Kieran Kramer - When Harry Met Molly

Molly stood on the road beside Harry and watched the vehicle carrying Cedric and his Aphrodite disappear around a bend in the road. Her ears began to buzz. In the distance, the chickens, the oak tree, the woman and child climbing into a wagon in the stableyard—all became wavy, like ribbons of taffy.

God, no. This couldn’t be happening to her. Everything, everything …was wrong, upside down.

She blinked slowly, several times, to make the waves go away. When they did, she found her feet again, one of which she promptly stomped at Harry.

“Now see what you’ve done,” she said. “I’m stranded here because your fit of temper caused your lightskirt to throw herself into the arms of my intended!”

Harry brought his face a mere few inches from her own. “And your intended obviously had had enough of your bossiness. So much so that he took off with my lightskirt!”

“You shouldn’t have a lightskirt,” said Molly. “What would your mother say?”

“And you shouldn’t be running off to Gretna Green with a spineless fop.”

Molly refused to blink. “He wasn’t spineless. Simply…sensitive.”

Although she had no idea why she was defending Cedric. It was Harry’s fault, of course. He always brought out the irrational in her.

Harry scoffed. “Alliston sensitive? He is about as sensitive as a tree stump.”

She crossed her arms. “And your lightskirt is about as intelligent as…as an insect.”

Harry’s smile was wicked. “She doesn’t require intelligence for what I need her for.”

If he intended to make her blush, Molly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She turned her back and put up her parasol.

Never in a million years would she ask Harry’s help.

But help was what she needed. She was stranded at a remote hostelry in the middle of England, unchaperoned and without even the excuse of going to Gretna Green with her intended to protect her reputation.

If anyone back home found out what was happening to her, she was a fallen woman.

Harry watched Molly march onto the dusty road, the silliest of striped parasols open above her head. She stared down both ways with a wrinkle on her brow. He recalled that there were no farm houses or places to stop for at least ten miles southward, but the north road led her even farther from home.

“Here now!” he called to her.

She turned around. “I’ve nothing to say to you.” She put her chin in the air and headed south.

Harry trotted after her, grabbed her elbow, and swung her around. “You’re not going to disappear and leave me in an awkward situation.”

Her cheeks were spotted pink. “Oh, and I’m not in one myself? Any gentleman would have noticed I am! But no, you’re no gentleman. The whole world knows that .”

She hit him on the chest with her reticule. It felt empty, except for maybe a coin.

He sighed. “That doesn’t help anything.”

She inhaled through her nose and let her breath out in a gusty sigh. “I’m sorry. A lady doesn’t hit people. Even though you deserve it, cavorting with a woman who’s no lady at all, running off with any man she sees!”

He scoffed. “Are you telling me you’re a lady? You put a thistle in my seat and a rock in my wine goblet last time I dined at Marble Hill.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“It was at Penelope and Roderick’s bon voyage celebration before they took the girls to Italy. Barely four months ago.”

“Yes, but how is that worse than pulling someone’s chair out a little too far? You did it the very evening after your dear aunt Cora expired! I almost fell on my bottom at supper, in front of all your grieving family, thanks to you .”

“I did it for Aunt Cora,” he said. “She liked practical jokes.”

“A poor excuse,” Molly replied.

They glared at each other. Neither one spoke for a minute, and then she said, rather thickly, “We’re both in trouble.”

He hoped she wouldn’t become a watering pot. It was the last thing he needed, to be in the presence of a stubborn shrew who was also crying .

“Perhaps we should help each other out of it,” he said very reluctantly.

Oh, how it cost him!

“That’s what I was thinking,” she said, brightening a bit.

Thank God. Although seeing her brighten was something he usually wouldn’t encourage.

“Exactly what is your situation?” she asked him.

“I’m traveling to a house party, a rather lively one. I can take you with me.”

“Lively?”

“Let’s just say it’s not the sort of house party you ’d typically attend. Or most members of the ton, for that matter. It’s…unique. This year I’ve been designated the host.”

She waved him off and kept walking.

“And I need a mistress to take with me!” he called after her, refusing to look or sound ashamed.

She wheeled around. “I should have known you’d propose something scandalous.” And then marched off again in an even greater huff.

“You’d be my false mistress, not a real one, you foolish chit!” As usual, she had his blood boiling.

She turned again, stopped, stuck an index finger on her chest. “Me? Foolish?”

“Yes, you . Walking into certain danger on that road.” He felt his nostrils flare like a bull’s. There was not a person in the world who could rile him the way Molly Fairbanks did.

“Dangerous?” She put a fist on her hip. “How is walking on a road more dangerous than attending a gathering with you, where there’ll be sure to be drunken louts falling everywhere and lightskirts gadding about half clothed? And why would anyone need a false mistress anyway? It’s a ludicrous concept.”

Harry crossed his arms and prayed for patience. “First of all, we shan’t be drunk all the time.”

Molly rolled her eyes.

“There is some strategy involved.”

“Such as?”

“If I show up with no mistress at all,” he explained, “I’ll lose the wager immediately. So I must bring someone . Your presence will at least keep me in the game.”

She opened her mouth to rip into him—he saw the flare of battle in her eyes—but he put his index finger in the air. “I’m willing to make you a mistress in name only to protect your virtue.” She should be pleased. “Although no one else shall know of our arrangement, of course.”

He’d be the only man at the house party with a false mistress. Did she not appreciate his sacrifice?

She lowered her brows. “I knew it was something like that. What exactly do you mean by ‘game’?”

“We compete. Whoever brings the finest mistress wins.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Do go on.”

“Each woman shall be judged on her beauty—extra points for beauty, actually, especially if we can see much of it.”

Molly’s brow wrinkled. “‘See much of it’?”

“Yes.” He bit his lip, not caring to explain. “And then, of course, she shall be judged on her conversation. And her wit.” He snapped his fingers. “If she’s skilled at gambling with ha’pennies, laughs frequently at men’s jokes, and notices when their brandy snifters need replenishing, so much the better.”

“You’re joking.”

Harry shrugged. “Not at all. To sum up, she’ll be judged on almost all the things that make a female, shall we say, mesmerizing to a man.”

Molly sighed and tapped her foot. “What do you win if you bring the, um, finest of the mistresses?”

“ She gets the glory of winning the title—‘the Most Delectable Companion,’” he said as if he were announcing the tightrope walker at the traveling circus. “And a crown of paste,” he remembered to add.