She attempted to walk around him.

Once again, he caught her before she could escape. “There must be something more to you,” he murmured. “I would like to find out what it is.”

Harry had spoken to her about mysterious women being so intriguing to men. She wasn’t mysterious, but she was carrying a secret, wasn’t she?

She was pretending to be a mistress.

“I assure you,” she said, forcing a laugh, “there is nothing mysterious about me. I have no hidden fires. No secrets at all.”

She hoped she was a good liar.

Sir Richard ran his hand up her arm. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said. “You’re hiding something. And I shall find out what it is.”

“I am not hiding anything,” she said.

“I like when you get heated,” he replied, his eyes getting darker.

“I’m not yours to like,” she said, pulling away from him.

“You could be,” he said. “What is your price?” His hand was like a vise. She remembered how he’d used it on Bunny at supper and on her own wrist the first time she’d met him.

“Let go of me,” she said, and slapped his hand. Hard. “I am not for sale.”

He laughed, but his mouth thinned into an ugly line. “Showing some spirit now, eh?”

“Go away,” she hissed.

She struggled and twisted, but he caught her from behind and held both her upper arms in a viselike grip.

“I shall have you before the week is out,” he whispered in her ear.

“Never,” she said, and threw her elbow back into his stomach. She was pleased to hear his sharp exhale. “Stay away from me.”

She ran through the garden hedge, back to the kitchen garden, followed a small path, and slipped into the house through a side door. Leaning against it a moment, she caught her breath. It had been a bad idea to go into the garden alone at night. But she was in the country, and everyone had been occupied. She’d had no reason to worry! Or so she’d thought.

On trembling legs she crept up the back stairs to her bedchamber. She opened her door, stepped into her room, and closed the door behind her, feeling more alone than ever.

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.”