When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 15

Harry had begun to worry about Molly. No one knew where she was. Which left him with an unpleasant feeling in his gut, particularly as no one knew where Sir Richard was, either. So Harry had run upstairs, through his room and the dressing room connecting his room to Molly’s, and found a blasted bureau blocking his way to her bedchamber. After one quick shove to the door, he was in.

She was sitting on the bed, breathing hard, as if she’d been running. Two spots of color stained her cheeks.

“Where were you?” he demanded, probably more forcefully than he would have wished.

“Goodness, Harry.” Molly placed her hand on her heart. “You frightened me, bursting in like that.”

He was skeptical that he alone had caused her to be so jumpy. “You already looked frightened when I came in. And your hair is mussed. What happened? I went looking for you when I didn’t see you in the drawing room. And Sir Richard disappeared, as well.”

She smoothed her hair. “I was in the garden.”

“And?” Harry felt very dangerous at the moment.

“And Sir Richard followed me. Or else he stumbled upon me while I was out there.”

Harry took her shoulders. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” She smiled up at him, but it looked awfully wobbly. “I took care of him.”

Harry pressed his lips into a thin line. Molly was part of home, part of what his real life was about, the rustic one that involved complimenting his mother on her flower beds and saying hello to the elderly people at the country church his parents attended and riding out to see the crops and visit with those who tended them. He didn’t often acknowledge that life even when he was in the midst of it—he told himself it bored him—but he felt a sudden, fierce need to protect it now.

Harry’s gut clamored to do battle with Sir Richard. And he felt an even greater need to wrap Molly in his arms and kiss away the anxiety he read in her eyes.

They were alone in her bedchamber. He grew heated just thinking about the fact that everyone in the house expected them to make love in her bed. And then his bed.

Perhaps a chair next.

Then against the wall.

Her legs wrapped around his waist.

His body loving hers in a mindless pleasure game.

All night long.

Harry sighed. He wanted to make her his. Primitive of him, yes. But in this house filled with men and their mistresses, he felt an illogical need to put his stamp upon her, a need that came straight from his groin and not his head.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he said. “I always thought Bell rather weak, but he apparently means business. I’ll talk to him. And if he bothers you again, I shall call him out.”

“No.” She laid a hand on his arm, and he was tempted to bring her palm to his mouth and press a hot kiss on it. “Sir Richard’s not worth taking a bullet for. Although he really hates you, doesn’t he? And he’s attempting to get to you through me.”

Harry released a fraction of his tension by taking both her hands. “You’re certainly someone he might pursue for the sake of pursuing.”

It was the gallant thing to say.

But she saw through his flattery right away. “Oh, Harry. I’ve been a little Miss Nobody here, hardly someone worth chasing through the garden. But he did say he found me mysterious. He said he knows I’m hiding something.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. So I rather think you were right. Men like mystery.”

Harry looked into her eyes and saw no mystery there—her gaze was open and earnest, as comforting as a feather bed. A swift pang of guilt shot through him because he felt an overwhelming urge to put something else in her eyes—

A blue flame of desire.

“You’re not a little Miss Nobody,” he said, and raised her chin with a gentle hand. “No one with any sense or character could think that of you.”

And suddenly, he meant it. He rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip, and there was a beat of silence. He thought he saw an awakening in her eyes. A flicker of need.

But she’s just had a scare, an annoying part of his brain chided him. Step back.

So he did, albeit reluctantly. And began to pace.

“I don’t understand Bell,” he said. “Tonight at the voting, he once again made insulting comments to me alone. No one else. I wonder why I offend him so? It’s not as if I wield any power within my family. I’m the second son. The spare.”

“Stop thinking about Sir Richard for a while,” Molly said, and patted the bed. “Sit, why don’t you?”

He paused and looked at her. Did she mean to look so provocative, patting the bed like that? Or was his lust-filled brain imagining it?

Good God, of course it was. Molly didn’t play coy games. She was his neighbor. He’d visited her at her father and mother’s house the very day she’d been born!

He made the decision once more to behave, to sit next to her and draw comfort from the sensation of his shoulder touching hers. It meant she was safe.

“Harry,” she ventured, swinging her legs the way she used to when they were children sitting on the ledge of the grand fountain outside his father’s house.

“Yes?”

“You talk of yourself as if you’re not important.” Her legs stopped swinging.

He felt his chest clench, but he gave a huff of laughter. “I’m terribly important, Molly. I’m the son of a duke.”

“Yes, I know.” He was hoping she would have laughed with him, but her face was somber. “There was something in your voice when you said you were only the spare. What was it? Did you ever feel being the second son made you not important to your family?”

Harry met her open gaze. “I’m certainly not going to complain. I had a brother who doted on me, and a mother who did, as well. And as far as I know, they still do.”

“What about your father?”

Harry’s heart beat faster. “He’s like most fathers,” he said. “Immersed in his duties. Aloof.”

Molly was silent a moment. “My father, too. I know he loves me. And he’s a wonderful person. It’s just that…once my mother died, he seemed to stop noticing me. Penelope was usually there for me, but not Papa. Especially after—”

Harry grinned. “The Christmas incident. You were sent away to that horrible school, so you saw your father even less.”

“Yes. And the same for you. Although being forced to join the army was probably the best thing that could have happened to you, don’t you think?”

“Why would you say that?”

She smiled. “I followed your progress. You did quite well for yourself. Even after…” She trailed off rather awkwardly.

“Even after my disgrace, you mean,” he filled in for her.

She nodded. “Do you want to talk about it? I don’t know exactly what happened. Papa’s never told me.”

“Ah. So he’s alluded to it, then.”

Molly lowered her eyes. “Yes.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “He probably told you to stay away from me. Be courteous, but don’t spend too much time with me.”

Molly looked up then. “He never said so directly. And as I’d already made clear my…my disdain for you”—she bit her lip—“I suppose he never felt the need to warn me off.”

“It really doesn’t matter what happened to me in the army.” Harry strove for a light tone. “My father never notices my successes or failures.”

“Then that’s his loss, isn’t it?” Molly said, edging a bit closer. “Families are funny things. I don’t think your father means to overlook you. He might even feel you are overlooking him.”

She smiled, and for some reason, he smiled back. She certainly had an interesting way of looking at things. And if she had any disdain for him, she wasn’t showing it now. Her eyes were alight with an earnestness—a warm intensity—that he found entirely…adorable.

And irresistible.

He girded himself to be strong. Noble. Protective.

She leaned toward him and put a hand on his chest. “Thank me, Harry,” she said in a throaty whisper. “Because if I hadn’t written that lovesick poem implicating you and Penelope while pouring out my undying love for Roderick—”

“No one would ever have known I kissed her mere weeks before their wedding,” he whispered back. “And I never would have joined the army.”

“And fought so well at Waterloo.”

She knew about that? Of course, the gossip implicating him as a disgrace to the army canceled out any stories he had to tell about Waterloo, but still. She knew.

“How did you know?” he asked her.

“Roderick told Penelope. And she mentioned it in a letter to me.”

The clock ticktocked on the mantel, and the wind moaned against the windowpane. Molly’s eyes were wide and the warmest brown he had ever seen—still impish, but sparking with an invitation to—

God help him! Maybe he could simply be strong and noble—and give up on being protective.

“I know we’re like a burr under the other’s saddle,” she said. “But I need the kissing practice, remember?”

“That’s right.” He swallowed. “Practice.”

So he laid her back on the bed and kissed her thoroughly, to the point that he was beginning to take liberties that he really didn’t need to take to prove she and he were together, as it were, at the house party.

But she was sunlight and ambrosia, and she stoked a heat in his veins that he feared would soon consume every ounce of his self-control. He kissed her again, cupping one of her perfect breasts in his palm and caressing its fullness.

“Harry,” she whispered.

“Not Samson?” he murmured back, their lips still joined in deep, seductive play.

She shook her head.

Thank God for that.

He bent his head lower still, his tongue tracing her neckline where it plunged between those amazing breasts. She was intoxicating, and he wasn’t sure why. Of course, he’d always noticed her luxuriant brown tresses, sweet face, and lithe figure, but they hadn’t counted—she was Molly, after all, his neighbor and his nemesis.

When she wove her fingers through his hair and caressed his scalp with her fingers, it felt wickedly good, but not so good as his pushing down one side of her bodice and lavishing her pert and beautiful breast with more kisses.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, and ran his tongue around her rosebud nipple.

“Oh, Harry.” She moaned so loudly that he swiftly moved from her breast to her mouth to keep her quiet. She was driving him wild with her enthusiasm, but for her sake, he wanted no one else to hear her.

She was a lady. And he wouldn’t have the others thinking he and Molly were up to no good in here—

Although that was exactly what he was supposed to want them to think. Wasn’t it?

And they were up to no good, weren’t they?

It was all very confusing.

When they came up for air, Molly’s cheeks were pink and her eyes, a simmering brown. She looked incredibly desirable, Harry thought, more desirable than any mistress he’d ever had. But even through the blinding haze of his lust for her, his head was asking, Why? What was it about Molly that made his blood quicken to a fever pitch the moment his lips touched hers?

In light of their bitter history and the fact that he could very well wind up married to her if all went wrong with this caper, his desire for her made no sense. All she would have to do was tell her father and his about their week at the duke’s hunting box, and Harry was a doomed man.

And she’d fare no better. Even he believed she deserved someone with an unsullied reputation, a husband who could hold his head high and make a fitting partner for her.

All the more reason for the fire between them to be extinguished. If only he could resist her soft lips, he’d put it out right now!

But Molly beat him to it. She pulled away from him and stood, smoothing down her skirt. “It was once again a very good practice,” she said shyly. “I think everyone will believe we’re…a couple, don’t you?”

He struggled to recover from the abrupt end to their lovemaking by appearing completely aloof in expression.

“Yes, I do,” he replied, but his voice was still gruff with unspent desire and a need for something he couldn’t name, a vague something that went beyond a lustful bed ding—although he had no idea what it was.

He stood. “Keep your door locked,” he instructed her in the clipped way he would a foot soldier, “and come get me if you’re frightened.”

Molly looked up at him with trust in her eyes. “I’ll knock on your door if I get scared. I know you’d make me laugh, Harry.”

And for some reason, that look of hers—and those simple words—almost penetrated the invisible armor he wore, the armor that kept him detached and alone. She actually seemed to need him, and no one had ever needed him before.

The army had needed the soldier. His family had needed the second son. But who had ever really needed…Harry? For being Harry?

Not a single person.

At least until now.