But she wasn’t your average girl.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You wish you could speak. But you already said you wouldn’t, and I’m holding you to it.”
She slitted her eyes again.
“We shall be stopping in the next hour. There is another inn, a more respectable one. I shall escort you to a private room and guard your door while you change into one of Fiona’s gowns and apply her cosmetics.”
Her eyes widened.
“What?” Harry drew his brows together. “Are you wondering if Fiona has many gowns?”
Molly nodded. Violently.
“Indeed she does,” Harry replied. “And bonnets. The latest creations from Paris, I believe.”
Molly grinned, but then immediately stopped, attempted to look sick and depressed, and stared out the window.
“Too late,” he said. “I saw it.”
“Oh, you—” She clamped her mouth shut.
“Hah! You said something!” He chuckled.
Indeed, he looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“I think I shall talk,” she said, in a wicked voice. “I think my silence pleases you. So I shan’t”—she paused for emphasis—“be silent any longer.”
Sure enough, he got a wrinkle on his brow and his mouth moved down into a frown.
Splendid!
“As a matter of fact,” she added breezily, “I should like to discuss this house party. Who will be there?”
Harry shifted in his seat. “You already know of most of them if you read the London papers.”
“I’m not supposed to,” said Molly. “Papa says they give me ideas.”
“Which means you read them anyway, don’t you?”
She refused to dignify that remark.
Harry gave an easy laugh. “We’ll be in the company of the other men conscripted by Prinny to be his Impossible Bachelors,” he said. “Nicholas Staunton, Lord Maxwell. Viscount Charles Lumley. Captain Stephen Arrow. And the baronet, Sir Richard Bell.”
“Lord Maxwell.” Molly started with her left index finger. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s a very good friend, a trifle mysterious and rather a recluse.”
“Who’s his mistress?”
“That would be Athena Markham—”
“She who treads the boards?”
“Right. It could be he’s thrown her over for someone else. I’ve no idea.”
Molly gave a huff. “Lord Maxwell would be a fool to throw over Athena Markham.”
“Why is that?”
“She’s divine. Penelope told me so. She saw her in King Lear.”
“She certainly tends to attract an audience, on or off the stage. And she’s quite beautiful.” Harry sighed and looked quite as if he were already sporting a ball and chain, with Anne Riordan holding the lock and key.
“What?” Molly sat up higher in her seat. “You think I have no chance against Miss Markham?”
Harry merely gave her a very droll look.
“You’ve no idea of my acting abilities,” Molly said. It was bragging, she knew, but she was good. At least she knew she would be if only someone would give her a chance to be in a play!
“You’re right,” he said, his chin in his hand. “I’ve no idea.”
She knew he hadn’t meant that as a compliment.
“Let’s move on,” she said, grasping her middle left finger. “That viscount. Lumley. I’ve heard that everything he touches turns to gold.”
Harry frowned. “Yes. He’s the best of fellows. But he’s easily taken advantage of—not in business, but in matters of the heart. I’ve no idea how he’s made it this far without being legshackled. His better friends, and I count myself one of them, have come to conclude that it’s luck. Not skill.”
“Yes, particularly as he’s worth twenty thousand a year,” Molly replied.
For once, they were in agreement. But then she realized Harry was boasting. “Do you really think it takes skill to remain a bachelor as long as you have?”
“Certainly.” His tone was a trifle too smug. “It’s like feinting to the left or right, or ducking, when you’re fencing. Some of us have the natural ability to dodge and survive—others do not.”
“So you’ve evaded parson’s mousetrap how many times?”
“Countless,” he murmured, and then smiled, but it was to himself, she saw, a small smile of recollection.
She didn’t like that smile. It meant that he was thinking of all the girls (besides Penelope) whom he’d kissed—and perhaps done more with—and escaped without any consequences.
The roué!
“Someday you’ll be caught,” she reminded him.
His face took on a foreboding expression. “Yes, as I was once before, thanks to you.” He was referring to the Christmas incident, of course. “But I’ve a few years left,” he added.
“Do you think Anne will wait that long for a proposal?”
“No,” he said. “Which is another reason for me to delay.”
“But someone else will crop up,” Molly said darkly. “Perhaps she’ll be worse than Anne.”
Harry sighed. “I know.”
He looked so sad and desperate that she almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Back to business. “Tell me about the third person, that captain.” She wriggled her ring finger to show him she was still counting.
“Oh, yes,” Harry said. “Captain Stephen Arrow, another old friend. He’s a dashing fellow who takes to the high seas whenever a young miss gets too adoring. Of course, he’s fought in many battles, so we mustn’t begrudge him his excuse.”
“An easy out, being a ship’s captain,” said Molly. “If every man had a ship, we’d have no males left on land at all.”
“Yes, I’d take facing cannonballs over a woman’s expectations any day,” said Harry.
“Ha.” Molly glared at him. “Who’s the fourth again?”
“A baronet, Sir Richard Bell.” Harry sighed. “I despise the man. But he’s certainly a tried-and-true bachelor.”
“How so?”
“He’s been seducing young debutantes without getting caught for close to twenty years.”
“Surely not.”
“Oh, yes. I don’t know what he tells them, but they never tattle to their parents, who would, of course, demand he be brought up to scratch.”
Molly wrinkled her brow. “I don’t like the sound of him.”
“Stay away from him. The past several years, he’s had a particular aversion to me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always wondered. He’s older than Roderick, and we run in different circles. So I don’t see why he’d even notice me. But he does. He goes out of his way to be unpleasant.” Harry shrugged. “I simply ignore him.”
“Hmmm. Probably your best bet.”
“And he always keeps the same mistress,” Harry went on. “It’s a mystery why she stays with him. Of course, his wealth probably lured her in, but she could do much better. Her name, I believe, is Bunny.”
“Is she a strong contender for the title of Most Delectable Companion?”
“Yes.” Harry grinned. “She is what most men would describe as the perfect mistress.”
“Why?” Molly nudged at his crossed knee. “What is it about her that makes her perfect?”
She knew she shouldn’t enjoy talking about mistresses, but it was so much more interesting than hearing Cedric prose on about naked statues or Miss Dunlap lecture on the virtues of self-discipline.
“Bunny has the face and figure of a goddess,” Harry said. “And the disposition of your most favored servant, the one who answers your every beck and call and asks nothing in return.”
Molly made a face. “Ugh. Is that what men really want? She sounds like a pet. A favorite dog.”
Harry chuckled. “Oh, no.” His tone was silky. “She is nothing like a favorite dog, I assure you.”
Molly felt her chest tighten. �
�I don’t like men who want women who are constantly currying their favor.”
“Of course you wouldn’t like those men! Because you don’t curry anyone’s favor—except maybe Cedric’s. Weren’t you as affable as a lapdog with him?”
She refused to answer because, by God, she had been!
“I knew it,” Harry said. “You were his slave.”
“Never,” Molly lied.
She despised Harry for bringing up Cedric and her fawning behavior with him, which she’d instituted as soon as she’d realized she wanted him to run off with her. Hopefully, Harry hadn’t also deduced that she’d coerced Cedric into kissing her that very morning. Because every woman should be kissed at the start of her elopement, shouldn’t she?
Cedric hadn’t deserved a kiss from her, she realized now. And judging from his bland response, he obviously hadn’t wanted it, either, which was an even more lowering thought.
“You’re best rid of him,” Harry said easily. “It’s not in your nature to be obedient.”
“Stop talking about my nature,” she said. That was personal, and what did he know about hers?
And then he seemed to read her mind.
“Believe it or not, Molly Fairbanks.” His voice was low, intimate. “I know you.”
She felt gooseflesh on her arms and a strange thrumming in her middle. “Don’t talk to me in that…that way! It’s indecent. I shall tell the duke.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. It’s only how a man addresses his mistress.” He sat up and his expression grew serious. “Get used to it,” he said in a neutral manner. “I shall have to address you that way at the house party.”
“No.” Molly crossed her arms. “It’s quite inappropriate.”
“The whole week will be inappropriate,” he reminded her.
“Hmmmph.”
“While we are on the subject”—he had a way of ignoring her hmmmphs that quite riled her—“let’s go over some expected behavior.”
“Oh?” She prayed he wouldn’t mention kissing him. She would have to close her eyes and pretend he was Cedric, although, blast it, she didn’t love Cedric!
All right, then. She would pretend Harry was a hero in a gothic novel, that’s what she would do. She’d even give him an imaginary name. She was Delilah. So he’d be…
Samson.
She closed her eyes a moment, envisioning a noble Samson cradling her in his strong, golden arms. Oh, Samson! she would sigh. And then he’d kiss her. Just like that.
She opened her eyes again.
“Are you all right?” Harry had a squiggle on his brow. “Your mouth was hanging open. I was sure you were about to faint.”
“I’m fine, thank you very much.” She laced her fingers together. “Do go on.”
“About kissing,” Harry said, his eyes locking onto hers.
She’d never noticed them before. They were a warm, rich brown with little golden glints in them. Her stomach tightened, and for some reason, the air seemed to grow hot in the carriage. Perhaps someone should open a window, she thought—
And then her world went black.
Chapter 6
Seeing Molly slack—without a fight in her—nearly undid Harry. He had the instant thought that he would be sent to hell for teasing her if she died.
So he must see to it that she recovered. Immediately.
He slapped her gently on the cheek. “Molly! Wake up!”
Nothing happened. He glanced down and saw the regular rise and fall of the rounds of her breasts, peeping from the top of her modest neckline.
She was obviously in no danger of dying. He ignored the vague sensation of relief that swelled his chest and shook her gently by the shoulders. “Wake up, Molly!”
Her skin was alabaster white, her eyelids almost translucent. She was like Briar Rose in that Brothers Grimm tale, but—
You’d have to pay him a million pounds to kiss her to wake her up, and even then he wouldn’t do it.
“Women and their megrims,” he muttered, and grabbed a flask out of his pocket. Carefully, he dribbled a bit of brandy into her half-parted mouth.
She made a spitting noise and then her eyes began blinking madly.
He leaned over her. “Feeling better?”
She sat bolt upright. “What in heaven’s name—” Her puckish brown eyes registered confusion first, then annoyance.
Which meant she was back to her old self.
“You fainted, I believe.” Harry grinned. “I had no idea you were that sort of female.”
“I am certainly not that sort of female, if you mean weak and insipid. I simply didn’t get enough to eat today.”
“That and perhaps you’re worried about your duties as a mistress.”
“False mistress,” she corrected him. Her cheeks grew a tiny bit pink. “And I am not worried. I’m quite capable of performing my duties. Even though I have no idea what they are, beyond the card playing and the laughing and the appearing beautiful all the time.” Looking out the window, she scooted deeper into her seat and crossed her arms over her breasts.
Harry leaned back, amused, because she was obviously worried about her duties, and nothing gave him more satisfaction than seeing Molly Fairbanks ill at ease.
Even so, he decided to grace her with a small, reassuring smile—not to be kind, he reminded himself, but to calm her so she’d perform her forthcoming role exceptionally well. Otherwise, he’d likely be sitting across the breakfast table from Anne Riordan sooner than later.
“Speaking of your responsibilities as my false mistress—”
“Yes?” she said rather fast.
“To make it appear as if we have a genuine relationship,” he said, “we will have to…kiss every once in a while. If we don’t, someone may catch on that you aren’t a real lightskirt, and then I am doomed.”
She made a face that proved pretty girls can turn into the veriest hags at a moment’s notice if they so choose. “I don’t want to kiss you, Harry.”
He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.” Harry strove to sound like an old, trusted friend. “A kiss is simply a kiss. Two mouths meeting. Nothing to fear.”
She appeared to be thinking. “I do kiss my horse sometimes,” she said. “Usually on the nose, but”—she put her hand to her mouth—“once I kissed him on the lips.”
She laughed outright. Some would say in a charming manner.
Not Harry, of course. But he could give her, at the very least, a modicum of a smile. “Kissing a man might be slightly different from kissing a horse,” he said, attempting to match her lighthearted tone.
But her eyes suddenly lost their impish quality. They became stormy. Defiant. Hurt.
Ah, thought Harry. Cedric had either kissed her. Or not kissed her.
He dared not ask which.
“Do it,” Molly said, closing her eyes. “Right now.”
Harry hesitated. He should have known she would try to take him off guard. She always wanted the upper hand.
Very well, then. He would show her who had the upper hand!
And if she had any memories of Cedric’s kisses, he would erase them. Because Harry prided himself on his kissing abilities. Not that he’d ever told anyone that. But still. He’d never left a woman disappointed.
“Ready?” he said.
She nodded, very fast, and squeezed her eyes even tighter shut. Her fists were clenched in her lap so hard her knuckles were white.
He took her by the shoulders and bent forward, wary. But her lips immediately conformed to his. They were soft and cushiony, and despite the fact she’d had brandy mere seconds ago, she tasted sweet, like strawberries. How had a sharp-tongued wench like her managed that?
He gained courage at her passive acceptance of the kiss, although he sensed, and was mildly entertained by, the stiffness of her posture. Praying that she’d not balk—because the chaste kiss they were now sharing wasn’t nearly the k
iss a man and his mistress would share at a ribald gathering—he teased her mouth open further.
Harry heard her small intake of breath at the invasion, but he trusted in his kissing skills, pushing farther and farther into the sweet boundaries of her mouth until he sensed himself reacting, really reacting.
And it was because she was responding. She sort of melted into him across the space separating them in the carriage, and he pulled her onto his lap, and he pressed her lower back just so, to settle her.
She was molded perfectly to his body now. She lifted her hand and placed it tentatively around his neck, gripped him, and drew him even closer. One part of his mind was appalled at himself, kissing a girl whom he wouldn’t mind seeing fall off a cliff, and the other demanded that the pleasurable sensations continue.
Of course, the side demanding pleasure won.
And then she said something like, “Mmmmm,” deep in her throat, a wholly unexpected response which took him to the next level of…of need, he supposed. Not that he needed to kiss Molly.
He needed Fiona, the lightskirt to end all lightskirts, whose company he’d been deprived of—thanks to the woman sitting on his lap right now.
Abruptly, he pulled back and took a measured breath.
“Samson,” she murmured, like a baby whose toy has been taken away, and opened her eyes. But they were heavy-lidded, her gaze dreamy.
“What did you say?” His own voice was rough—with irritation, he was sure, brought about by unsated desire for Fiona.
Molly’s eyes widened. “Nothing.” And with a polite, nervous smile, she stumbled backward into the opposing seat.
He didn’t know how to respond. He could have sworn she’d said Samson. Who the bloody hell was he? Then light dawned. He was playing the Samson to her Delilah. Molly was pretending he was someone else while he kissed her. No woman, as far as he knew, had ever had to pretend he was someone else to enjoy his kisses! While he’d been very aware throughout the whole, insanely delicious kiss that she was Molly.
Yes, Molly the termagant. And Molly the shrew. But Molly, nonetheless.
“I suppose that was adequate practice,” she said, and looked out the window at the passing countryside. She appeared bright as a daisy now, her lips cherry red.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Harry answered, his mood completely soured.
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