Lady Mary "Molly" Fairbanks and the handsome notorious Lord
Harry Traemore have a history. At 13, Molly declared her
love for Harry's brother, Roderick, who was to marry her
older sister, Penelope. Unfortunately, this also involved
Harry and resulted in banning both Harry and Molly to
unexpected lives. The expressed dislike between the two of
them has been festering for all these years and Molly is
now past the age for a desirable marriage.
At 21, Molly encounters Harry, which draws her into a game
imposed upon him and several other friends and their
mistresses. Being society's "Impossible Bachelor," Prince
Regent has imposed the game of "Most Delectable Companion,"
allowing the winner to remain unmarried. When Harry's
lightskirt abandons him, he has no choice but to whisk
Molly away against her wishes to be his "false mistress" in
obtaining his freedom. Over the course of a week, with all
the players sequestered together, their charade backfires
and they find themselves head-over-heels in love. Being
headstrong, clever and the opposite of any seductive
female, Molly wins them over with her honest and caring
attitude. Upon time to part and go their separate ways,
Harry is not so confident of being the "Impossible
Bachelor."
This story is most amusing and filled with surprising
antics. The transformation of Harry during his week- long
reassessment opens up a new outlook to him. Maybe the
bachelor isn't so impossible anymore. Molly is a hot-head
who doesn't conform to the way they play their games and
imposes rules of her own. It was difficult to put this book
down, and I couldn't wait to see what Molly would think up
next. This is a highly funny and clever story. I look
forward to future works by Kieran Kramer, a gifted
writer.
Dashing Lord Harry Traemore is perfectly content to live out
his days in the pursuit of pleasure. But when he’s named by
the Prince Regent as one of society’s “Impossible
Bachelors,” Harry is drafted into a ribald romantic wager.
The rules of engagement are scandalously simple: The
bachelor whose mistress wins the title of “Most Delectable
Companion” gets to remain unmarried. Harry is utterly
unconcerned about his status...until his latest lightskirt
abandons him.
Enter Lady Molly Fairbanks. Harry’s childhood friend—
actually, “foe” is more like it—is the most unlikely
companion of all. She’s attractive but hot-headed, and in no
mood for games. Besides, what could the self-indulgent Harry
possibly know about what makes a woman delectable? It’s time
for Molly to teach him a lesson once and for all...but will
it lead to “happily ever after”?
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1June 1816
Lord Harry Traemore knew the man next to him in the private
room at his club in London—Lord Wray, who’d slithered to the
floor and begun snoring—might appear to most passersby to be
passive, even sleeping. But Harry and his old schoolmates
from Eton, their reasoning skills gently manipulated by
rather copious amounts of brandy, realized this prone
position of Wray’s was actually his attempt to bravely
endure his fate.
After all, Wray was to be married in the morning. And
everyone knew his future wife was . . .
Exactly like his mother.
"I’m sad," Harry’s friend Charles Thorpe, Viscount Lumley,
said, an empty snifter dangling from his hand. "A good
friend’s freedom is being taken away."
Lumley was rich as Croesus, with the most twinkling blue
eyes Harry had ever seen and a grin that could light up
Vauxhall Gardens at midnight better than any fireworks.
"It’s not right," said Captain Stephen Arrow. His naval
uniform, crisp and distinguished with its gold braid and
buttons, offset the casual manner in which he sprawled in
his chair. "He put up a good fight, didn’t he?"
Harry sloshed some brandy into his mouth. He couldn’t even
taste its flavor anymore. His tongue . . . it felt numb. And
his lips, for that matter. It wasn’t often he drank this
much—contrary to the stories told about him, which he did
nothing to deny.
But tonight was different. Tonight he felt the brush of the
nuptial guillotine close to his own neck. He didn’t want to
marry. Not for a long, long time, not until he was truly
cornered by familial obligation. And as far as he knew, that
would likely never happen.
Harry was simply a spare. Only if his robust older brother
Roderick somehow stuck his spoon in the wall before his wife
Penelope produced a son—the next heir to the House of
Mallan—would Harry’s potential as a bridegroom begin to
matter. Penelope had already produced four daughters—his
splendid little nieces Helen, Cassandra, Juliet, and
Imogen—so it couldn’t be long now before she gifted Roderick
with the son the whole family craved, even prayed for.
Because it wouldn’t do, Harry knew from whispers in the
servants’ hall and the perpetually disappointed expressions
on his parents’ faces, for disgraced Harry—the returning war
hero who was not a hero but should have been—to be merely
one person away from inheriting the ducal title.
No, that wouldn’t do at all.
Which was why Harry was so averse to marriage in the first
place. Why take on yet another person in his life who would
only disdain him?
Wray smacked his lips and shifted on the floor.
"At least he’s out of his pain," said Nicholas Staunton,
Lord Maxwell, in that unruffled tone of his. Cool,
mysterious, and rather unconventional despite his strong
aristocratic lineage, Maxwell, Harry was well aware, was
unlikely to voice an observation unless he were truly moved
to do so. He raised a quizzing glass and observed Wray
further. "I understand he’s had a hell of a year. Dozens of
debutantes and their mothers chasing him without cease."
"Poor sod," said Harry, looking down at Wray. "He was even
thrown into a carriage by two masked thugs and almost forced
to elope with the Barnwell girl, but he leaped out on the
London Bridge and nearly got run over by a coach-and-four
instead."
A loud popping noise—followed by another pop and a
creak—sounded from the logs burning in the fireplace.
The sound even woke Wray. He opened his eyes, gazed at
nothing, and said, "No. I won’t eat my porridge. Please
don’t make me," before he went back to his snoring.
"God save his tormented soul," Arrow entreated with great
solemnity.
And then the bookcase opened. The one near the fire.
Yes, opened.
Harry rubbed his eyes.
"What the hell?" said Arrow.
Harry knew, of course, that every great house had a secret
door to somewhere, but he’d no idea his own club did.
A buxom female—rather matronly in dress and age,
actually—stumbled out from a dark passageway, a spitting
candle in her hand. The curls at her temples had gone to
gray beneath the half-handkerchief pinned to her hair, and
her gown, while a pleasing midnight blue, couldn’t disguise
her spreading hips. She placed the candle on the mantel,
turned to the men, and curtsied.
"You’re a woman," Lumley said slowly.
Considering the fact that women weren’t allowed on the club
premises, Harry could forgive Lumley’s stating the obvious.
But before she or anyone else could respond, a man emerged
from the opening behind the bookcase, as well—a portly man
with a merry grin and a bottle of cheap gin in his hand.
"I’m dreaming," said Lumley, shaking his head.
"Au contraire," the man said, and proceeded to belch. "You
most certainly are not dreaming, Viscount." He patted his
stomach, lifted the bottle to his mouth, drank, and wiped
his mouth with his sleeve.
Then he swayed.
"Oho!" he said, and chuckled when the woman grabbed his elbow.
"No dancing, Your Highness." She giggled and took the bottle
from him. "We need music for that."
Long before she’d even set the bottle on a side table, every
man in the room had stood—except for Wray, who was still
fighting his battle against cruel Fate on the floor.
"Your Royal Highness!" Captain Arrow said, and saluted the
swaying man. "Captain Stephen Arrow, at your service."
By God, it was him. The Prince Regent himself. Harry almost
saluted, too, but then he remembered he wasn’t a sailor, so
he bowed deeply, right near Wray’s snuffling mouth.
Prinny rubbed his chin. "Yes, it is I," he said. "My
delectable companion and I were on our way to the secret
bedchamber—"
There was a secret bedchamber at the club?
Harry and Lumley exchanged looks of shock. Maxwell ran his
narrowed gaze over the bookshelf. Arrow remained standing at
attention.
"Captain Arrow," Prinny said with a huff of laughter. "At
ease. Please. I can’t think when you look as though you’re
about to call out orders to fire a hundred cannon at the
Spanish fleet."
Arrow’s shoulders relaxed.
And there followed a general lessening of tension in every
man, Harry noted. Maxwell took a puff from his cheroot.
Lumley grinned, and Harry uncurled his fingers, which he’d
balled into fists at his sides.
Yes, Prinny was in his cups, but he was also in a good mood.
"As I was saying," His Royal Highness went on, "Liza and I
were passing through, and we couldn’t help overhearing your
conversation, gentlemen." He opened his snuffbox with a
grand flourish, pretended to inhale some—everyone knew he
really despised the stuff—and returned it to his pocket.
"And I’m shocked—nay, dismayed," he went on, "at the state
of affairs in this room. Can’t be good for the Empire when
its best and brightest are gloomy."
He leveled an eye at Harry. "Yes, I include even you in that
description, young man. Despite everything I’ve heard about
your bedding the captain’s wife while your unit suffered an
ambush, of all things"—Liza gasped—"you can’t be a complete
disgrace if the Duke of Mallan is your father."
Harry’s chest knotted. "Thank you, Your Highness," he
gritted out.
But inside, his heart grew harder. And smaller.
Prinny looked around assessingly. "We must correct this
situation. What you need is hope—hope that you may avoid
legshackles. And not just a vague hope." His expression
brightened and he raised his right index finger. "You’ll
need a surety!"
"Yes!" Liza clapped her hands.
"We need to make it impossible," Prinny said, "for any
matchmaking mamas, silly debutantes, and conniving bettors
to rob your bachelor days of their necessary frivolity.
Who’s got a quill and paper?"
No one did. Harry wondered what the Prince was about.
A coach-and-four rattled by the window, and through the
door, there were the regular sounds of club life: voices
rising and falling, the scrape of forks and knives against
plates, the clink of bottle against glass.
Life was going on as usual, Harry thought, except for here
in this room. He wished he could talk to the other
bachelors, but no one dared look at anyone but Prinny.
Prinny nodded his head at Arrow. "Captain, please see to it
that paper and quill and writing desk are brought
immediately. I have a decree to prepare and sign. Here. And
now."
Captain Arrow saluted. "Of course, Your Highness."
Not thirty seconds later, he was back with Prinny’s
requested materials, which he handed off to Liza with a
swooping bow.
Liza blushed, Harry wasn’t surprised to see. Women always
fell apart around Arrow.
"Take this down," Prinny said to Liza, who settled into a
chair, the quill poised above the blank paper, prepared to
write.
"Please begin, Your Highness," she said.
Prinny adjusted his cravat. "By order of the Prince Regent,"
he said, "let it be known that the annual Impossible
Bachelors wager shall commence the first week of August in
the year 1816 and every August thereafter. The participants
shall be conscripted by the Prince Regent and his advisors,
who shall have sole control over the circumstances of the bet."
Harry’s neck muscles tensed, and the sound of Liza’s quill
scratching across the paper only made it worse. He craved
nothing more than to get up and leave.
But, of course, he couldn’t.
After a bit more scribbling, Liza looked up, her quill at
the ready.
"The winner of the wager," Prinny continued, "shall be
granted an entire year of freedom from the trials,
tribulations, and, ahem, joys of marriage. As well as from
the dreary events leading up to the eventual acquisition of
a wife."
His grin was decidedly saucy. "He shall not be chased after
by matchmaking mamas at social events." A twinkle gleamed in
his eyes. "He shall not be forced to attend tedious balls at
Almack’s"—he paused and grinned—"although if he cares to
attend to observe and flirt with the newest crop of
debutantes, he shall not be denied entrance by the patronesses."
Liza’s mouth curved up in a smile, and she continued to
write furiously.
"And he most certainly shall not," Prinny said, his eyes
stormy, "be trapped into marriage by a young lady’s
relatives—or by bettors seeking to make their fortunes."
Almost as one, the gentlemen in the room looked down at
Wray, snoring on the rug.
"Pity this comes too late for him," Prinny murmured.
Liza made a small tsking noise and inclined her head in
sympathy.
But then Prinny gripped his lapels, threw back his
shoulders, and resumed his speech. "Those who cross the
Prince Regent in his wish to see at least one of his
bachelor subjects free from shameless pursuit for the period
of one year"—he paused and narrowed his eyes—"shall forever
be given the cut direct by His Royal Highness and his loyal
subjects."
Harry met Maxwell’s eyes, which reflected back his own gut
feeling. Prinny meant business, obviously. And since he
meant business, they must follow suit.
The Prince Regent released a long-suffering sigh. "The price
of pursuing seemingly impossible freedom and privilege is
always high, is it not?" He arched a brow. "Therefore, the
losing bachelors shall be required to draw straws."
He looked first at Lumley, then Arrow, then Maxwell, then at
Harry. "The recipient of the shortest straw," he said
grimly, "shall propose marriage within two months to a woman
of his club board’s choosing."
He leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms over his
expansive belly. "That is all."
Liza laid her quill down and blew on the paper holding
Prinny’s latest decree.
A cold stone boulder rested in the pit of Harry’s stomach.
He most certainly didn’t want to marry. But he’d prefer to
avoid the altar his way—as Prinny’s way involved a hefty
measure of diabolical risk.
Prinny sauntered to the desk and signed the decree,
hiccupping as he handed the quill to Liza. "I’m amazed at my
own genius," he said with a chuckle.
"I’m not, Your Highness." Liza cast him an adoring glance.
Prinny curled his chubby hand around hers. "The first year’s
wager shall be in your honor, my dear. I shall call it the
Most Delectable Companion contest. The ladies shall be
rigorously tested according to my exacting if unscrupulous
standards—and the lucky bachelor who brings the finest
mistress shall win a cherished year of freedom." He looked
up. "Are you ready, gentlemen?"
Harry swallowed hard. Follow Prinny’s orders, and any one of
them might very well be legshackled by Christmas if they
lost the wager!
"Your Highness," Arrow said in his authoritative naval
captain’s voice. "According to my ship’s sailing schedule, I
shall be rounding Cape Horn at that time."
"No, you shall not," Prinny insisted. "I shall see to it
that you’re reassigned, Captain Arrow."
Harry caught the slightest hesitation before Arrow spoke.
"Very good, sir," he said.
But Harry could see the red creeping up his friend’s
well-tanned neck. He wasn’t happy about this wager, either.
Dear God was written all over Maxwell’s usually implacable face.
Lumley exclaimed something like "Wha’?" before remembering
to shut his mouth.
"I shall send each of you details of the circumstances of
the bet imminently," Prinny said sternly. "You’ll follow it
to the letter." He snorted. "I’m quite sure I’ll be
entertained."
Harry’s spirits sank even lower. Prinny and his compulsive
need to be entertained! Couldn’t he simply reinstitute the
tradition of the court jester?
Prinny’s gaze narrowed. "Harry, you’re to host. Maxwell,
record. Arrow and Lumley, you shall form the arbitration
committee. Keep me informed as the wager progresses,
gentlemen. And that’s an order."
"As you wish, Your Highness." Harry forced himself to sound
amenable, although he’d no desire to be under the strict
watch of His Royal Highness in a caper over which he had no
control. He’d already undergone five years of imposed
military service, courtesy of his father, and then he’d
stayed in long enough to do his damnedest to help Wellington
win at Waterloo.
He’d been home only a year, hardly long enough to enjoy his
freedom.
Liza stood and handed the decree to Prinny, who immediately
passed it off to Harry. "See that it’s hung to the right of
the fireplace in the front room of the club." He chuckled
and took the candle from the mantel. "Congratulations.
You’re all the Prince Regent’s Impossible Bachelors now.
Except Wray, of course."
He nudged Wray with his foot. Wray flung out an arm and snorted.
"I believe I shall name one more Impossible Bachelor,"
Prinny said. "To fill the vacant spot Wray would have
occupied had he not been vanquished by feminine forces
already." His brow creased in thought. "Possibly that rat
Sir Richard Bell. He’s seduced so many virgins that it’s
time he sweated a bit, eh?"
And before anyone could respond, he swooped into the hidden
passageway, pulling Liza by the hand.
The bookcase shut upon them both.
There was total silence in the room until the creeping
footsteps of Prinny and his lady were no longer audible.
"Dammit all to hell," Lord Maxwell said, his voice
dangerously low.
Arrow ran a hand through his hair. "I don’t want to be
reassigned! And I most certainly don’t want to be called an
Impossible Bachelor. It doesn’t have nearly the ring to it
admiral has."
Lumley threw himself into a chair. "I’ve nothing to do
except oversee my estates. And perhaps acquire a few more.
So I think I shall quite enjoy this wager. Especially if Sir
Richard shows up. I’d like to pound his face for ruining the
Glasbury girl last year. She’s a nun now, did you know that?"
"Yes, I knew that," Harry spluttered, "and I agree with you
about Bell. But really, Lumley. Enjoy the wager? What are
you thinking? One of us will wind up married at the end of it!"
"I forgot about that part." Lumley sighed. "I don’t even
have a mistress at the moment, much less a delectable one.
Which means, right now, I’m favored to get legshackled!"
"You and I both," said Arrow. "We must get cracking.
Maxwell’s Athena is sublime, and Harry’s girl is—who is she
now, Harry? The blonde, or have you moved on to that redhead
you met at the Cyprian Ball?"
"That’s beside the point at the moment." Harry had
difficulty keeping up with all the women in his life. He’d
rather not think of them unless he had to, which was usually
right before he saw them—when he’d open a drawer near his
bed table and pull out a little bauble from a collection of
baubles his jeweler had put together for him to save him the
tedium of selecting little gifts himself. "We’re Prinny’s
puppets. He’s shrewd when he wants to be, but the only thing
that interests his addled brain these days is mindless
entertainment."
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