The Persuasion of Molly O'Flaherty (2 page)

Our gazes locked, and for one ridiculous moment, I imagined that I was staring into a pair of blue eyes instead of brown ones. That a different woman was walking toward me with that sultry smile on her face. And then I wanted to scream at myself. I came back because of Molly but not
for
Molly.

I came back with a business offer.

I wasn’t in love with her.

At all.

Hugh Calvert handed Mercy into the seat next to me while he continued to stand. Like the sisters, Hugh was tall and blond, but in a rich, buttery sort of way. I’d never liked Hugh very much. He was a viscount—the only titled one among our set other than Castor Gravendon, whom we usually called ‘The Baron’—and even though we all had money to spare, there was something in his demeanor that indicated he felt slightly above us all. But Molly had liked him, and what Molly said went, at least for Julian and me, and so he’d become permanently fixed in our circle—for better or for worse.

“Silas,” Hugh said coolly. “Back from France, I see.”

Mercy was adjusting her skirts, and I felt the warm press of her leg through the fabric. “I had some things to take care of for Thomas,” I replied, stretching my legs and giving Mercy my sunniest grin.

She smiled back.

“That’s the only reason?” Hugh asked. I wasn’t watching him, but I could practically hear his eyebrows rising.

I thought of the letter in my pocket. Surely they knew. Molly was a friend to all of us—well, maybe not to Mercy any more—but if Julian had heard about it all the way in Yorkshire, then everybody else here in London must know.

“Actually—” I started, but the train lurched to a halt.

“This is our stop,” Rhoda and Zona said in unison, and Hugh nodded. “Mine too. I was going to escort Mercy to her house, but it’s so close to yours, Silas…”

Delightful.
I’d forgotten that Mercy’s London house was a mere block from my own. This could prove very felicitous for me settling back into London life—and more importantly, for proving to myself once again that I wasn’t in love with Molly, that I certainly wasn’t pining for her.

“Of course, it would be no problem,” I grinned. “As long as Miss Atworth doesn’t mind.”

“Oh, I am Miss Atworth now, am I?” Mercy teased from beside me.

In response, I took her hand and raised it to my lips. “Darling, I’ll call you whatever you like.”

“Marvelous,” Hugh said, looking almost gleeful for some reason. I didn’t like the look on his golden face; it seemed both smarmy and ominous somehow. “In that case,” He stood, offering his arms to the twins. “Shall we?”

“Bye, Silas!” the sisters chimed, and soon the whole party was gone from the car, leaving only Mercy and me. I met her gaze, feeling a jolt of lust mingle with a flash of pain. The last time we’d locked eyes, it had been moments before Molly had hit me. It had happened as I’d felt Mercy coming around my cock, felt her body shivering with release. Then we’d heard the door open and Molly’s footsteps across the floor as she walked into the room.

Locking eyes now was like locking eyes with the embodiment of my own shame and weakness. But it was also like I was Silas Cecil-Coke, notorious playboy, meeting the eyes of a beautiful woman. With a monumental effort, I pushed everything back down and focused on Mercy, who’d acquired a concerned expression under my stare.

“Are you upset with me?” she asked in a low voice. “Because of what happened with Molly?”

Fuck. The one thing I didn’t want to talk about. I ran a hand through my hair. “Of course not,” I lied. Charming Silas, polite Silas.

“Okay,” she purred. “Good. Because I missed you. Did you miss me?”

Did I miss her? I looked at Mercy, pouting her red-lipped pout, and my erection strained against my pants. Fucking her had always been a pleasure, and it would be a pleasure right now, especially since it had been a few weeks since I’d partaken of the female sex, and the train car was empty save for us…

But
no
. No, I hadn’t missed Mercy. Missing only belonged to one person. The one person I came back for.

Stop it, Silas. Shake it off.

“Yes,” I lied again.

“Good,” she said, and then she reached over and my lies faded from my lips. The moment her fingers brushed against my cock, it thickened, hungry for her, hungry for anyone, and then, alas, the train reached its stop.

“Here we are,” she said.

I stood and helped her into the aisle. “Would you like me to escort you home?” I asked in her ear.

“I’d like you to escort me to bed.”

Well, then.

The walk was short and hot, and I did my chivalrous best to keep Mercy under her parasol as we went. And then we were inside, and then we were in her bedroom, and then she unbuttoned her dress in short, efficient movements.

“Lay down,” she ordered.

I complied, unbuttoning my trousers to free my erection as I did. I lay on my back, cock exposed, hands laced behind my head, and watched as Mercy swayed over to me. She was truly beautiful, especially naked, so very ripe and womanly and soft. But as she slid over me, as she positioned me and slid her pussy down my length, I was not struck by the pleasure or by her beauty or by the licentious delight of it all.

I was struck by boredom.

I don’t mean that I was bored with sex necessarily—as Mercy rode me with her slippery undulations, my body responded precisely as it should. But I realized for the first time how transactional it all was, how very much like scratching an itch or eating breakfast. There was no real spirit here, no real playfulness, no passion.

And then out of nowhere, came the memory of Molly’s face when she’d caught Mercy and me together.

God. Her eyes when she’d seen us. She’d been gutted.

And to think that just two days before she’d caught us, the day before I’d betrayed her, we’d spent the entire day fucking. Sweaty, dirty fucking. Her rose-pink nipples in my mouth. Her wet, wet cunt like a vise around my dick.

Above me, Mercy was still moving and struggling to get where she needed to be. Out of politeness, I helped, finding her clit with my thumb and coaxing an orgasm out of her. Her gaze never left my face as she came, but me, despicable scoundrel that I am, I kept my eyes shut when it was my turn.

And as I pulsed inside of her, it was Molly O’Flaherty I pictured riding me, Molly O’Flaherty with her perfect breasts and her perfect mouth and her perfect, powerful right hook.

The summer sun framed the Baron’s mansion in hues of sugar pink and deep orange, and music and laughter spilled out of every open window and door. The air already smelled like Molly, like something sweet and spiced all at once, like cloves and champagne. It smelled the way she tasted whenever I kissed her.

Or maybe I was losing my mind. After my interlude with Mercy yesterday, I couldn’t stop thinking about Molly in precisely the ways I had forbidden myself all those months ago. The silkiness of her inner thighs. The light, girlish trill of her laugh. The exacting, almost savage, way she went over the daily ledgers, pen in hand, striking out figures and numbers like a vengeful goddess of commerce.

I shook my head, scattering thoughts of her away from my mind like leaves before the wind. I’d visited the Baron for luncheon today, and he had mentioned the party and that he thought Molly might attend. I made my plan: I would go, make my business proposition and leave. No emotions, no touching. I would talk to her like I would talk to any other business acquaintance, and that would be the end of it.

Or so I thought. Because once I saw her, whirling in a cyclone of red curls and blue silk, cradled in Hugh’s arms—damned
Hugh
—all of my careful, emotionless plans vanished.

There were three things I promised myself this morning when I woke up.

One, that I would find a way to defeat the board’s ridiculous demands.

Two, that I would fuck someone tonight at the Baron’s party, and fuck them hard enough to forget the awful mess my carefully ordered life had become.

And three, number three, that today was the day I would finally fall out of love with Silas Cecil-Coke. Silas, the callous, unforgivable prick who’d cozened me into caring about him.

Fucking jackass.

But today, like every other day since Silas had fled the country, number three wasn’t going to happen. And number one wasn’t going to happen.

So I’d be damned if I was going to give up on number two. The night was still young.

The Baron—properly known as Castor, Lord Gravendon—had thrown a large party tonight for no particular reason that I could discern, other than that he enjoyed throwing them and that he was bored. And even though I had more or less avoided the Baron’s house since the fateful evening I’d discovered Silas buried to the hilt in Mercy Atworth, tonight I’d decided to make an appearance. After months of tense negotiating with the board, and weeks of would-be suitors flooding my parlor, all I wanted was a night of music and dancing and orgasms.

Was that so much for a girl to ask?

“You are pensive tonight,” Hugh remarked, placing a flute of champagne in my gloved hand. “Is anything the matter?”

Other than the fact that I must either lose my company or be sold into a loveless marriage?

It wasn’t my habit to lie, but Hugh had been one of my closest companions recently, and it was his polite attentions and willingness to listen to me rail against the board that had gotten me through these last few months. So I didn’t want to ruin his night with my bitterness.

“Only the usual,” I said, a bit dismissively, and took a short drink to hide my face.

A gloved finger came up and stroked my upper arm—bare in the sleeveless silk dress I wore. “We could go upstairs. I could help you relax.”

I turned to look at him—handsome, blond, and healthy in the sort of way that rich men look healthy, which is to say suntanned and muscular from travel and hunting. He’d come to London a few weeks before the board had laid down their edict and had been with me the entire time since. He was good-looking and loyal, and I came every time we had sex—what better traits could a man possess?

So why didn’t I want him tonight?

“Maybe later,” I evaded. “I’d like to dance some more.”

He hid his disappointment well. “Of course.”

I didn’t actually want to dance. I wanted to hold a man down and use his cock to drive away all the fears and worries of the day. I just didn’t know if I wanted Hugh to be that man, for whatever reason.

But once the band began playing a lively waltz, I felt like I needed to shore up my excuse. I set my glass down and put my hand on Hugh’s arm. “Shall we?”

He bowed and we drifted onto the floor, where he placed his hands awkwardly on my waist and shoulders. Though he was sure on a horse, he was not a very practiced dancer, and I could tell the activity bored him.

“Molly,” he said as we began turning in unison with the other dancers. “Have you given any thought to our conversation yesterday?”

Ah.

Yes.

I remember now.

This is the reason I don’t want to take him to bed tonight.

“I have,” I said carefully, keeping my eyes on the other dancers. The Baron was across the room, surveying the crowd, and I wished more than anything that I was next to him and not here talking with Hugh about the one thing I hated talking about.

“And?” Hugh prompted.

“And,” I sighed, “I’m still thinking about it.”

“What is there to think about?” His voice was friendly, but the words chafed me nonetheless.

“There’s a lot to think about,” I snapped. “This is my company, Hugh, and the rest of my
life
. Just because the board is forcing me to marry doesn’t mean that I will wed just anyone.”

We spun and stopped in time with the music, now side by side, and Hugh’s mouth was at my ear. “But I am hardly just anyone, am I?”

That, I had to concede. After all, if I
had
to marry, wouldn’t it be better to marry a friend? Someone I knew and didn’t mind sharing my body with? Hugh had money and connections, and adding those to the company would be a fantastic business maneuver. It was certainly better than marrying one of the mustachioed sops that kept calling on me at all hours of the day.

So why was I holding back?

“Is it Julian?” Hugh asked.

I glanced to him, confused for a moment. “Julian…Julian Markham?”

“What other Julian is there?” he asked impatiently.

“What does he have to do with anything?”

Hugh’s face pulled close to mine, so close that I could see the light from the chandeliers catching on his golden eyelashes. “Is he the reason you don’t want to marry me? Are you still in love with him?”

A year ago—what felt like a lifetime ago—I might have said yes. I might have thought about those long Amsterdam nights, those shady Vienna days—weeks and months going from Paris to Rome to Brussels and everywhere in between, Julian and me and our friends. I might have thought of Julian’s brooding features or the short growls he made as he came.

But the word
love
, the poetic, almost Biblical weight of it, revealed those faraway feelings for what they were—a schoolgirl’s obsession, though I had admittedly carried it long past my schoolgirl years.

I knew the truth, even if I tried to forget it: what I had felt in three days with Silas was infinitely more than I had felt in ten years with Julian.

“No, Hugh,” I said, meaning to sound dismissive, but instead sounding tired. “It’s not Julian.”

“Then who?” he demanded.

When had Hugh gotten so goddamned pushy? He’d only just made his sort-of proposal yesterday, and he had been the one to encourage me to take my time deciding, since there were still a few months left to the board’s deadline. Why did he feel the need to rush this all of a sudden?

I opened my mouth to deliver a sharp retort—a rebuke, really, because nobody talked to Molly O’Flaherty like that, least of all a potential husband—and then the dancers whirled, me along with them. The dance floor cleared into a pattern of even, straight rows, the kind of rows that meant you could look all the way across the ballroom and see the spectators standing at the edges.

See anybody standing at the edges.

Like, say, somebody tall, with dark hair and a dimpled smile. Somebody with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, both the shoulders and the waist hugged indecently well by a black tuxedo.

Blue eyes flicked to mine.

“Our babies would have blue eyes.”

A lone finger ran up the plane of my stomach, past my breasts, past my throat. Rested near my cheekbone.

“You think I want babies?”

That irresistible grin. “With me, you do.”

My satin heel caught against Hugh’s foot and I stumbled. “Fuck,” I swore under my breath, and then for good measure, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What?” Hugh asked, helping me steady myself.

“Silas is here.”

Hugh’s shoulders grew stiff and his eyes narrowed. “Where?”

“At the far end of the ballroom.” I could no longer see Silas, but my heart thumped as if he were right next to me, as if he were touching me…tasting me. Every nerve ending, every pulse point lit on fire at the mere idea of his proximity, and
oh God
, I could hear his laugh now, that fucking contagious laugh. I knew how he would look laughing too, his eyebrows lifted slightly as if he were taken surprise at his own happiness, his teeth white and flashing, his dimples so deep and lickable.

“I have to go,” I said abruptly and pulled away from Hugh. Thankfully, he didn’t fight me, and we exited the dance floor. I was shaking with adrenaline and rage and—Mother Mary help me, lust.

Overpowering, flaming, burning, scorching lust.

Stop. Think.

But I couldn’t. I was too furious and too aroused, and the two sensations were so intertwined that I couldn’t begin to peel them apart. Because how dare he fucking come here, to England, how dare he show his face in this house again, the very house where he’d broken my heart? And how dare he look so delicious and tempting in his tailored tuxedo, laughing as if he hadn’t a care in the world? I wanted to scratch his back until it bled, I wanted to slap his face until my hand stung, I wanted him to pin my arms behind my back and bend me over and—

No.

Molly O’Flaherty didn’t let men bend her over. She didn’t let men fuck her—she fucked them, she rode them until she came and then she was done. And certainly she didn’t let Silas do either of those things. Not any more.

My feet moved where my mind could not—away from Silas. I pushed angrily through the crowd, finally emerging onto the wide steps leading down to the Baron’s garden, gulping the still-warm night air as if it were gin—which was something I desperately needed right now.

“Molly?” Hugh asked. “Would you like to leave?”

I braced my hands on the railing, looking out over the wide expanse of the Baron’s estate, low green grass studded with bursts of flowers and capped by a large hedge maze at the end. “No,” I said firmly. I didn’t bother pretending I was upset about something else; there wasn’t a fashionable soul in London who didn’t know what had happened between Silas and me last year, and that included my would-be suitors. “I was here first. I am not leaving because of
him
.”

“Well, you shouldn’t talk to him,” Hugh advised. “Let’s just avoid him for the rest of the night. And I can find out from the Baron how long he plans on staying in London.”