But Molly was so…provoking. Always had been. From the time she’d discovered, at age four, a sack of acorns he’d spent two weeks gathering for a game of war with Roderick and redistributed them to the squirrels at Marble Hill.

She shook her head. “I won’t go with you. But thank you for asking.” Her voice was small. She lowered her parasol and took off down the road again, this time looking not so much like Napoleon. Her arms were wrapped around her middle, not swinging boldly. Her stride had shortened, as well.

She stumbled over a rock.

“Wait!” he called to her.

She recovered and kept walking.

He strode after her. “Will you stop?”

She quickened her pace.

He caught up to her, and she began to run.

Dash it all, he would have to run, too!

In one fell swoop, he lifted her over his shoulder and turned back to the inn. She screamed and kicked and beat him with her parasol, but he paid no heed to her pathetic attempts to make him submit to her shrill threats and simply kept walking.

“Thrash and scream to your heart’s content,” he said, ignoring the ringing in his ears. “Perhaps it will tire you out.”

A remark which his captive took to heart.

Seemingly by the grace of God alone, Harry made it to the stableyard without too much bodily damage.

“Ready?” he called to his coachman, who’d been ready this age, and was agog at the sight of his master toting a screaming virago who was, at the same time, obviously a well-bred young lady, over his shoulder. Harry opened the door to the carriage, stuffed Molly in, and jumped in himself, pulling the door quickly behind him and holding it shut. He put his hand on the other door as well to keep it sealed.

The carriage rocked forward and began a brisk roll out of the stableyard. They were on the road north again.

Molly clenched the seat cushion and drew in huge lungfuls of air. “I told you I hated you, Harry,” she said between breaths. “But the truth is I hate you with a capital H. That’s even more than I hated you before.”

He would allow her that diatribe. As penance for his “you’re no lady” dig.

“Nevertheless,” he replied coolly. “We’re stuck together. For one week.”

Inwardly, he sighed. Then reassured himself—if he could handle Waterloo, he could most certainly deal with Molly Fairbanks.

Chapter 5

Molly glared at Harry through slitted eyes, leaned back, and looked out her window. “Don’t expect me to say a word,” she muttered. “The entire trip.”

“I was counting on it,” he replied, cheerily enough.

Damn him.

She was still reeling from having been carried upside down by him and flailing madly at his back. But what was a girl to do but rebel when insulted by one’s own worst enemy?

The carriage rolled on. They passed several farms—farms where she could have taken refuge, perhaps, if Harry hadn’t acted like a pirate and made off with her as if she were some sort of booty.

She was to be his mistress. His false mistress.

She tried not to think too hard about what being a contender for the title of Most Delectable Companion would entail. Would he have to…kiss her? In front of everyone else, to act as if she were his actual mistress?

Her heart raced at the thought, so she glowered at him. Because it really was vile, the idea of her own innocent lips touching his double-speaking ones—even though his lips were quite tempting to the average girl. They were strong yet pliant-looking, and they were usually quirked in a pleasingly masculine expression.

But she wasn’t your average girl.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You wish you could speak. But you already said you wouldn’t, and I’m holding you to it.”

She slitted her eyes again.

“We shall be stopping in the next hour. There is another inn, a more respectable one. I shall escort you to a private room and guard your door while you change into one of Fiona’s gowns and apply her cosmetics.”

Her eyes widened.

“What?” Harry drew his brows together. “Are you wondering if Fiona has many gowns?”

Molly nodded. Violently.

“Indeed she does,” Harry replied. “And bonnets. The latest creations from Paris, I believe.”

Molly grinned, but then immediately stopped, attempted to look sick and depressed, and stared out the window.

“Too late,” he said. “I saw it.”

“Oh, you—” She clamped her mouth shut.

“Hah! You said something!” He chuckled.

Indeed, he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“I think I shall talk,” she said, in a wicked voice. “I think my silence pleases you. So I shan’t”—she paused for emphasis—“be silent any longer.”

Sure enough, he got a wrinkle on his brow and his mouth moved down into a frown.

Splendid!

“As a matter of fact,” she added breezily, “I should like to discuss this house party. Who will be there?”

Harry shifted in his seat. “You already know of most of them if you read the London papers.”

“I’m not supposed to,” said Molly. “Papa says they give me ideas.”

“Which means you read them anyway, don’t you?”

She refused to dignify that remark.

Harry gave an easy laugh. “We’ll be in the company of the other men conscripted by Prinny to be his Impossible Bachelors,” he said. “Nicholas Staunton, Lord Maxwell. Viscount Charles Lumley. Captain Stephen Arrow. And the baronet, Sir Richard Bell.”

“Lord Maxwell.” Molly started with her left index finger. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“He’s a very good friend, a trifle mysterious and rather a recluse.”

“Who’s his mistress?”

“That would be Athena Markham—”

“She who treads the boards?”

“Right. It could be he’s thrown her over for someone else. I’ve no idea.”

Molly gave a huff. “Lord Maxwell would be a fool to throw over Athena Markham.”

“Why is that?”

“She’s divine. Penelope told me so. She saw her in King Lear.”

“She certainly tends to attract an audience, on or off the stage. And she’s quite beautiful.” Harry sighed and looked quite as if he were already sporting a ball and chain, with Anne Riordan holding the lock and key.

“What?” Molly sat up higher in her seat. “You think I have no chance against Miss Markham?”

Harry merely gave her a very droll look.

“You’ve no idea of my acting abilities,” Molly said. It was bragging, she knew, but she was good. At least she knew she would be if only someone would give her a chance to be in a play!

“You’re right,” he said, his chin in his hand. “I’ve no idea.”

She knew he hadn’t meant that as a compliment.

“Let’s move on,” she said, grasping her middle left finger. “That viscount. Lumley. I’ve heard that everything he touches turns to gold.”

Harry frowned. “Yes. He’s the best of fellows. But he’s easily taken advantage of—not in business, but in matters of the heart. I’ve no idea how he’s made it this far without being legshackled. His better friends, and I count myself one of them, have come to conclude that it’s luck. Not skill.”

“Yes, particularly as he’s worth twenty thousand a year,” Molly replied.

For once, they were in agreement. But then she realized Harry was boasting. “Do you really think it takes skill to remain a bachelor as long as you have?”

“Certainly.” His tone was a trifle too smug. “It’s like feinting to the left or right, or ducking, when you’re fencing. Some of us have the natural ability to dodge and survive—others do not.”

“So you’ve evaded parson’s mousetrap how many times?”

“Countless,” he murmured, and then smiled, but it was to himself, she saw, a small smile of recollection.

She didn’t like that smile. It meant that he was thinking of all the girls (besides Penelope) whom he’d kissed—and perhaps done more with—and escaped without any consequences.

The roué!

“Someday you’ll be caught,” she reminded him.

His face took on a foreboding expression. “Yes, as I was once before, thanks to you.” He was referring to the Christmas incident, of course. “But I’ve a few years left,” he added.

“Do you think Anne will wait that long for a proposal?”

“No,” he said. “Which is another reason for me to delay.”

“But someone else will crop up,” Molly said darkly. “Perhaps she’ll be worse than Anne.”

Harry sighed. “I know.”

He looked so sad and desperate that she almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

Back to business. “Tell me about the third person, that captain.” She wriggled her ring finger to show him she was still counting.

“Oh, yes,” Harry said. “Captain Stephen Arrow, another old friend. He’s a dashing fellow who takes to the high seas whenever a young miss gets too adoring. Of course, he’s fought in many battles, so we mustn’t begrudge him his excuse.”

“An easy out, being a ship’s captain,” said Molly. “If every man had a ship, we’d have no males left on land at all.”

“Yes, I’d take facing cannonballs over a woman’s expectations any day,” said Harry.

“Ha.” Molly glared at him. “Who’s the fourth again?”

“A baronet, Sir Richard Bell.” Harry sighed. “I despise the man. But he’s certainly a tried-and-true bachelor.”

“How so?”

“He’s been seducing young debutantes without getting caught for close to twenty years.”

“Surely not.”

“Oh, yes. I don’t know what he tells them, but they never tattle to their parents, who would, of course, demand he be brought up to scratch.”