“I can do that,” she said, starting on her second roll and slice of cheese.

His lips twitched again. Really, he must have a tic of some sort.

“Watch the other mistresses at the house party,” he advised her. “Notice how they act around the men. Every night we’ll cast a vote for our favorite mistress of the day—we can’t select our own, so this is an opportunity for you to work your charms on the other men.”

She sat quietly for a moment. “What will the other men find, as you say, beguiling?”

“What most men do. A beautiful woman, of course, is always a pleasure. And if she doesn’t speak too much, if she is mysterious at times, dangling only occasional tidbits of warmth in her speech and manner, then men will find her most intriguing. They will want to see what fire lurks beneath the surface.”

Molly scoffed. “That sounds very complicated. And silly.”

Harry sighed. “You asked.”

“What else is there?” Molly wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. “I’ll try to be so good at it, they won’t mind that I natter on now and again.”

Harry sighed. “Men like biddable women, Molly. Someone they don’t have to take too seriously, someone who entertains them but knows when to leave them to their other duties and interests.”

“Then I’m disgusted with all men.”

Harry jetted a breath. “Do you want me to help you find a husband or not this Season?”

She felt like sulking but couldn’t afford to. “Yes.”

“If you have any hope of that happening, then you’d best listen to what I have to say. Because if you don’t win the Most Delectable Companion title, I most certainly will not be looking out for your interests in London.”

“And if I don’t win the Most Delectable Companion title, you might have to marry this year.”

They glared at each other.

The carriage pulled up to the inn. Thank God. She needed to get away from Harry. Their relationship—if you could call it that—was entirely too provoking.

In a private room at the inn, Molly opened Fiona’s trunk and gasped.

Goodness. She was looking at a veritable treasure chest filled with shimmering, rich fabrics! In hues that a respectable young lady was never permitted to wear.

She bit her lip to restrain her excitement. Fiona was so very lucky, wasn’t she?

Had been lucky, Molly corrected herself, her chest expanding with a glorious, warm feeling. She was the fortunate owner of the trunk now!

Pressing a dainty undergarment to her breast, she felt extremely possessive already, although she had no idea what the dainty undergarment was. She peered through its diaphanous panels and wondered, but only for a moment.

Because there were elaborate slippers. Fringed and beaded shawls. Two bonnets wrapped in paper, both of them stunning. (The others must be in those hat boxes strapped to Harry’s carriage). And nightclothes so sheer, Molly could see right through them.

But the gowns…oh, the gowns! In the next few minutes, Molly tossed dress after dress aside, oohing and aahing at the varied fabrics, the elaborate detailing of each one, until she found a dress that was—

Breathtaking.

The most beautiful shade.

And entirely unsuitable for a proper young lady.

It was a bishop’s blue muslin sheath spangled with matching bugle beads at the waistline and elaborate flounces at the hem. The bodice plunged to nothing, rather like a sharp cliff.

She sighed, trying not to think of Miss Dunlap and her lectures on modesty.

All Fiona’s bodices plunged to nothing. Molly had dutifully looked but found no tuckers to put into those bodices.

“Oh, dear,” she said aloud to no one (Harry was having a tankard of beer downstairs). “These gowns are a disgrace!”

She laid her favorite gown on the bed and glared at it.

For another five minutes, she tried to be upset and disappointed at the disgracefulness of that gown. She would ignore it. So she searched through the trunk once more and found a bottle of perfumed oil, quite exotic smelling. She also discovered, of all things, several dyed feathers.

She’d no idea why Fiona would carry such feathers.

But her gaze kept returning to the gown on the bed. Her heart raced. Somehow, she knew wearing that daring dress would feel like a great adventure.

The truth was, she’d be delighted to don it.

She held it up. She should wear a shawl to cover her exposed flesh. And…and if Harry required her to remove the shawl, then—then she would simply have to do so, against her will.

It would be all his fault.

Besides, she shouldn’t worry overly much even if she were half naked. The men would be drunk. And they wouldn’t recognize her because she would be disguised.

Yes, that was it! Miss Dunlap couldn’t fault her for wearing scandalous gowns if she were disguised.

Feeling rather righteous—she was a good girl, after all—Molly sat at a dressing table and applied Aphrodite’s—rather, Fiona’s—face powder and then rouge to her cheekbones. She did the same for her lips. She also located a stub of kohl, with which she rimmed her eyes and blackened her eyebrows.

And then she remembered that Fiona had had a beauty mark.

After another moment’s work, Molly was done. She couldn’t help but gasp at the image in the mirror. Gone was the Grecian look she so favored—and there was absolutely no trace of the milkmaid look she preferred on Sundays.

Now she resembled a…a real tart.

Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she skirted around the trunk and opened a door to the hallway. Harry was already there, looking impatient, but also rather serious. As serious as a man about to buy a horse, which was serious, indeed.

He circled her. “Remove the shawl, please.”

Biting her lip, she looked down at the floor and did as she was told. And felt an instant draft. She would die of a horrible illness now and be sent to hell.

“Well,” said Harry, in a soft, surprised voice.

She looked up and met his eyes. There was something new in his expression. Something that made her heart beat faster. His pupils were large and black, and his mouth curled up in the slightest smile.

“You look…perfect,” he said, his gaze heating something in her.

“Really?” She gave him a rather wobbly smile back.

He nodded. “The dress fits you better than it did, um, Fiona.” He cast a quick glance at the bodice. “Especially there.”

“Oh, right.” Molly nodded, looking down at the tops of her breasts straining against the fabric. “Thank you.”

He walked around her. “Now don’t forget. It looks more pleasing without the shawl.”

Suddenly, Molly felt better. She had a job to do. And that job was to look more pleasing. She had no time to waste on frivolous thoughts of hell.

“Then I shall not wear the shawl.” She dropped it on top of the open trunk.

Harry’s gaze lingered once more on her bosom. “Um, perhaps in the carriage you should wear the shawl.”

“Of course.” She looked down at the scandalously deep neckline. “I wouldn’t want to spill crumbs or anything.”

“Right,” he said briskly.

She retrieved the shawl. “Are you sure I’ll pass the test?”

Harry’s eyes gleamed like—

Like she wasn’t sure.

But it scared her. And excited her. And sent tingles down her spine. He looked at her as if he would slay a dragon for her and demand she pay him afterward with something akin to what they’d done in the carriage.

Which was perfectly all right with her. She’d gladly pay him that way!

Any nice person would repay someone that way for slaying a dragon!

He took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. “I think you look as if you belong at this house party.” His voice was a bit rough around the edges. “No one would possibly guess you don’t belong, unless, of course—”

“I open my mouth.” She grinned.

He gave a little laugh. “Exactly.”

The strange tension between them was gone, thank goodness. Now she could breathe again.

He chucked her under the chin. “Just remember what I said in the coach. Be beguiling. Mysterious.”

“Biddable,” she repeated, and watched him shut the trunk.

“Yes,” he said, as he heaved the trunk over his shoulder.

God, she hated biddable. But even as he carried a large trunk which hit the side of the door on the way out of the room and caused him to swear, Harry looked tremendously pleased with her, which, she supposed, was a good thing. She needed him on her side. They must appear compatible. Otherwise, someone might catch on to their ruse, and she would never win the contest.

Because now returning home scandal-free was not enough. She wanted that husband. He was her ticket out of what would surely be an even more ho-hum existence at Marble Hill, now that Cedric was out of the picture. And as soon as she got this husband, she could cease with the silly nonsense involved in entrapping a man, except for the dancing part and the beautiful-gowns-and-bonnets part.

She would be mistress of her own household in London, and she would tell her doting spouse that she had no intention of shutting up or wearing pale muslin every day, and he wouldn’t object because Harry would have found the right man for her, one who enjoyed her conversation and wanted her to dance all the time and ride her horse and attend humorous plays.

She would read scandal sheets and pore over dress patterns and read exciting novels, just like all the other women she knew, and she would most definitely stay away from conversations about ancient relics. She’d still pour tea for Cousin Augusta when she went home to visit Papa, but she’d have friends with her who would divert Cousin Augusta from the brass band in her ears.