Molly bit her lip, incredibly pleased that they were all becoming friends. The easy companionship of other women might be the only type of intimacy she would have for the rest of her life.

She couldn’t think about having a great love. Marriage was a contract. It was business. And dreaming about finding a husband who loved her and whom she loved back was crazy. The best she could hope for was a husband who was trustworthy. Hopefully fun and kind, too.

And if she won the Most Delectable Companion title, Harry was obligated to help her find him—a thought which didn’t make her as happy as it had when she’d first come up with it.

Chapter 23

That afternoon Harry opened a small wooden chest by the library fireplace. Inside were the masks the men would use with their foils, and the wax Harry would form into buttons to blunt their tips. As he worked the wax, he relaxed a little. He’d simply have to focus during the tournament. Rely on his experience and his gut instinct.

He formed the wax into balls, stuck them rather viciously on the tips of the foils, and sighed.

Dammit all, he couldn’t focus. He thought about Molly all the time, especially at night. As he tossed and turned in the sheets, his dreams were consumed with images of her, elusive pictures that were never clear in meaning. When he awakened, hard and frustrated, he knew exactly why—

Molly.

He hadn’t had a decent night’s rest since they’d arrived at the hunting box, to tell the truth. And he probably wouldn’t have another one until he was safely away from her.

He gave a short laugh. Safely away. He was admitting that he needed protection from Molly. Today, especially, he had cause to be en garde in more ways than one. He had no doubt Molly would try something unusual while the women were in charge during the fencing tournament.

He couldn’t imagine what. But he’d find out soon enough. It was time to take the foils and masks outside. The others were waiting. The mistresses laughed and chatted under the tree that had become their gathering spot of sorts. Harry sensed their added excitement—they were in charge today, after all.

The men, on the other hand, stood off to the side, silent and straight-faced, each one of them. There was an awkwardness about them that he’d never seen before. He felt it, too. And he suspected it came from knowing they were being judged by the women. No doubt all the Impossible Bachelors felt a new appreciation for what the mistresses had already endured this week.

The ladies clustered around him as he leaned the weapons against the tree and handed the masks to Molly. Bowing low, he said, “Enjoy. The game belongs to the ladies now.”

There was a chorus of feminine cheers.

Molly smiled a bit giddily. She was to speak for the women, and Harry could tell she felt nervous about that. But excited, too. Which was exactly what worried him. With her in charge, anything could happen.

“It appears we’re ready to begin the contest,” she said to the men. “You’ve already chosen straws. Captain Arrow and Lord Maxwell will go first. The winner of that match will go up against Lord Harry; that winner, against Viscount Lumley; and that match’s winner, against Sir Richard. The winner of each match will be the gentleman who completes the first touch to the chest, arms, or head.” She paused. “Clear so far?”

“Clear!” said the men as one.

“All right, gentlemen,” she went on, “the ladies won’t presume to tell you how to fence properly, but we do have a few rules. You forfeit no points for losing a match, but the winner gains three. The champion of the tournament shall win ten. A word of warning”—she raised her index finger—“any man who leaves the tournament area before today’s event is officially concluded will forfeit ten points for his lady at the end of the week.”

Harry’s stomach unclenched. He felt rather disappointed, actually. “We’re not such poor sports that we would leave our competitors to struggle alone in their quest.”

Molly smiled. “Of course not. We just want to be perfectly clear. Are there any questions?”

No man ventured one. Harry thought the rules seemed straightforward, if a little childish.

“Good.” Molly looked toward the house and beckoned someone with her hand. “There is one more thing,” she said, “though it’s not a rule.” She smiled at Harry, quite as if she were an angel.

Which didn’t bode well, he knew.

“We shall ask Finkle to declare the winners of each match and mark the official conclusion of the tournament,” Molly said. “He’ll be assisted by two footmen if there’s any confusion.”

Harry turned around. Sure enough, Finkle was slowly walking toward him, accompanied by the footmen.

“Why Finkle?” Harry asked.

“Because we women shall be otherwise engaged,” Molly replied, her tone rather too pert for her own good.

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “Otherwise engaged doing what?”

“You won’t be watching us?” cried Sir Richard.

“No,” Molly and all the women said together, happy grins on their faces.

Blast it all. The proverbial axe was about to fall. Harry could see it in Molly’s eyes.

“Why not watch us?” asked Captain Arrow. “I should very much like to impress you with my parrying and, uh, thrusting skills.”

He eyed Hildur with a lascivious grin. She batted her eyes at him.

Molly bit her lip. “We’re—”

“Hot,” said Athena, and began fanning her face.

“We need shade,” said Joan.

“There’s shade here, under the tree.” Lumley threw out his arms.

“We’re hotter than that,” said Bunny. “We’re going swimming.”

“Where?” asked Harry.

“Over there,” said Molly. “In the stream.”

She pointed to a location surrounded by a thick grove of trees hugging the bank. “Have fun,” she said brightly.

She headed toward the clump of trees. The other women followed. Soon every female had disappeared.

“What the devil—” said Lord Maxwell.

“What do they mean by swimming exactly?” said Lumley.

“Dipping their feet, no doubt,” said Captain Arrow.

But there wasn’t time to ponder anything else. Because Finkle called Captain Arrow and Lord Maxwell up and handed them their foils and masks.

Harry politely turned his attention to the match, although his insides were churning. What was Molly about, leaving the contest when she had been the one to think of it?

Arrow and Maxwell, meanwhile, had donned their masks, inspected the wax buttons at the end of their foils, and made a few practice thrusts.

“Salute,” Finkle said.

The two men saluted each other with their weapons.

“En garde!” Finkle cried.

The two men posed for a brief second, and then Captain Arrow made an dramatic thrust, which was parried expertly by Lord Maxwell.

The foils hissed as they made contact, the blades sliding away in a blur of silver. Maxwell lunged to the left and, after a beat, attempted a quick thrust at Arrow’s right shoulder. But Arrow sidestepped the maneuver, and the hissing of the foils began again.

Harry’s heartbeat quickened. There was nothing like a good fencing match to get one’s blood moving. The two men’s styles were impressive, and at this point, he could see no clear leader.

The thrusting, parrying, and ripostes continued unabated. Arrow had just raised his foil to strike when something bright blue appeared on the grass near the clump of trees where the women were.

And then something red. And something green, and several beige items. Plus slippers—ten, to be exact, and they were tossed out of the bushes one by one.

“Oh, my God,” said Sir Richard. “They’re disrobing.”

“Getting stark nekked, you think?” croaked Lumley.

There was a loud squeal of feminine laughter, followed by much chatter.

And splashing.

Bloody hell. Harry had known Molly would pull something extraordinary, but he hadn’t envisioned this!

He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. She’d read them wrong, though. What sort of man would put a foil down or cease watching a manly contest such as this to go view women unclothed? In the stream? Splashing and playing and—

He swallowed hard. He’d like just one glimpse. One glimpse!

He was tempted to run right now, before his turn, but wait—that would be against the rules. He’d thought the rules redundant at the time, but now he saw why Molly had said them out loud. He couldn’t leave. None of them could. Not unless they wanted to lose ten points.

Harry jetted a breath. Molly was turning the screws on the bachelors in the most frustrating way possible.

The vixen!

By the time the last match arrived, all the men were in foul moods. Maxwell had defeated both Arrow and Sir Richard. Lumley had won against Maxwell. And now Harry was in the midst of his bout against Lumley.

“This is torture,” Lumley groaned.

And Harry knew he wasn’t referring to the fencing match.

Lumley made an awkward thrust—not at all in character for him—and Harry evaded it in an equally inelegant way. Harry knew they were both losing their usual finesse with the foil—thanks to the women.

The splashing grew louder. “You’re welcome to come join us, Viscount Lumley and Lord Harry!” the mistresses yelled as one.

Lumley gave his longest pause yet, his foil quivering. “Damn them!” he yelled, and made a thrust that narrowly missed Harry’s chest.

The fencing went on, the squealing and giggling of the women did as well, and Harry did his best to channel every bit of his frustration into the foil.