The Wedding of Molly O'Flaherty (9 page)

I hated myself a little.

Well, not a little. A lot. I hated myself a lot. And the steel fortitude it took to go back into the bustle of the party and smile and shake hands was indescribable. I simpered and smiled, all with tears burning my eyes and Silas’s seed still damp between my legs, all with this leaden ball of self-hatred and confusion hanging from my heart, and somehow,
barely
, I managed to keep my voice even and my face clear for the rest of the night.

Even as I felt waves of panic about marrying Silas.

Even as my body still tingled and buzzed with the memory of his touch.

It was so stupid—really, just idiotic—that this panic would come, so unexpectedly and so inconveniently, when for the last month, I’d known in my heart that Silas was the one man I could be happy marrying. That Silas was the one man I wanted to be with.

But surely he understood? That this whole idea of marrying for my company had been thrust upon me without my consent? That I hadn’t necessarily been ready for it before it became the economically expedient thing for me to do?

If only he would give me time to think about it and explain. Because it wasn’t that I didn’t love him—I loved him so intensely that it frightened me. It was more that I wanted to make sure that when we moved forward together, we did it on my terms—on even footing, as it were. Not while I was still reeling from this horrible situation and all of the horrible demands it’d tried to place on me.

That was fair, right? To want an engagement to come from a place of serenity and joy? And not simply dazed relief?

The party went late, the music and drinks and colloquy lasting until the clock struck four, and then finally, the last of our guests filtered sleepily out of the rented hall, leaving Hugh and me alone. He turned to me, offering his elbow to escort me down to our carriage, and for a moment, I saw him as he was when we’d first met, seven or eight years ago. Hopeful and arrogant and a little lost—the kind of handsome man who’d been able to drift along the river of society without any effort. I think maybe I’d seen something endearing in that privileged innocence, that cloistered experience. Maybe I’d seen myself as I wanted to be—untouched by cynicism and violence. Carefree and careless. Because, while I’d maybe appeared carefree to an outsider, it was a constant, conscious, and exhausting act. But Hugh—his easiness was real and unfeigned, and maybe like Polidori’s vampire, I imagined I could somehow siphon that from him and infuse my own life with that kind of blithe insouciance.

Of course, I knew better now. And I knew that Hugh lacked certain qualities that his untroubled comportment couldn’t make up for. He wasn’t witty or charming, like Silas, or magnetic and secretly dominant, like Silas, or tender and perceptive…like Silas.

He wasn’t Silas, and he never would be, and the fact that I had ever imagined that a marriage to Hugh would be anything less than torture was supremely laughable now.

The words poured out easily. I put my hand over Hugh’s and looked him in the eye. “I’m ending our engagement.”

Hugh’s surprised laugh echoed through the empty ballroom, a laugh that said
good joke, Molly, so hilarious
. Irritation flamed at that, but I pushed it down, along with the urge to feel the crack of my hand against his cheek.

“I’m serious, Hugh.”

His laughter died. “Dearest, what can you possibly mean? You know that you—”

“—Have to marry you to keep my company intact?” I finished for him. “Maybe. Maybe this is the end of O’Flaherty Shipping. But I realized tonight that there’s nothing worth the price of my happiness. That my father wouldn’t want this for me, even to save the company he built. I’m sorry, Hugh, but I’m walking away from our agreement.”

His brown eyes blinked—confused and a little desperate as things began to sink in. “Molly, you cannot be serious. We just hosted almost every worthy member of London society for our engagement ball, and you want to tell me that you’ve changed your mind? It’s too late!”

I removed my arm from his, taking a step back. “Legally and practically, no, Hugh. It’s not too late. I’m sorry that this will be socially embarrassing for you, but really, can it be more embarrassing than your own cousin standing trial for seducing a girl barely past pubescence?”

He gaped at me.

“Face it. Without Cunningham’s money and without my company, you’re essentially finished. And with two scandals under your belt in less than a month, well, good luck finding a wealthy bride willing to marry you. I liked you once, and you know, I still believe that you do sincerely like me, in your own way. But that’s not enough to make up for a loveless union. Especially the kind of union that you wanted with me, where I would have been trapped and isolated, without any recourse.”

“No,” he rushed in to say. “It doesn’t have to be that way. We can edit those contracts, Molly. We can fix things.”

It was almost sweet that he thought that would be enough to lure me into staying. I patted his shoulder. “Goodbye, Hugh. My solicitors will be in touch.”

I fought the urge to go to Silas right away. Rather, I went home and bathed, slipping into bed as the sun began blooming pink and orange on the horizon. I tried not to think about what I’d just done—alienating Silas and breaking things off with Hugh. I tried not to think about whether or not I would have this house in a year, whether or not I’d be able to afford my servants and my carriage and to feed myself.

I simply closed my eyes and remembered the precise shade of blue Silas’s eyes were when he came inside of me, when he’d muttered Jesus, as if I were the holiest thing next to God that he could think of.

He would understand once I explained it all to him properly. He would understand how deeply I needed him, and how deeply I needed his patience. I knew he would.

When I woke several hours later, I felt groggy and shameful somehow, as if sleeping late were a sin. The afternoon sunlight spilled into the room, and there was a warm cup of tea beside me—evidence that breakfast had been brought in and then taken back, and probably the same with lunch, and now it was past time for both.

I struggled to sit up, feeling a delicious soreness in my cunt as I did, and, for a moment, forgetting all the complicated pain of last night. All I remembered was the feeling of Silas’s fingers digging into my waist and throat, the filthy words he’d crooned in my ear as I’d writhed with that insane orgasm.

And then it all came back. Our fight. His cold voice and the even colder kiss to the back of my hand.

The fragile sense of hope I’d tried to cultivate as I’d fallen asleep had vanished somewhere along the way, like mist burned off by the afternoon sunlight. I felt only remorse and defensiveness and the grim fear that I may have ruined the most important thing that would ever happen to me in my life.

I have to see him. Now.

I threw off the covers and rang the bell for my lady’s maid, and within an hour, I was clad in a white and green day dress, a fashionable hat pinned into my hair, and delicate white gloves covering my fingers. I rubbed at the spot where my engagement ring had been as the carriage jolted and jerked through the afternoon clog of London’s busiest streets.

And then we were there, and I was flinging open the door to the carriage even before it had completely stopped, tripping down the carriage steps and rushing up the stairs to knock at the door.

What should I say? What words would expose everything I needed him to see—my love and my fear, and most of all, my need for him to understand me?

Or maybe it shouldn’t be words. Silas and I had always been physical, always been creatures of touch and desire. Maybe I would say nothing as I approached him. Maybe I would slide his jacket off his shoulders and tear at his cravat. Maybe I’d push him down onto his sofa and bounce on his cock until we were both covered in sweat and sin.

Just the thought of doing that made me shiver with anticipation and desire, made my nipples hard and tight against the constricting press of my corset.
Yes. That’s what I’ll do.

But when the door opened, it was Silas’s butler, already bowing and intoning something in his low, clipped voice.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Mr. Cecil-Coke is not present today. Nor will he be home at any time in the foreseeable future. I’m afraid that he’s left London in order to tend to a personal matter.”

Not home.

Left London.

Personal matter.

“Can you be any more specific?” I asked desperately. “It really is urgent that I speak to him right away.”

“I’m sorry,” the butler said firmly and a little disapprovingly. “I’m not at liberty to divulge anything more. If you’d like, I can send word that you’ve called.”

“I—yes. All right.” I fumbled for one of my cards in my purse and handed it to the servant. “Please let him know that I’ve come to visit. And is there any place where I can forward a letter to?”

Perhaps I looked frantic enough or perhaps he simply wanted me to leave, because he sighed and relented. “Vaison-La-Romaine in Provence would be the place, miss. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

I nodded numbly, stepping back so he could shut the door, trying to wrap my mind around this new information.

Provence.

Silas had left for France.

But why? To see his brother and sister-in-law at their rented villa like he had last year? To lick his wounds?

Was it a move calculated out of hurt…or out of anger?

Stunned, I made my way back to the carriage, my mind turning the entire ride home. That the selfish bastard had left right after this fight without a single word—without even a hastily jotted note—what kind of callous cruelty had been driving him?

I rested my head against the side of the carriage and pressed my eyes shut, trying to keep the blossoming tears at bay.

There was no grave in Provence, no long mound of humped, rich earth. For a long, terrible moment, I felt a homesickness for England so strong that it nearly brought me to my knees. That I should miss something as somber and gloomy as a graveyard—me, Silas, the smiling prankster at every party—would have seemed ridiculous not four days ago. But, nonetheless. I missed the deep green of English graveyard grass, the aged dignity of the weathered stones. Instead, Charlotte and her unborn child were deposited in a cramped forest of sandstone crypts and vaults, a miniature city of the dead, ceaselessly swept by the hot lavender-scented wind.