When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 42

Harry sat at his club, nursing a brandy a little past noon. He was reading the newspaper and contemplating how he would spend the rest of his day. Gaming right here at the club? More boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s? Or finally calling upon the widow who’d been pestering him for a discreet affair?

None of those options appealed to him—the affair, least of all.

Clamoring in his brain was a tiny yet strong voice, the one he’d first heard in Molly’s presence. Dare he? Dare he attempt to follow through on what he’d told her?

He wanted to do something—be something—of value.

After all, look at the other Impossible Bachelors: Maxwell, with his scientific papers; Arrow, the brave sea captain.; and Lumley, who was capable of running more than several estates and managing a very large fortune.

Tentatively, Harry put aside his newspaper and pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. He would call for a quill and some ink. And then he would write down all his plans.

“Enjoying yourself, eh?” said an old gent, Lord Humphries.

Harry raised his glass and quirked his mouth in a pleasant grin. “That I am, sir.”

Lord Humphries laughed and punched his shoulder.

Dear God. The shoulder punch. Harry knew what that signified. He forced himself to smile at Lord Humphries…and waited to hear the dreaded words.

The old gentleman opened his mouth. “If only I were—” he began.

“Excuse me!” Harry leaped up. If only I were your age again was surely the phrase Lord Humphries was about to utter. “I believe someone is calling your name for a game of whist, sir.”

“Whist?” Lord Humphries eyed the crowd at the tables. “Who? Where?”

“I—I’m not sure.” Harry gave the man a respectful bow, scooped up his notebook, and left his half-drunk glass of brandy on the table. He didn’t know how many more congratulations he could take. Or the punches to the shoulder. Or the reminiscences of youth.

Really, being the winning Impossible Bachelor had its merits, but it had its flaws, too. Every rout, every ball, he attended in town in the Little Season was but a precursor to what he was to expect when a greater portion of the ton descended upon London for the regular Season come springtime.

Already matchmaking mothers, restrained by Prinny’s decree from pestering him, spoke about him from behind their fans and gave him calculating looks. Young misses ran as if he were a scary monster rather than a mere rake of somewhat undeserved repute. The men mobbed him, peppering him with questions about what it was like to be able to remain free—free of legshackles.

Free of expectations.

He’d always been free of expectations, hadn’t he? So this notoriety—as well as every man-about-town activity he’d once viewed with enthusiasm and pleasure—was actually somewhat…

Boring.

Predictable.

Harry was at serious loose ends, for the first time in his bachelor existence. Which was why he would hold on to this idea of his. And if he worked hard enough, he could present it to his father next time he saw him.

Which would be soon. The duke had summoned Harry to come home for a small country ball to be held in honor of Roderick and Penelope’s return from Italy. And Harry was actually looking forward to going. Not so much to see Roderick and Penelope and their girls—although he had a great deal of affection for all of them—but in the hopes that he’d see Molly there.

Everything he’d done since the week of the wager, he wondered what she would think of the activity. Which was why he’d been with no lightskirt or society widow since he’d last seen her.

He’d feel…disloyal somehow.

Not prepared for the anonymity of the act when it took place with a hired girl—and certainly not ready for the jaded outlook of the widows who made clear their desire to be with him…that way.

He smiled to himself. That way. It sounded like something Molly would say.

But then he frowned. Because, really, he must find her a suitable husband. It was another duty of his.

Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone, bring several potential grooms with him for Molly and pay his respects to his father and the rest of his family.

That’s what he’d do.

He looked around him. The club was full. Surely in the next half hour, he could drum up three or four respectable friends who’d be willing to come with him to his father’s country ball. On the way down, he’d drop little hints about the wonderful young ladies they’d be sure to meet there, especially one named Molly Fairbanks, a sweet little heiress whose father had buried her in the country the past three years. But had she been to London, he’d tell them, she would have taken it by storm.

And she would have, he thought, as he searched the gaming tables, and even the seats in the bow window, for appropriate candidates for her hand.

If only she’d been given the chance.

Any woman who could win the title of Most Delectable Companion when she wasn’t even a mistress could even take Paris by storm, much less stuffy old London. Not that he could put it quite that way to his friends. But somehow, he would convey her allure. And were he to fail, when they saw her in person they would understand.

If they didn’t, they’d have to be asleep. Or dead.

Of course, he hadn’t noticed her allure until recently himself. But that was because of their long history, starting with that damned Christmas incident.

Suddenly, he felt the fiercest anger about that. He and Molly had been children. Penelope, too, for that matter. But for years Harry and Molly had paid the price for that one, silly kiss between him and Penelope, and a poem expressing a young girl’s infatuation with an unattainable boy. It was time for a new page in their lives, wasn’t it? It was time to get past that Christmas incident once and for all.

Harry would dance with Molly at the ball. Not twice, of course. That would signify a special attachment between them. He would dance with her just to show the neighbors how distant the past truly was.

And how exciting the future could be. Because Harry intended to announce his plan at the ball. And if his father liked it, he could thank that long ago day—the Christmas incident—for providing Harry the inspiration.

“Are you sure you’re well, Molly?” Lord Sutton growled at her one morning, about a month after her return home. He’d been none the wiser about her absence. Neither had the servants or Cousin Augusta. She’d laid the ground well before she’d eloped with Cedric, little realizing how differently things would turn out.

She poked at her eggs. “Yes, Papa. I’m well.”

“You usually eat like a horse.”

She shrugged. “I’m feeling quite the thing, I assure you.”

Which was an out-and-out lie. She’d never been more miserable.

Lord Sutton cut into his morning beefsteak. “You haven’t been the same since I got back.” He chewed, stared at her, and swallowed. “And quite frankly, neither have I. I’m still baffled by Cedric’s disappearance. I’m considering employing another assistant unless I hear from him in the next day or two. Are you sure he didn’t say where he was going?”

Molly felt her face flame red.

“Oho!” Her father eyed her suspiciously. “Was something going on between you and Cedric that I didn’t know about?”

“No, Papa. Nothing. And I don’t miss Cedric. Not one bit. I hope he never returns.”

“The lady doth protest too much,” Lord Sutton said with a chuckle. He took a sip of beer, gave a lip-smacking sigh, and set his tankard on the table with a great thunk. “Tell you what,” he said. “I shall speak with him when he returns. You two should marry. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. You—and Cedric!” He chuckled with delight. “You’ll stay with me forever and keep making me those delicious tarts—and he’ll be my assistant and watch over my artifacts when I die.”

Papa appeared very pleased with himself.

Molly put down her fork. “No, thank you, Papa. And I—I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you.”

“What?”

“Cedric and I are not suited”—she paused, took a breath—“but I certainly would like a Season in town.”

“You’re too old for a Season!” Lord Sutton sputtered. “You’re practically on the shelf!”

She felt her mouth tremble. “And I have you to thank for that, Papa. You’ve kept me buried here with Cousin Augusta. Why?”

Lord Sutton’s face turned red. “How dare you question my judgment? I know what’s best for you.”

Molly sighed and walked around the table to be close to her father. Sinking into a chair next to him, she said, “All these years, ever since that unfortunate Christmas incident, I’ve either gone to a very strict school or I’ve been here with you and Cousin Augusta. I love you, Papa, but I’ve missed countless balls in London. I’ve never had flowers delivered to my door after a soiree or rout. And I’ve been becoming a spinster, slowly but surely.”

Lord Sutton’s shoulders sank a few inches.

Molly put her hand on top of his and schooled her voice to be gentle. “You taught me yourself, through your work to preserve the past, to not let life pass me by without truly seeing it as it unravels. Please.” She gave him a beseeching gaze. “I would like to have some memories of a London Season.”

Lord Sutton sighed. “All right,” he said. “One Season.” He chucked her chin. “Are you sure you won’t have Cedric?”

“I’m sure, Papa.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “And thank you for being so understanding.”

He grimaced, never one to like displays of affection. “You’re very welcome,” he granted her. “It is but the beginning of October. You have several months to wait. We’ll rent my good friend’s house on Jermyn Street from January to June.”

“And meanwhile, we might have to make a trip up to London, so I can shop for a new wardrobe,” she said, brightening at the thought.

Lord Sutton rolled his eyes. “I suppose that might be necessary. We shall leave tomorrow.”

“Why so soon?”

“You’ll need some clothes sooner than you think,” he said. “There is to be a small ball in a fortnight at the duke’s residence. To celebrate Penelope and Roderick’s return from Italy.”

Molly blinked. “Of course. I should have thought of that. Do you suppose Harry will be there?”

Lord Sutton frowned. “Why should we care? But I suppose he probably will.”

Molly’s curiosity about Harry was soon put to rest. She was pruning some roses in the garden later that afternoon when a house maid came to her with a note.

“A letter for you, Lady Molly.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and left her with the shears dangling from one hand and the letter in the other.

Molly’s heart raced. She put the shears down and broke the seal. It was a note from Harry. After much deciphering of his appalling scrawl, she figured out that he would be coming to the ball.

Harry! At the ball! She held the paper to her lips and savored the news for a moment. But as she continued reading, a cold chill spread from her feet to her hands. Harry wrote that he’d be bringing some friends down from London who would be suitable marriage prospects for her. And she should be ready to flirt.

Of course she should. She sighed, folded the letter. He was only doing as she asked, so why was she so…disappointed?

She fingered a rose and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

Oh, she was more than disappointed, wasn’t she? She was heartbroken. That was her problem. She loved Harry. And he—

He obviously didn’t love her.

They’d had fun together, yes! The most fun she’d ever had with anyone.

But he didn’t love her.

She stared at the bottom of the note. He’d signed his name with a large H followed by some more indecipherable scribble.

Harry.

Molly folded the letter and tucked it in the pocket of her garden apron. Harry’s teachers must have despaired of his handwriting when he was a boy. So typical of him not to care.

Yet so endearing, too.

But she couldn’t smile.

No, she had to stop thinking of him. Stop thinking of all those things she loved about him.

She put away her shears. Then she walked into the house, up her father’s wide staircase, and to her room to pack for the trip to London. She was in the market for a husband. Perennial bachelors with bad penmanship simply wouldn’t do.