When Harry Met Molly Read Online Free PDF Page A

near her heart, an ache that throbbed. And throbbed harder. And wouldn’t go away. She must admit it. Cedric was a conceited prig. And she’d be wasting her life if she ran away with him. Just as she’d wasted the past three years pouring tea for Cousin Augusta and trying to be the scholarly, obedient girl her father wanted her to be—on top of the five before that she’d spent with the teachers at Providence School, who’d done their best to wring every last bit of fun from her soul.
    When was the last time she’d been…
    Herself?
    Free?
    And truly happy?
    “I need some air,” she said, and stood.
    Cedric nodded.
    When she walked by the table with Aphrodite sitting there, alone, Molly tried to forget about her own snub nose and untidy hair and drew her shoulders back because she was a fighter, even though most of the time she forgot that fact about herself. But at this moment of truth, when she sensed that she was second-best, she strove to appear strong and goddesslike herself. She would be above the fray.
    So she focused instead on the line of dusty deer antlers above the bar and didn’t particularly fathom that she and the man who’d accompanied Aphrodite—and was approaching his table with two tankards—were on a crash course.

    Someone soft and sweet-smelling smacked right into Lord Harry Traemore, second son of the sixth Duke of Mallan. And a split second later, something warm and foamy splashed across his chest.
    His beer, of course. A sad waste. Being the spare to the heir of a dukedom, Harry was used to squandering time and energy thinking and talking about beer. And loose women. And outrageous curricle races to Brighton at midnight.
    It was the duty of the spare to be a sad waste himself, wasn’t it? To give one’s servants something to talk about and one’s unerringly perfect family a mission in life. Of course, it wouldn’t serve for his family to know that since he was a little boy, he’d wished he could be perfect, too, like them.
    But it was too late for that. Harry had made his mark on the world, and it was a most imperfect mark—quite damning and irrevocable, impossible to refute. He’d waste no more time grieving over what he couldn’t be . What he couldn’t have . The only alternative was to be as imperfect as imperfect comes.
    At least he’d be the best at something .
    “Oh, my goodness!” the petite woman in front of him said, the thick brown knot at the top of her head unraveling. “I do apologize.”
    “No, no,” he said. “Quite all right. I was trying to get around those two”—he nodded at a couple of old men nearby—“and didn’t see you, either.”
    Which wasn’t exactly true. He’d been staring at the sulking Fiona in her revealing pink gown and gloating over the fact that her mere presence at the competition would ensure him a solid win at Prinny’s game—and another year’s freedom from the parson’s noose. He’d soon kiss that ridiculous pout off her mouth. It was only there because he hadn’t allowed her to bring her yapping lapdog on the trip.
    Harry didn’t believe in lapdogs. He was all for large, rangy dogs that drooled over sofas, but—
    Good God. The brunette woman was looking up at him with impish brown eyes. It couldn’t be. But it was—
    Molly Fairbanks. Lady Molly Fairbanks. What was she doing at a seedy inn in the middle of nowhere?
    “You,” she breathed.
    “You,” he said back.
    “It can’t be.” She took a step backward.
    “It is,” he said, and backed away, as well.
    “Why here?” she asked.
    “Why not?” he said.
    He noticed neither of them could go far in the maze of chairs and tables. They were trapped, forced into a position of proximity.
    “I still hate you,” she said. “Just so you know.”
    “The feeling is mutual,” he said curtly. His insides roiled, but he held the tankards in his hand steady.
    “Please get out of my way,” she insisted, her round little chin pointing high in the air.
    “With