Kieran Kramer - When Harry Met Molly

She twisted her face up. “That’s all? She receives no tangible reward beyond a worthless title and tiara?”

He shifted, suddenly feeling doubtful. Molly had a way of making him feel like a…a dunderhead. He hadn’t felt that way since—

Since he’d last seen her!

“You should at least give the Most Delectable Companion loads of money,” she said, her chin back in the air. “God knows she’ll deserve it. Any lightskirt of yours would require the patience of a saint!” She paused only long enough to get her breath. “What does her consort win?”

“Another year of freedom from the parson’s noose,” he said with relish, because he knew she would hate to hear him say it. “And every matchmaking mama, all the dragon ladies who rule Almack’s, and every bettor at every club in London will know he’s off the market. Thanks to a royal decree put forth by Prinny himself.”

“Prinny?” Her lip curled. “You mean the Prince Regent will give you permission to enjoy shirking your duty by your family.”

“What duty?” Harry said coolly. “Roderick shall be the next Duke of Mallan, and Penelope will be sure to produce a son soon. He’ll already have four big sisters to boss him about. The line is thriving, I assure you.”

“But you must marry, as well.” She sounded exactly like his mother. And his sister-in-law. And his father and brother.

“I am the spare,” he ground out. “I can stay a bachelor as long as I’d like. They merely need me if Roderick sticks his spoon in the wall before his son is born, and my brother is a hale, hearty fellow who shall be around for another seventy years at least.”

“But your mama will want more grandchildren,” Molly persisted, twirling her parasol as if they were conversing about the weather.

She must quite enjoy bickering, Harry thought. Perhaps it was her favorite pastime.

He felt his mouth become a grim line. “I’d rather not discuss it. It is, quite frankly, none of your business, Molly Fairbanks.”

“Ohhhh,” she growled, and lowered her parasol to glare at him. As if he couldn’t see the intensity of that fierce look unless the sun were full upon her face.

They were getting nowhere. Fast. And she was working herself up to hitting him again with that blasted reticule.

“Let’s get back to business, shall we?” he said. “The men whose mistresses don’t win the contest must pull straws to see who must get legshackled to the woman handpicked for each of them by the board of their club. So we have an obvious winner and an obvious loser.”

Molly brightened. “If you lose this year, you’ll have to marry Anne Riordan.”

“How do you know?”

“Easy. Your papa’s on the board, and he tells everyone he believes she’ll have a calming influence on you.” She inclined her head and smiled. “I will quite enjoy that, seeing you and Anne married.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You always were cruel.”

She laughed. “Tell me, Harry, what would I get out of being your—ahem—false mistress?”

He crossed his arms. “Safe, anonymous travel back to Marble Hill. I assume your father is traipsing about Europe somewhere and that you somehow pulled the wool over his cousin Augusta’s eyes?”

“How did you know?”

“Easy. You’re extremely predictable.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like how you said that.”

He shrugged. “Take it as you wish.”

She bit her thumbnail. “But the gentlemen at the house party. What if they recognize me in town? Now that I’m not marrying Cedric, I shall have to have a Season.”

“You’ll wear loads of face powder and rouge.”

“They’ll itch.” She knew from experimenting with Cousin Augusta’s.

“And you must use a false name.”

“I’ll forget it. I know it.”

He sighed. “You can’t afford to forget it.”

“Then it must be Delilah,” she said. “It’s the only name I’ll be able to remember.”

“Why Delilah?”

“I don’t know. But I already know I won’t forget it.”

Harry shook his head. He would never quite understand women and the way their minds worked, especially Molly’s—thank God.

“You needn’t be overly worried about being found out,” he said. “The gentlemen will be mildly pickled half the time—when we’re out shooting—and severely so the other half. Plus, they’ll be looking down almost always.” He cocked one brow.

Her face grew red. “Do you mean—” She glanced down at her own bodice.

“Yes.”

She shuddered. “This house party sounds awful.”

“It will be.” He grinned. “Positively dreadful.”

She narrowed her eyes, kicked a stone in the road, and then whirled back to face him. “Why me?” she demanded. “Why not ask that buxom barmaid back at the inn to be your real mistress? She’s a willing handful, isn’t she?”

He resented having to venture into truth territory, where vague notions about saving damsels in distress claimed priority over his own more immediate needs and wants.

“Believe me,” he said. “I thought about asking her, even if she is a bit rustic. But I can’t allow a gently bred lady to be thrust out into the world unprotected. Even if that so-called lady ”—he put as much sarcasm in the word as possible—“is you .”

“Oh.” She drew back.

“Oh,” she said again, softer this time, and bit her lip.

He’d gone too far. And yes, he felt guilty. Roderick would have his hide if he’d heard Harry address his sister-in-law so.

But Molly was so…provoking. Always had been. From the time she’d discovered, at age four, a sack of acorns he’d spent two weeks gathering for a game of war with Roderick and redistributed them to the squirrels at Marble Hill.

She shook her head. “I won’t go with you. But thank you for asking.” Her voice was small. She lowered her parasol and took off down the road again, this time looking not so much like Napoleon. Her arms were wrapped around her middle, not swinging boldly. Her stride had shortened, as well.

She stumbled over a rock.

“Wait!” he called to her.

She recovered and kept walking.

He strode after her. “Will you stop ?”

She quickened her pace.

He caught up to her, and she began to run.

Dash it all, he would have to run, too!

In one fell swoop, he lifted her over his shoulder and turned back to the inn. She screamed and kicked and beat him with her parasol, but he paid no heed to her pathetic attempts to make him submit to her shrill threats and simply kept walking.

“Thrash and scream to your heart’s content,” he said, ignoring the ringing in his ears. “Perhaps it will tire you out.”

A remark which his captive took to heart.

Seemingly by the grace of God alone, Harry made it to the stableyard without too much bodily damage.

“Ready?” he called to his coachman, who’d been ready this age, and was agog at the sight of his master toting a screaming virago who was, at the same time, obviously a well-bred young lady, over his shoulder. Harry opened the door to the carriage, stuffed Molly in, and jumped in himself, pulling the door quickly behind him and holding it shut. He put his hand on the other door as well to keep it sealed.

The carriage rocked forward and began a brisk roll out of the stableyard. They were on the road north again.

Molly clenched the seat cushion and drew in huge lungfuls of air. “I told you I hated you, Harry,” she said between breaths. “But the truth is I hate you with a capital H . That’s even more than I hated you before.”

He would allow her that diatribe. As penance for his “you’re no lady” dig.