When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 13

Harry stood on a small ottoman to gain every person’s attention—although Molly thought he really didn’t need to do that as he had the sort of personality that drew attention like a magnet.

“We shall now gather on the side lawn for the first game—a sack race,” he announced.

“A full accounting of which must be relayed to the Prince Regent,” Maxwell reminded the crowd.

“Exactly,” Harry said. “The winner of the sack race will accrue ten points in her favor, to be tallied into the final count at the end of the week. And don’t forget, for both winners and losers, a fine picnic will be served afterward.”

There was much clamoring to go out. It was a beautiful day, after all. And Molly was thrilled to hear the game was a sack race. She might not be a proper mistress, but she had a long history of winning sack races at the village fair.

And she’d always employed a brilliant strategy.

The women assembled at a chalky line drawn on the grass. Molly pulled the sack up over her shoes and gown to her waist. Her hands felt clammy, and her heart beat at a brisk pace already. She really needed to win this race, so she must—

Hop, she reminded herself as she gripped the edge of the sack. Hop and don’t stop.

“I hope you trip,” Joan said to her out of the corner of her mouth.

“I won’t,” she said, staring Joan down. “I’ve a strategy.”

Joan curled her lip. “A strategy? For a sack race?”

But before Molly could reply, Harry blew a whistle, and they were off.

She’d forgotten how ridiculously awkward it was to make one’s way forward inside a burlap bag. Holding tight to the sack, she hopped her way across the grounds. Hers was an unseemly, awkward advance, but it appeared that everyone else was having the same difficulties.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joan fall, then Athena. Bunny was a few hops behind her, and Hildur was nowhere in sight.

Molly had the fleeting thought that she just might win this one!

She heard Harry saying “Go, Delilah, go!” and for a moment, she was upset at his lack of loyalty, but then she remembered she was Delilah.

She’d told him she wouldn’t forget, and here she was forgetting—

But no time to think. It was time to hop for all she was worth. It was time to win. Yet she was laughing so hard at the madness of it all that she almost tripped and fell.

She caught Harry’s eye and heard him urging her onward.

“I’m trying!” she yelled, but she was so out of breath, she didn’t think Harry or anyone else heard.

Athena began catching up again. She was almost to Bunny, and then Bunny was almost to Molly.

She couldn’t allow that, as much as she liked Bunny.

Hop, she urged herself when Bunny appeared at her elbow. Hop and don’t stop! Lunging forward with all her might, Molly finally crossed the finish line—

In first place!

She dropped her sack, jumped up and down, and clapped her hands. Oh, to win! It was a lovely feeling.

She sought Harry’s face, but he was still watching the other mistresses intently. All the men were, so Molly decided she must, too. She would stop clapping and be a good sport. So she praised the other women when they each crossed the finish line and helped them get out of their sacks.

When all was said and done, Bunny came in second; Athena, third; Joan, fourth; and Hildur, dead last.

“You’ll do better in the next game,” Molly said to Hildur, who gave her a look that could kill.

The men stood to the side, beneath a large oak tree, conferring. And none of the women congratulated Molly. She folded up her sack and pretended that it didn’t hurt. Everyone was ignoring her silly victory. And the sack race had been so much fun.

Finally, Harry emerged from the circle of men. “We have our winner,” he announced.

But Molly noticed that he wasn’t making eye contact with her, and he didn’t seem all that happy. Whyever not? Perhaps he had to hide his gladness so he would appear to be a fair master of ceremonies.

Yes, that was it, she decided.

“The winner,” Harry said—Molly felt her face heat up, and she bit her lip so as not to giggle—“is…Joan.”

Joan?

Joan jumped up and down and clapped her hands.

That made no sense at all!

Molly stared at Harry. She had obviously come in first place, and even if the men had judged her wrongly, Bunny had clearly come in second, followed by Athena. And then Joan, before Hildur.

Didn’t the men have eyes in their heads?

Viscount Lumley went up to Joan and put a ribbon around her neck. “You had the bounciest pair of all,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on her neckline.

Bounciest pair?

Molly looked down at her own neckline, where her cleavage was well in sight. Lumley couldn’t mean those, could he? She looked up and stared at Harry, who was still evading her gaze, and her blood turned to fire. Was that how the men were judging this sack race?

The winner was the mistress who had the bounciest breasts?

“Yes,” said Athena, guessing her pique. “Disgusting, isn’t it? Especially as I’m sure Joan stuffs.”

Molly blinked several times. She felt so…humiliated. And angry.

She’d won that sack race fair and square! But not only had she not been declared the winner, she’d fared poorly in a contest judging…bouncy breasts.

Not that she cared about having bouncy breasts. But somehow it hurt to know that the men—why, Prinny himself!—cared about that more than they did about the mistresses’ ability to hop in burlap sacks, which was a silly skill, too, Molly knew, but—

At least it took some physical prowess to win the sack race.

One couldn’t really control one’s bouncy breasts, now could one?

Her blood grew hotter and hotter. She knew if Harry came over to her now, she wouldn’t be able to contain herself. She wouldn’t be biddable. Nor beguiling. She would not act like a mistress at all.

But there he was, striding toward her, his face carefully arranged in a pleasant mask. “Don’t be too despondent,” he said tersely. “It’s how things are here. Prinny’s orders.”

“I see,” she bit out.

She had to leave. She would cry if she stayed talking to Harry because she had never been more mortified in her life.

All that fun she’d had hopping. And yelling. She’d felt this wonderful feeling that had been buried deep inside her coming to the surface. But it was gone now.

The fun might as well have never happened.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “It’s nothing personal…Delilah.”

She looked around to ensure no one was listening. Fortunately, the others were preoccupied with flirting, folding sacks, and setting out the picnic.

“Right,” she whispered. “Thank you for reminding me that I shouldn’t take offense.”

He grabbed her hand. “Molly,” he said. “I told you to expect the unexpected.”

She tugged her hand back and strode off.

“What about the picnic?” he called after her.

She whipped around. “I’m not hungry,” she said stoutly. “And kissing practice is canceled!”

“Molly—” Lines formed about Harry’s eyes. “Please come back when you feel better. I’ll miss you. And I mean that. According to most of the world’s rules, you really did win the sack race, and I want to make it up to you somehow.”

“I—I’ll think about it,” she said.

In a million years!

She turned her back on him. She didn’t need his concern. She wanted to leave this place, and she didn’t care if she looked like a poor sport. She headed toward the house, toward the paltry comfort of her bedchamber, where nothing was actually her own, except for her parasol and reticule and the now grimy walking dress she’d worn on her elopement day.

If only she could rewind time and go back to that inn, before Cedric met his Aphrodite. If only she could have made sure that they had left the inn and gone to Gretna. Right now she would be a married woman, and married to one of the handsomest—albeit annoying—men in England!

She forced herself to slow down and blow out a breath.

Who was she kidding? She didn’t want Cedric. She deserved better. And after this miserable week was over, she was going to make sure her life became better.

But—she stopped walking and sighed—she needed Harry’s help to do that. She obviously didn’t understand men at all. She needed him to find a good one for her, a man who was the opposite of these ridiculous Impossible Bachelors.

Oh, dear. She would have to go back to the picnic, wouldn’t she?

She looked back at the group, everyone laughing and talking and making merry. She would put on a cheerful face, too, like all the other mistresses. Bunny, especially, looked happy. If Bunny could pretend that everything was all right—when Sir Richard was so despicably rude and selfish—then so could Molly.

Harry had dreaded seeing Molly’s face when he announced the winner of the sack race. She’d looked so damned happy when she’d crossed the finish line. And then her expression had changed, like a sunny sky going to gray in an instant.

He tried to be angry with her for ruining the fun of the game, but he couldn’t. He’d felt like the worst scoundrel.

Especially when she came back to the picnic smiling, doing her best to be dignified and pleasant to everyone—even him—when he knew he didn’t deserve it because he, after all, was the one taking advantage of the fact that she had damned little choice but to cooperate this week.

At supper, she was still showing the same dogged spirit.

Watching her now, as she labored at trying to entrance her tablemates in the way he had advised her, Harry knew it was all wrong, that she had not a hope of winning. But he also had no alternative ideas to offer her, a fact that made him entirely frustrated.

“Lord Maxwell,” she was saying now, “you seem the observant sort. Do you think dogs laugh with their tails?”

Athena narrowed her eyes at her.

Lord Maxwell looked thoughtfully at the tablecloth then back at Molly. “I believe the tail wag signals a certain contentment on the part of the dog, but not laughter, per se. Dogs don’t laugh.”

“But of course they do!” Molly said with surprise. “I even had a dog who could talk. His name was Bounder. Once he said ‘Fork.” Clear as day. Right after he’d stolen Papa’s beefsteak off the table. And another time—”

“Delilah.” Harry slammed his wine glass on the table. A bit of it slopped onto the pristine white tablecloth. Not that he really noticed or cared. It was his father’s tablecloth, after all. “The men need to depart—to vote.”

He was certainly not looking forward to adjourning to the library to hear yet again how poorly his mistress was performing in the competition.

Molly’s brow puckered. “Already? We’ve still one course to go.”

“That’s right,” Harry said, drumming his fingers on the table. “I meant after the last course.”

“Oh.” She stared at him as if he were from Bedlam, then leaned closer to him. “Are you all right, Harry?” she whispered.

“Fine,” he muttered back.

Which was a lie. He felt the weight of an imminent wedding pressing on his head. He would be the groom, and Anne Riordan would be the bride.