“Yes, but how is that worse than pulling someone’s chair out a little too far? You did it the very evening after your dear aunt Cora expired! I almost fell on my bottom at supper, in front of all your grieving family, thanks to you.”

“I did it for Aunt Cora,” he said. “She liked practical jokes.”

“A poor excuse,” Molly replied.

They glared at each other. Neither one spoke for a minute, and then she said, rather thickly, “We’re both in trouble.”

He hoped she wouldn’t become a watering pot. It was the last thing he needed, to be in the presence of a stubborn shrew who was also crying.

“Perhaps we should help each other out of it,” he said very reluctantly.

Oh, how it cost him!

“That’s what I was thinking,” she said, brightening a bit.

Thank God. Although seeing her brighten was something he usually wouldn’t encourage.

“Exactly what is your situation?” she asked him.

“I’m traveling to a house party, a rather lively one. I can take you with me.”

“Lively?”

“Let’s just say it’s not the sort of house party you’d typically attend. Or most members of the ton, for that matter. It’s…unique. This year I’ve been designated the host.”

She waved him off and kept walking.

“And I need a mistress to take with me!” he called after her, refusing to look or sound ashamed.

She wheeled around. “I should have known you’d propose something scandalous.” And then marched off again in an even greater huff.

“You’d be my false mistress, not a real one, you foolish chit!” As usual, she had his blood boiling.

She turned again, stopped, stuck an index finger on her chest. “Me? Foolish?”

“Yes, you. Walking into certain danger on that road.” He felt his nostrils flare like a bull’s. There was not a person in the world who could rile him the way Molly Fairbanks did.

“Dangerous?” She put a fist on her hip. “How is walking on a road more dangerous than attending a gathering with you, where there’ll be sure to be drunken louts falling everywhere and lightskirts gadding about half clothed? And why would anyone need a false mistress anyway? It’s a ludicrous concept.”

Harry crossed his arms and prayed for patience. “First of all, we shan’t be drunk all the time.”

Molly rolled her eyes.

“There is some strategy involved.”

“Such as?”

“If I show up with no mistress at all,” he explained, “I’ll lose the wager immediately. So I must bring someone. Your presence will at least keep me in the game.”

She opened her mouth to rip into him—he saw the flare of battle in her eyes—but he put his index finger in the air. “I’m willing to make you a mistress in name only to protect your virtue.” She should be pleased. “Although no one else shall know of our arrangement, of course.”

He’d be the only man at the house party with a false mistress. Did she not appreciate his sacrifice?

She lowered her brows. “I knew it was something like that. What exactly do you mean by ‘game’?”

“We compete. Whoever brings the finest mistress wins.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Do go on.”

“Each woman shall be judged on her beauty—extra points for beauty, actually, especially if we can see much of it.”

Molly’s brow wrinkled. “‘See much of it’?”

“Yes.” He bit his lip, not caring to explain. “And then, of course, she shall be judged on her conversation. And her wit.” He snapped his fingers. “If she’s skilled at gambling with ha’pennies, laughs frequently at men’s jokes, and notices when their brandy snifters need replenishing, so much the better.”

“You’re joking.”

Harry shrugged. “Not at all. To sum up, she’ll be judged on almost all the things that make a female, shall we say, mesmerizing to a man.”

Molly sighed and tapped her foot. “What do you win if you bring the, um, finest of the mistresses?”

“She gets the glory of winning the title—‘the Most Delectable Companion,’” he said as if he were announcing the tightrope walker at the traveling circus. “And a crown of paste,” he remembered to add.

She twisted her face up. “That’s all? She receives no tangible reward beyond a worthless title and tiara?”

He shifted, suddenly feeling doubtful. Molly had a way of making him feel like a…a dunderhead. He hadn’t felt that way since—

Since he’d last seen her!

“You should at least give the Most Delectable Companion loads of money,” she said, her chin back in the air. “God knows she’ll deserve it. Any lightskirt of yours would require the patience of a saint!” She paused only long enough to get her breath. “What does her consort win?”

“Another year of freedom from the parson’s noose,” he said with relish, because he knew she would hate to hear him say it. “And every matchmaking mama, all the dragon ladies who rule Almack’s, and every bettor at every club in London will know he’s off the market. Thanks to a royal decree put forth by Prinny himself.”

“Prinny?” Her lip curled. “You mean the Prince Regent will give you permission to enjoy shirking your duty by your family.”

“What duty?” Harry said coolly. “Roderick shall be the next Duke of Mallan, and Penelope will be sure to produce a son soon. He’ll already have four big sisters to boss him about. The line is thriving, I assure you.”

“But you must marry, as well.” She sounded exactly like his mother. And his sister-in-law. And his father and brother.

“I am the spare,” he ground out. “I can stay a bachelor as long as I’d like. They merely need me if Roderick sticks his spoon in the wall before his son is born, and my brother is a hale, hearty fellow who shall be around for another seventy years at least.”

“But your mama will want more grandchildren,” Molly persisted, twirling her parasol as if they were conversing about the weather.

She must quite enjoy bickering, Harry thought. Perhaps it was her favorite pastime.

He felt his mouth become a grim line. “I’d rather not discuss it. It is, quite frankly, none of your business, Molly Fairbanks.”

“Ohhhh,” she growled, and lowered her parasol to glare at him. As if he couldn’t see the intensity of that fierce look unless the sun were full upon her face.

They were getting nowhere. Fast. And she was working herself up to hitting him again with that blasted reticule.

“Let’s get back to business, shall we?” he said. “The men whose mistresses don’t win the contest must pull straws to see who must get legshackled to the woman handpicked for each of them by the board of their club. So we have an obvious winner and an obvious loser.”

Molly brightened. “If you lose this year, you’ll have to marry Anne Riordan.”

“How do you know?”

“Easy. Your papa’s on the board, and he tells everyone he believes she’ll have a calming influence on you.” She inclined her head and smiled. “I will quite enjoy that, seeing you and Anne married.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You always were cruel.”

She laughed. “Tell me, Harry, what would I get out of being your—ahem—false mistress?”

He crossed his arms. “Safe, anonymous travel back to Marble Hill. I assume your father is traipsing about Europe somewhere and that you somehow pulled the wool over his cousin Augusta’s eyes?”

“How did you know?”

“Easy. You’re extremely predictable.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like how you said that.”

He shrugged. “Take it as you wish.”

She bit her thumbnail. “But the gentlemen at the house party. What if they recognize me in town? Now that I’m not marrying Cedric, I shall have to have a Season.”

“You’ll wear loads of face powder and rouge.”

“They’ll itch.” She knew from experimenting with Cousin Augusta’s.

“And you must use a false name.”

“I’ll forget it. I know it.”

He sighed. “You can’t afford to forget it.”

“Then it must be Delilah,” she said. “It’s the only name I’ll be able to remember.”

“Why Delilah?”

“I don’t know. But I already know I won’t forget it.”

Harry shook his head. He would never quite understand women and the way their minds worked, especially Molly’s—thank God.

“You needn’t be overly worried about being found out,” he said. “The gentlemen will be mildly pickled half the time—when we’re out shooting—and severely so the other half. Plus, they’ll be looking down almost always.” He cocked one brow.

Her face grew red. “Do you mean—” She glanced down at her own bodice.

“Yes.”

She shuddered. “This house party sounds awful.”

“It will be.” He grinned. “Positively dreadful.”

She narrowed her eyes, kicked a stone in the road, and then whirled back to face him. “Why me?” she demanded. “Why not ask that buxom barmaid back at the inn to be your real mistress? She’s a willing handful, isn’t she?”

He resented having to venture into truth territory, where vague notions about saving damsels in distress claimed priority over his own more immediate needs and wants.

“Believe me,” he said. “I thought about asking her, even if she is a bit rustic. But I can’t allow a gently bred lady to be thrust out into the world unprotected. Even if that so-called lady”—he put as much sarcasm in the word as possible—“is you.”

“Oh.” She drew back.

“Oh,” she said again, softer this time, and bit her lip.

He’d gone too far. And yes, he felt guilty. Roderick would have his hide if he’d heard Harry address his sister-in-law so.