When Harry Met Molly ib-1

by Kieran Kramer

  For the first time, he had some. “I’m starting a small press,” he told the ladies.

  His mother gasped. She smiled. And then tears sprang to her eyes.

  Harry was rather overwhelmed with emotion himself.

  “Mother, dear.” He took her hand and smiled. “My first effort at the Traemore Press shall be a compilation of children’s riddles, jokes, and poems. It shall be called A Christmas Pageant Collection for Children. All the profits from each printing—I intend to update the collection each year—will go to the local orphanage.”

  There were murmurs of approval from the women.

  “I’ll also be putting together various other charitable projects,” Harry went on, “such as an advice manual for women seeking safe and honest work in London, which we’ll dispense in churches and poor houses around the city.”

  “My goodness!” one elderly woman piped up, her quizzing glass to her eye. “Whatever has happened to the Harry of old?”

  Harry turned to her. “I’m the same person, Countess. Only better.”

  All the women laughed.

  “Does your father know, Harry?” His mother’s eyes were bright with hope.

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve not had a chance to tell him. But I shall. Later tonight.”

  “Good,” she said. “Tell us more.”

  Harry grinned at her enthusiasm. And he wished that he’d figured out, long ago, that nothing—not his father, and not even his disgrace in the army—had been holding him back. Only he had.

  “Eventually,” he told the company of women, “I’ll branch out into acquiring amusing novels, books of poetry for adults, and learned tomes, but I shall never forget my initial inspiration”—he lifted his mother’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them tenderly—“which is yourself, dear lady, a most loving mother who taught me to do what is right and leave off that which is wrong.”

  The duchess was speechless. So were her friends. In fact, not one of them had a dry eye. Harry got more hugs and well wishes than he’d ever gotten in his life, and strangely enough, he was all right with that. He could accept the past. Because he was more than that now. Bigger, somehow.

  And, as he’d told the dowager countess, better.

  But while the women waxed on about his business venture and paid him the most flattering attention, he yet sought an avenue of escape. Because over his shoulder, he’d caught a glimpse of Molly. She was dancing with his friend Alfred, who must have said something witty because the minx threw her head back and laughed.

  Which was when Harry got his first stab of jealousy. The slender column of Molly’s throat, he knew from experience, was soft and warm, smelling of strawberries and sweet promises.

  He didn’t like the idea of her offering her neck to Alfred. And Harry despised imagining Alfred pressing kisses to it.

  “You seem distracted, Harry,” said his mother, laying her hand on his arm. “And no wonder, with a fine future beckoning you.”

  “Would you like to dance?” asked Lady Gregory. “My Anne would make a fine partner.”

  Good God. There stood Anne Riordan, most likely his future bride. She was of impeccable lineage and substantial wealth. In the eyes of the ton, there was no reason why he shouldn’t offer for the chit.

  “Hello, Lord Harry.” Anne squinted up at him.

  “Er, good to see you, Lady Anne.” He tried to smile at her.

  “We know you’re off limits in town,” Lady Gregory said to him, “but surely not at your mother’s house?”

  Harry understood Lady Gregory well. Bet or no bet, he was still his parents’ son, and he would comply with their traditions. He held out his arm to Anne. “I would be honored to dance with you,” he said, striving to sound gallant.

  She gripped his arm as if she were headed for the gallows.

  My God, Harry thought as he carried her off, his neck reddening at the twittering of the ladies behind them. Were the banns already being read and someone forgot to tell him?

  Holding a meaningful conversation while Anne constantly stepped on his feet was difficult, but he managed. And when a fop in a pink waistcoat bumped into them with his dance partner, Anne appeared to almost faint from the shock.

  Of course, Harry offered her some lemonade at that point, but she declined with a small shake of her head.

  “Thank you for a lovely dance,” he told her at its conclusion, and passed her over to the fop in the pink waistcoat, declaring her to be the finest dancer and most pleasant company he’d encountered yet at the ball that evening.

  Duty done.

  Now he could go search for Alfred. A few moments later, he caught up with him at a linen-covered serving table adorned with ivy-wrapped candles and two epergnes loaded with hot house orchids. Penelope’s favorite flower, Harry knew from Roderick.

  A maid, her hair tucked neatly beneath her frilly cap, ladled out a light, iced punch. “Here you are, Lord Harry.” With a warm smile, she handed him a brimming cup.

  “Thanks very much.” Harry raised the cup and grinned at her. It felt good to be welcomed back home, even by the servants.

  Alfred asked for two cups of the stuff and turned back to Harry with a confiding air. “You did me a great service. I like your Molly. She’s a wit and a pleasure to look at. In fact, I’m bringing her some refreshment now. She said she might go out on the terrace with me.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Harry. “She’s not to go out on the terrace with anyone. Her father’s orders.”

  Alfred drew in his chin. “Who are you to listen to fathers?”

  Harry attempted a jovial smile, but he was afraid it came out a bit threatening. “Molly’s different. She’s not someone to toy with.”

  “I’m not toying with her,” Alfred said, his back obviously up. “I might even decide to court her, but—” His face turned red. “Now see what you’ve done.”

  Harry followed his bitter gaze. Molly was surrounded by the other three friends he’d brought down from London.

  Alfred sighed and put the cups down on the punch table.

  “I’m sorry,” Harry said, not feeling sorry at all that Alfred had lost a chance to get to know her more intimately. “You won’t win her without a fight.”

  Alfred looked at him quizzically. “Do you like her?”

  Harry gave a short laugh. “Of course I do. She’s my neighbor. I’ve known her since she was an infant.”

  “You’re acting awfully put out that I was bringing her punch.”

  Harry cleared his throat. “I feel a certain protectiveness toward her, yes.”

  “As you would to a sister?”

  Harry smiled. “Exactly.”

  “Then I shall stay far away,” Alfred said gloomily. “I have a sister myself.” And he left Harry, presumably in search of other female quarry.

  If Alfred was so easily dissuaded, he didn’t deserve to be in the running for Molly’s hand in marriage, Harry thought, feeling vindicated for having weeded out one unworthy bachelor.

  But then he looked over and saw the other three still hovering. And one of them—Lord Michael Bannister—asked Molly to dance to the waltz.

  Really, Harry thought, what was his mother thinking, allowing such a scandalous dance to be performed? It must be Penelope’s influence.

  His throat tightened. Michael was a Romeo—a good man, but with a bag of wild oats he’d made very clear he had yet to sow. Molly was chatting avidly with him during their waltz—looking at him with those large, always curious brown eyes of hers.

  And it was when Harry saw that sweet openness in her gaze not directed toward him but toward someone else—that he knew.

  He already knew he felt lust for Molly. And a healthy dose of friendly feelings.

  But he felt more than that.

  He didn’t want to share her with any other man. At all. Ever.

  He’d never felt that way before. When he’d had his dalliances, he’d been perfectly amenable to the lady moving on to someone else after their o
wn affair had run its course.

  But he didn’t feel that way about Molly. She was no longer involved with him that way, but he most certainly didn’t want his bachelor friends chatting away with her, all the while imagining taking her to bed.

  He didn’t want his friends to dare have those thoughts about her. Now or in the future.

  He felt a possessiveness that threatened to unravel him if he didn’t get control of himself. Uncurling his fists, he strode across the room and tapped Michael’s shoulder. “I’ll take over,” he said in a short tone.

  Michael stopped, looked rather confused.

  “I’ll explain later,” Harry said.

  And he would. He would explain to the whole company present that Molly was to be his. No one else’s. He was free to marry whom he wished, and he would marry her.

  He would make her his wife and never have to worry about other men approaching her again.

  Because he loved her! How could he have been so thick-headed, taking so long to realize that his crazy, mixed-up feelings—his constant thoughts of Molly—were nothing less than love?

  He truly was a dunderhead.

  But no more.

  No more!

  Michael relinquished Molly’s hand, and Harry gripped it.

  But she didn’t look happy about the switch in partners. “What, pray tell, are you doing?”

  They took up the waltz where she and Michael had left off. “You shouldn’t waltz with just anyone,” Harry said, and to make his point, pulled her closer. “You never know their intentions. I’m merely keeping the wolves at bay, as I promised. And admit it. You want another Queen cake. I saw you eating one in the corner not ten minutes ago. I shall procure one for you as soon as this waltz is over.”

  “I’ll admit your mother’s recipe for Queen cakes is the best I’ve ever tasted, and I wouldn’t mind having another.” Molly pressed her lips together and didn’t speak for a moment. She swallowed hard, as if she were gulping back tears.

  Harry felt a twinge of alarm. “Are you all right?”

  She gave a rather bitter laugh and didn’t answer. He spun her around the floor and tried to think of something to say to get her past this odd mood she was in. But he felt tongue-tied. Probably because when they made direct eye contact, she immediately glanced away.

  She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t happy at all. With him!

  He prayed he wasn’t too late to win her.

  “Molly,” he began, gripping her hand tighter. “Have I offended you in some way?”

  She inhaled a deep breath. “Answer me this, Harry. Why do you bother noticing what I like?”

  “Because”—he paused—“I feel it’s my duty to know all about you.”

  “When you’re arranging for me to marry someone else?” She shook her head, her tone incredulous. “And why is it you call the men you arranged to meet me—all of whom appear perfectly respectable—‘wolves’? Many people would call you one. The papers say you’re taking full advantage of your unfettered bachelor status.”

  Harry couldn’t deny it. He had. But now he knew it was because he’d been trying to forget her.

  “Don’t believe everything you read.” He certainly hadn’t slept with any other woman since he’d been with her. “And I called your previous dance partners wolves because”—he paused—“they’re not right for you.”

  She sighed. “You’re supposed to help me find a husband, not shoo them away. This isn’t helping, your hovering over me like a big, black cloud.”

  “Do I look threatening?”

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he said, and swung her around the floor. “I plan on keeping all your new acquaintances away.”

  “Why?” she complained. “Harry—”

  “Because I have found the perfect husband for you already.” He smiled.

  Her brows flew up. “Have you? Who?”

  Couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she see it in his eyes? “Molly,” he groaned. “We must go out in the garden, as soon as this waltz is over.”

  And without even realizing it, he slowed until they came to a perfect standstill in the middle of the floor.

  “Harry?” Molly’s brown eyes registered confusion.

  But just then there was a clamor from the stair landing—loud words exchanged, and the sharp, guttural sound of someone being punched in the middle and gasping for breath.

  The musicians stopped playing.

  “Oh, heavens,” Molly whispered.

  Harry looked up. A footman lay crumpled in a heap. Two other footmen gripped a wild-haired man by either arm. Yet even though the man was trapped, and struggling, he had a triumphant gleam in his eye.

  It was Sir Richard. And hovering near him, her beseeching eyes focused on Harry alone, was the lovely—yet insipid—Fiona.

  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, mi
serable 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.”