept her chin high and said nothing.

Which, as far as the duke’s guests were concerned, was acknowledgment of guilt.

The duke strode up the ballroom stairs, his hands clenched at his sides, and got in Sir Richard’s face.

“Who—was—that—false—mistress?” the duke asked, his voice a low growl.

Sir Richard kept his gaze on Molly. “Lady Mary—Molly—Fairbanks,” he said calmly.

Harry’s mother fell in a dead faint.

“No, Molly, no!” Penelope shrieked, and then she fainted, too, right into Roderick’s arms.

“The baby!” he cried, and lifted Penelope up, cradling her to his chest. “Dr. Krauss. Are you still here?” He began to stroke Penelope’s hair.

Molly felt the blood fall to her feet. Penelope was to have another baby? And now she’d received a great shock—

Molly put her hands to her mouth to keep her lips from trembling. She was blinking so hard, she almost couldn’t see. And then it seemed all the women in the audience began to cry, or faint, or yell in Penelope’s general direction.

The news about the baby couldn’t have come at a worse—or more appropriate—time. Because Roderick’s life might very well be in danger.

The house of Mallan was vulnerable!

Pray that the child is a son!, Molly heard over and over. She leaned into Harry.

“Hold on,” he said. “Don’t let them—”

“Penelope—” Molly could barely speak.

“She’ll be fine. So will Mother. Everyone will be.”

“But my father—”

Lord Sutton was still staring at her, thunderstruck.

And then, in the midst of the chaos—after Dr. Krauss had removed Penelope from Roderick’s arms—Roderick looked at Harry, and Harry looked at him.

Time stood still.

And for a moment, Molly felt as if she were back at the Christmas ball when she was thirteen.

Penelope had fainted again, yes. But her chagrin would be far worse this time around because Harry and Roderick wouldn’t simply exchange punches. If Roderick were to defend her honor, he would be compelled to challenge Harry to a duel.

For a moment, all Molly knew was a swirl of color, and loud, jangling noises. But then she felt Harry’s hand touch hers. And he gripped it. His hard, warm palm cradled her own.

She would focus on the warmth of Harry’s hand and not on what was happening on the stair landing. Yes, she would hold on to Harry’s hand for all she was worth. And she would think about how much she loved him, that despite everything going on around her—despite her world crashing around her shoulders—she loved Harry. And always would.

With a capital L.

And it seemed that maybe—oh, bother with maybe, she was sure!—he loved her, too.

She lifted her chin and stared defiantly at Sir Richard. At Roderick. At the duke. At her father. At the world. She would endure the clamor and pray her father and sister and Harry’s family would forgive her. But if they didn’t—what was done was done.

She was Harry’s forever.

“That despicable vermin said it rightly, Father,” Harry’s voice rang out, more threatening than she had ever heard it. “Molly Fairbanks was my false mistress, emphasis on false. She incurred no wrong. And she will pay no price.”

Molly trembled next to him.

Harry’s words were heroic, but she knew that she would pay a price, as much as Harry hated for it to be so.

Sir Richard chuckled. “How naïve of you, Traemore. Rest assured, at the very least, you shall certainly pay a price. There are members of our club here tonight who—if they value obeying their Prince Regent—will step forward and demand you make restitution for your perfidy by immediately proposing to Anne Riordan.”

The duke’s face was grave. “As I am well aware of the details of Prinny’s wager—having read the Impossible Bachelors decree numerous times at my club—I must validate Bell’s concerns.”

Molly’s fingers went icy as the duke turned to look at her father and said, “Forgive me for what I am about to demand, Sutton.”

Molly knew what that demand was. And with all her being, she wished it didn’t have to be so.

The duke looked at Harry. “You shall propose marriage to Lady Anne Riordan immediately.”

Molly swallowed hard. Lord Sutton looked about to cry. She was ruined. Completely. And she and her father both knew it. Any plans he had to marry her off to Cedric would be cast aside now. She was a fallen woman. No respectable man would have her.

Thank God Penelope had been carried out of the room.

Harry looked at Molly, a world of pain and regret in his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

She knew he was. The whole thing had gotten out of control, hadn’t it? They’d both made stupid decisions, but somehow in the middle of it all, she’d discovered the center of her being, the place where you knew you were whole.

And Harry was there. Harry was a part of her. No matter what happened.

“I understand you have no choice,” she whispered back. “I knew it all along.” She squeezed his hand. “Harry, you must propose to Anne.”

He squeezed her hand back so hard, she wanted to wince. But she wouldn’t. She would remain strong for him. She would never let him know how much it hurt to let him go.

He left her side, and something inside Molly went numb, in the very center of her heart. She knew she would never be truly happy again.