Kieran Kramer - When Harry Met Molly

“No,” said Hildur, pointing to her chest. “I steal gold.”

“Arrow told her he’d arrange her passage,” Athena said, rolling her eyes.

Molly grinned. She could actually imagine Hildur as a female pirate!

“What are your plans, Delilah, if Lord Harry must get legshackled?” Joan asked. “Will you stay with him? When you performed tonight”—she hesitated—“it seemed as if you would be truly pained to be parted from him.”

Molly looked around at the other mistresses. She’d been kidding herself, hadn’t she? She’d tried so hard not to care about Harry beyond their friendship and kisses and jokes, but she loved him.

She loved him, and she wanted to be more than his mistress.

She did!

She wanted to be his wife.

She sighed. “I believe Harry, once settled into marriage, won’t be the type of man to seek out a mistress. He would devote himself to his wife, whoever she is.”

Whoever is lucky enough to win him, she thought.

There was a long silence.

“For Impossible Bachelors, this group is certainly more serious-minded than anyone thought, aren’t they?” Joan said.

“Except for Sir Richard, of course,” Bunny interjected.

“Yes,” said Athena. “Except for him, they’re all good men.” She put her hand over Molly’s. “If Lord Harry decides to have both wife and mistress, will you stay with him?”

Molly shook her head.

And then she had to shut her eyes. She felt that hot sand welling behind them that signaled tears about to flow. She squeezed her eyes shut harder, but one, lone tear escaped.

There was a painful silence.

“You do love him, don’t you?” said Bunny.

Molly nodded, still unable to speak.

There were many sighs from the other mistresses.

“I understand why you wouldn’t want to share the man you love with another woman,” said Athena gently. “But sometimes it’s the only way.”

“That’s the lot of the mistress,” Joan reminded her.

Molly blew out a shaky breath. “I can’t do that,” she said. “I would rather be…alone.”

And now she realized that she would. She couldn’t be Harry’s mistress. Not when he was a bachelor or married. Not when there were other women in his life.

Hildur patted her shoulder. “Start over.”

“In a new life,” said Bunny.

Or in her old one, Molly thought. Could she pick up where she’d left off? Could she go back to being the person she was before she’d taken off with Cedric on their ill-fated elopement?

She wasn’t sure she could. She would have to take each day as it came. At least for now.

Athena stared at her, a thoughtful crease on her brow. “You’re the only one of us here who really has a stake in this competition,” she said. “If you won, it would mean another year of freedom for Lord Harry. A year he could spend with you.”

Molly wished she could tell them that tonight, no matter what, was her last night with Harry. Because if she won, he was obligated to help her find a husband. And he’d made no promises to her that he’d be anything but his old, dissolute self, biding his time until he had to marry Anne Riordan.

But she couldn’t tell her new friends. She’d promised Harry she would play the role of his mistress.

And she must play it to the end of the competition.

Would the other mistresses hate her if they found out her true identity was not that of a mistress at all? She hoped not, but she wouldn’t blame them if they did.

“I want you to know,” she said carefully, “your friendship has meant the world to me this week. The absolute world. I was so scared. And—and you made me feel at home.”

Hildur wiped at her eyes. “I don’t know what you say, but it’s sad.”

Molly patted her hand. “Whatever happens, I hope you know that I care for you all. Very much.”

“And we, you, Delilah,” said Bunny.

“It’s time, ladies!” Harry’s voice rang out.

The women exchanged hugs and best wishes.

And for the last time, they journeyed to the curtain.

Once at the curtain, Molly noticed right away that the men had moved back far enough from the torches so their faces were in shadows.

“Ladies,” she heard Harry say, “you’ve all done marvelously well this week. We wish all of you could win the title of Most Delectable Companion.”

Lumley clapped and hooted.

“But we must choose only one winner,” Harry went on. “We’ve tallied the votes, double-checked our figures, and now are proud to announce…”

Molly felt as if time slowed down then, even though Lumley slapped his thighs in a rapid tattoo, in imitation of a drum roll.

“The winner of the Most Delectable Companion title is—” Harry paused.

Molly clutched hands with Bunny and Athena.

“Delilah!”

Molly blinked. It didn’t seem possible! She? The most delectable companion?

The other mistresses hugged her and congratulated her. But it was as if she were in a dream. She felt the same way when the men came forward. All of them wished her many happy returns, except Sir Richard, who stood alone, his lip curled.

Harry had a pleasant smile on his face but his gaze was carefully neutral. She supposed as host he didn’t want to go overboard showing his joy at being the lucky bachelor whose name didn’t have to go into the hat. That wouldn’t have been sporting of him.

But she knew, however much she pretended not to care, that he must be thrilled to have another year of freedom. He despised the parson’s mousetrap. He’d made that clear in his words and actions for years.

He held out the sparkling tiara. It was beautiful, Molly, thought, but it was made of worthless paste.

It was a sham.

Like her.

Like her week with Harry had been.

“Congratulations, Delilah,” he said, rather formally.

“Thank you,” she responded in kind.

And he kissed her cheek. It was a polite kiss, nothing more, signifying no connection between them beyond their obligations to each other as coconspirators in a fraudulent endeavor.

When Harry pulled back, Bunny took the crown from him and placed it on Molly’s hair.

Lumley draped a beautiful purple cape over her shoulders, patted her back, and said, “Well deserved! You’ve got some money coming to you, you know. Don’t forget that hundred pounds.”

She leaned over to Bunny. “I’m giving you the money.”

Bunny’s eyes widened. “Whatever for? You’ll need it.”

“No. I—I’ve made an arrangement with Harry. If he throws me over, he’ll pay me a great sum. Besides, if I keep the money, I’ll waste it on…queen cakes. I have an obsession with them.”

“A lady shouldn’t overindulge in queen cakes, Delilah,” Bunny scolded her affectionately.

Molly grinned. “Which is exactly why you shall use my winnings to start your own sewing business. No arguments.”

“You’re too generous.” Bunny threw her arms around her and squeezed.

Molly forced herself to smile, to act happy. She would simply hang on until they left this place—until she could be completely alone somewhere and cry her heart out.

She spun for all the company, allowing her beautiful purple cape to billow and sink back around her legs, her crown to sparkle in the torchlight.

Why was love such torture? she wondered, as she smiled at her well-wishers.

And why were happy endings as impossible as the bachelor she so desperately wanted?

It was four-thirty in the morning. And Harry was properly drunk, as the winner of the Impossible Bachelors wager should be, in his estimation. He lay sprawled on his back on the floor of the library, Maxwell, Lumley, and Arrow lounging in leather seats surrounding him. The fire was low. An empty decanter of brandy sat on Harry’s father’s desk.

“You know, Delilah’s not a real mistresh,” Harry mumbled, looking up at the ceiling, which began to spin slowly to the right. It was such a dizzying sight, he accidentally let his empty glass roll out of his palm. “She’s falsh. Falsh as they come.”

And God, it was driving him crazy.

Maxwell rubbed his eyes. “If Delilah’s not a real mistress, then I’m a woman.”

Arrow laughed. He laughed so hard he snorted brandy through his nose.

“Really,” said Harry, turning his face toward the men. The Aubusson rug scratched his cheek. “She’s a virgin, dammit.” And he shook his head and moaned. Because shaking his head hurt. And spending all his time pining after a virgin was…torture.

Lumley threw a cheroot at him, and it bounced off Harry’s nose. “Shuddup. Arrow’s the good joke teller. Not you. Stick to riding curricles to Brighton.”

“We don’t need jokes anyway,” Maxwell said to them all, and rubbed his eyes. “We’ve another year in which to run riot.”

“Egg-zhackly,” muttered Arrow.

Maxwell raised his glass. “Here’s to…escaping the marital noose,” he said. “And to Sir Richard’s choosing the short straw instead.”

“Hear, hear!” came the chorus from Harry and the others.

Lumley hiccupped. “And to Sir Richard’s shoon-to-be bride. The poor woman. Whoever the club board chose for him.”

“Yessss,” Harry said. “I feel for her.”

Everyone but Harry touched snifters. His was somewhere near the hearth, out of reach.

“We must let Bell know she’s off limits for beatings, too,” said Harry. “Else we shall make him most unhappy.”

There was a murmur of assent.

“Where is Bell?” asked Maxwell.