The Persuasion of Molly O'Flaherty (6 page)

He looked sour, and that give me the smallest micron of pleasure. I turned my attention back to Molly, trying not to notice the way Hugh’s fingers splayed against her rib cage, trying not to think about them going home together last night, trying not to think about her fucking him like I so wanted her to fuck me.

“Molly,” I tried again. “This—I know this looks bad. And it is bad, I’m not denying that, but I realized something when Mercy was…” I trailed off.
Fuck.
There was no way to have this conversation without completely driving home the fact that I’d been, once again, caught fooling around with Mercy Atworth.

Molly didn’t say anything to fill the silence, but she met my eyes, and what I saw there punched me in the chest. Pain and betrayal and rage, and the same deep, deep sadness I’d seen in her last year. The kind of hopeless despair that seemed so unlike her.

“Will you say something?” I pleaded. I was used to people talking to me, I was used to people smiling and laughing around me, and I had no idea how to handle this silence. This stone wall of O’Flaherty.
Say something, you idiot. Make her laugh or make her blush or make her mad—anything is better than this silence.

I decided just to go for it. To just tell her. “Molly, I love you.”

If the words sounded grand and important in my head, if I imagined them accompanied to music like they were part of a Gilbert and Sullivan show, I would never admit it to another soul, because in reality they came out weak and defensive and a tad bit manipulative. They in no way sounded noble or heartfelt or even genuine—they sounded like a kid telling his parents he loved them to avoid a strapping.

Molly responded predictably; whatever despair had been there before was now entirely wiped out by a fierce anger. She stepped forward, and it was only with great courage that I held my ground, bracing myself for the inevitable strike. But she didn’t hit me. Instead, she leaned forward and said in a voice so low that I knew only I could hear it:

“Get. Out.”

“Molly—”

“
Clare
,” she seethed.

Clare.

Fuck.

With one last glance—a glance that was more like a glare on her end—I left.

I met Frederick Cunningham over lunch at the Cafe Royal. The venue was my choice, as it was primarily frequented by a younger, more fashionable set than Mr. Cunningham was likely used to, and I wanted him to feel out of place. I also wanted to meet him on familiar ground. Home territory.

I watched his face crease with distaste at the ornate pillars and brightly frescoed ceilings, and at the women dining beside men, all in a jostling swarm of Bohemians, journalists, and military officers.

Good.

The more unsettled he was, the more defensive he’d be. And defensive people often revealed their weaknesses.

I stood to shake Mr. Cunningham’s hand as he approached, and then we both sat down, him appraising the restaurant while I casually appraised him. Mid-forties, good-looking—if a little prettyish for a man. Undoubtedly wealthy, given the expensive cut of his suit and the fob watch gleaming under his jacket. But as I watched him condescendingly place his order and then sip tiny, Lilliputian sips from his wine glass, I deduced that whatever power he held came solely from his money and nowhere else. He didn’t possess an innate respect for his fellow man—which meant that underneath his arrogance, there was a deep-seated and unconscious insecurity. And nothing about his carriage or demeanor belied anything but bored derision. No intelligence, no perception, no idea of his own soft spots. No inherent strength of will.

Plus, he drank his wine like a schoolgirl, and I made it a point never to trust people who were weak drinkers.

“So, Mr. Cecil-Coke, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? I was rather surprised to receive a letter from you, given that we haven’t been previously introduced.”

I’d kept my letter requesting our meeting purposefully vague, mentioning only that I had a lucrative business proposal for him. I’d done it because I wanted to see his face and hear his voice when I mentioned Molly. I wanted to know how he felt about her. Contemptuous? Jealous? Completely neutral?

I leaned forward, smiling as widely as I could. I wasn’t unaware of the effect I had on men as well as women. Beyond the sexual, I’d always found that people responded much better to friendly charm than to brooding threats. (Which was the reason I’d always had more friends than Julian Markham.)

“Mr. Cunningham, I’ve heard that you and your company are looking for a man to marry Molly O’Flaherty. I would like to be that man, and I want to discuss terms with you to see how we can make that happen.”

Mr. Cunningham blinked for a minute, and in that minute, I saw everything I expected to see—scorn and avarice and a glint of lust. “Well, Mr. Cecil-Coke, I’m sorry to say that you are too late. The board has already approved of a suitor.”

“I heard. The Viscount Beaumont.”

His blond eyebrows lifted. “You know that? Where did you hear that?”

“Mutual friends,” I said vaguely. Until our lunch was finished and he inevitably hunted down any and all information about me, I didn’t want him to know how close I was to Molly, since I suspected that would work against me at the moment. Let him just think I was a wealthy, run-of-the-mill suitor chasing after an inheritance.

He made an indeterminate noise. “Mutual friends, you say.”

“What did the viscount offer you?” I asked. “If it’s money, I have plenty. If it’s connections, I have plenty of those, too. Just name your price—and then any extra you would like to keep for yourself beyond that—and it’s yours.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you so eager to wed Miss O’Flaherty? Maybe you don’t spend much time in London, but her…ah,
spotted
…reputation is quite well known among certain circles here.”

“My own reputation is quite spotted, Mr. Cunningham,” I replied, not bothering to tell him that Molly and I had earned most of those spots together. “I’m not threatened by not having a virgin bride.”

Mr. Cunningham actually shuddered. “I can’t imagine. I made a physician ensure my wife was a virgin before we were married.”

I was beginning to hate this man—and I hated very few people on this earth. But that kind of ignorance was so goddamn infuriating…

“And so I presume that you were also a virgin on your wedding night?” I said easily, giving him a smile as my eyes conveyed exactly the amount of dislike I had for him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffed. “It is a man’s natural inclination to—”

I interrupted him. “Mr. Cunningham, about my offer—please. What will it take? Tell me your price.”

I didn’t have fathomless funds, but between myself, Thomas and Julian—and possibly even the Baron—there wasn’t a number that I was afraid of this man naming. And yes, there was the small issue of Molly hating me more than ever after Mercy’s house, but now that I knew I loved her, how could I stand idly by and watch her corralled into marriage with Hugh?

I had to act.

Mr. Cunningham wasted no time cutting into the steak the waiter set before him, and I could see him savoring both the meat and the words he was about to say.

“There is no price, Mr. Cecil-Coke, no amount of money that you could pay me or the board to change our minds. We are very, very set on the viscount marrying Miss O’Flaherty.”

I nearly choked on the bite I’d just taken, hiding my surprise with a drink of wine. “Really?” I said evenly, after I’d swallowed and regained control of my thoughts. “No price at all? You must like this viscount very much.”

A slyness slipped over his features. “We do, Mr. Cecil-Coke.”

I didn’t answer him, partly because I was still shocked he hadn’t responded to my bribery. But also partly because a new suspicion was igniting, one I couldn’t quite articulate, but one that spoke of a connection between Hugh and this man.

“And why is it that you like him so much?” I pressed. “I must know.”

“He is simply the right fit for the company.”

“And I suppose it doesn’t matter who is the right fit for Miss O’Flaherty?”

Mr. Cunningham scoffed. “This has never been about individual needs, Mr. Cecil-Coke. This has been about the company, and what is necessary to keep it profitable in the long term. And the answer is not to have a woman dictating decisions simply because she owns a majority of the shares. She needs to be bridled.”

I planned on being the only man to put a bit between her teeth, and even then, it would only happen in the bedroom and with her begging for it. “And what decisions is she making that are so detrimental to O’Flaherty Shipping Lines? If you don’t mind me asking.”

He dabbed at his mustache and upper lip with a napkin. “She’s soft-hearted, like a woman. She pays the dockworkers too much and the investors too little. She gives the workers Sundays and holidays off—she even gives them a break for lunch! When I think of the money that could be saved if we merely dropped our wages to what our competitors pay…” He shook his head. “It’s appalling. But when she marries, the shares will legally belong to her husband. And then we will be able to move forward without all the…” he waved a hand around the table “…interference.”

“I see.” And I did see. This man was reprehensible. And the board was equally so, if they all thought like him. I felt a spike of pride for Molly, who had battled Mr. Cunningham and his friends in order to run the company the way she wanted. Who had run her company generously and ethically. All those years we’d spent lolling around Europe, petting and playing with each other, she’d also been contending with this board. She’d been single-handedly wrangling control of her company, and I’d never had any idea.

“And so you believe the Viscount Beaumont will be of service to you, then? More than I could be? Because I would certainly help you in your goals as much as possible.”

I thought I sold the lie rather well, but Mr. Cunningham simply shook his head and sipped the last of his wine. “We’ve already found our man, and there’s no changing our minds at this point. And with that being said, I’m not sure there is much more to discuss,” he informed me as he stood. He tossed his napkin onto his half eaten steak. “Thank you for lunch.”

I inclined my head but didn’t stand. I wasn’t sure I would be able to restrain the urge to bury my thumbs in his eye sockets if I did. “It was my pleasure,” I said instead. “It was most enlightening.”

It had been four days since I went to Mercy Atworth’s house and found her sucking Silas. Four days and I was still furious.

And the worst thing? I wasn’t even furious with Silas. I was furious with myself.

I walked through the Baron’s hedge maze more or less aimlessly, cataloging all the ways I’d been stupid in my life. And most of them involved Silas.

Did you really think he had changed? Did you really think he meant all those things he said, those sincere-sounding things, and meant them so much that he would forget about any woman other than you?

But the problem was that I hadn’t realized that I did think those things until it was too late. I had thought myself so blasé, so indifferent, and then I saw Silas with Mercy and discovered that all along I’d been harboring the hope that something had changed. That maybe he’d arrived here in London just in time to whisk me away from this nightmare.

Oh, how wrong I’d been.

And then he had the nerve to tell me that he loved me!

A little scream of frustration tore from my throat, and I kicked at the hedges with every ounce of strength I could muster, which only resulted in getting my skirt and my new white boot tangled in the tiny, twisting branches.

“Fuck!” I yelled, tearing at the fabric. “
Fuck!
”

“That’s a good way to ruin a dress,” a voice said from behind me, and everything in my stomach and chest collided into a dense ball of iron, and then sunk to my feet, where it threatened to explode.

I wanted to whirl around and scream at him, or reach out and hit him. But then he was kneeling in front of me, his long fingers skillfully unhooking my skirt from its hedge prison.

“What are you doing here?” I challenged.

“Looking for you,” he replied honestly, glancing up at me with those crystalline blue eyes before looking back down to my dress. His palm moved up from my ankle to my calf to support my foot while he extricated the boot. And even through my stockings, I felt the heat of his skin like a brand. Something deep within me tightened and twisted. It was something like lust, but a much, much deeper itch than lust.

Hating my traitorous body’s reaction, I abruptly withdrew my leg from his hold. “I thought if I gave you my safe word, you would stop pursuing me,” I muttered, more to myself than to him, but he must have heard, because he finished unhooking my skirt and stood up, his expression guarded.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “But I had to see you one more time. I had to talk to you.”

“What could there possibly be to talk about?” I asked, keeping my voice cold to hide the heat that flamed in my deep in my stomach.

“I saw Mr. Cunningham,” he said, and that hateful name was like a bucket of ice water on my desire. I hugged myself and backed up a few steps.

Silas didn’t chase me, his features uncharacteristically serious. “We talked about marriage. And Hugh. And he rejected my suit entirely.”