The Wedding of Molly O'Flaherty Read online

  Copyright © 2015 Sierra Simone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, organizations, events, and products are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real.

  Cover by Date Book Designs 2015

  To Linda and Sarah and Candi, who help me hide.

  Trigger Warning: Part of Molly’s story depicts her wrestling with a nonconsensual sexual event in her past. As a survivor of sexual assault myself, I’ve tried to write these scenes as sensitively as possible but be advised that some readers may find portions of this story difficult to read.

  I felt her absence long before I opened my eyes, long before I sat up and began thinking coherent thoughts. I felt her absence in the cool sheet at my side, in the gnawing pit in my chest, in the emptiness in my heart.

  I had woken up alone every morning for the past nine months. This morning was no different.

  No different at all.

  I sat up, dug the heels of my hands in my eyes and tried to ignore the tears burning at the backs of my eyelids.

  Castor—also known as the Baron or, more formally, as Lord Gravendon—paced by the doorway to the morning room. The smell of breakfast still hung in the air, and the sun had not yet beat away the morning fog. “And she left without a word?”

  I stood with my forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window, not bothering to look away from the mist-covered lawn. “She did.”

  “That’s never been her way. The quiet way.”

  “That’s how I know she means it. The leaving. Last night was a farewell for her.” I took a deep breath and mustered the courage to utter the next words out loud. “She never intended on staying.”

  The Baron paused his movements. “Does she know yet? About her fiancé’s connection to the board?”

  I sighed. “No.”

  Molly was engaged to Hugh Calvert, a viscount who also happened to be a cousin to the leader of her company’s board, Frederick Cunningham. A fact that we were positive she didn’t know, and yet were unsure how to bring up. Because effectively, what did it change? She was still forced to marry Hugh, she still had no legal recourse to change that, and she’d made it clear that my interference in her upcoming marriage only brought her pain.

  Except.

  Except I still planned on interfering. As much as possible.

  A footman entered the room with a low bow, a letter resting on a silver salver. “Mr. Cecil-Coke. A message, sir.”

  The Baron and I exchanged equally confused glances. I walked over to the footman, thanking him for the letter, taking it back to my spot at the window.

  I unfolded the letter, skimming quickly through the words as my heart began to pound.

  The Baron, perhaps noticing my excitement, stepped forward. “Is it from Molly?”

  “Even better,” I said, tucking the letter into my pocket and making my way to the door. “It’s from my banker.”

  “Good news?”

  “The best. Where’s Julian?”

  When my fiancé stormed into my house, I was sitting peacefully at breakfast, reading one of the morning papers, blowing on a fresh cup of tea—my broken heart safely hidden and all signs of the night I just shared with Silas sluiced away with hot water and soap.

  Hugh came into the dining room looking ready to do battle, with color high in his cheeks and breathing fast, his normally handsome features folded into an expression of pure, indignant rage. But when he saw me sitting there, fresh and serene and very obviously involved in a leisurely breakfast, he paused.

  “Good morning, Hugh,” I said pleasantly. “Sleep well last night?”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it. Clearly he expected something different when he came in here—perhaps for me to be rumpled and freshly fucked or perhaps for me to be absent altogether. But, as always, he’d underestimated my intelligence.

  To be fair, I’d underestimated his capacity for ruthless cunning. It shamed me to think of all those years I’d justified Hugh’s inclusion into our circle, despite Silas and Julian’s obvious distrust of him. I’d found Hugh to be charming and handsome and exactly the kind of lover I felt the most comfortable with—passive and easygoing, with lots of grace in the ballroom and lots of stamina in the bedroom. But since our engagement had become official a few weeks ago, Hugh had become possessive, punitive, avaricious—at least, I assumed it was avarice that drove his latest series of actions, which consisted of contracts and enforced morality clauses that would strip me of my company the moment I was anything less than the perfectly loyal wife.

  Many women wouldn’t have thought twice about that. Of course, wives were expected to be faithful models of decorum, of course, no respectable English wife would ever dabble in infidelity. But my friends and I lived by different standards, and a part of me had always assumed that Hugh would accept that the business-like nature of our marriage necessitated leeway along the traditional boundaries. I never considered that someone I counted a friend would reveal himself to be so conservative, so frankly misanthropic about what I’d thought were shared understandings about sensuality and desire.

  I’d been mistaken. And now I was about to enter into a loveless marriage without even the personal freedoms I thought every enlightened woman was entitled to. I suppressed the flash of anger I had at this thought; I’d made my decision and I’d also made my goodbye to the one man I’d regret leaving behind. I had no choice in this matter if I wanted to see O’Flaherty Shipping remain alive.

  I set down my newspaper, but I didn’t rise to my feet to go to him, nor did I invite him to sit. The contract outlined the mechanics of my duties—it said nothing about the attitude with which I carried them out. I could be polite, I could even endure our marriage bed when the time came, but he would get no more from me than that.

  Hugh finally spoke, his voice strained when he did, as if he was still trying to accept that his energy and anger had been for nothing. “I heard at the club this morning that someone saw your carriage going back to the Baron’s. And I thought…”

  I wasn’t going to lie. Hugh had tainted my behaviors enough. “I went back to the Baron’s last night, but only for a couple hours. And if it’s my chastity you’re concerned with, don’t be. I didn’t have intercourse with a man.” I hoped the bitterness in my tone covered over the specificity of my words. Because I indeed had refrained from intercourse with a man, but Viola had fucked me with her fingers, right before Silas had come all over my face. Again, I’d been faithful to the letter of my marriage contract, if not to the spirit of it.

  As I predicted, Hugh only focused on the bitterness, dropping into the chair across from me, his face pained. And for a moment, I saw the young man I’d befriended several years ago, affable and out of his depth with any matter more serious than a fox hunt.

  “I just want our marriage to be a success, Molly.” He reached for my hand, and I reluctantly let him take it. “For both our sakes. I want you to be happy, to have everything you want.”

  That was demonstrably not true, but a small part of me wanted to believe it was. To believe that maybe I still had a chance for happiness—or at the least, the independence to run my company—despite everything that had happened.

  “My lawyers and I will be finalizing the contract to
day,” I said, pulling my hand away and changing the subject. “And the preparations for our engagement party this week are nearly complete.”

  “And our wedding?” he asked eagerly. “The sooner we set a date, darling, the sooner we can move on with our lives.”

  And the sooner my life will end.

  “As we discussed, the end of this month.”

  “And a honeymoon?” He gave me a look that was unmistakably tender. “I’m ready for us to start a family, Molly. Our family.”

  I stared at him. As astute as I could be at reading people, Hugh still remained a murky figure in my mind. He seemed genuinely earnest to marry me, to possess my body and heart as his and his alone, at the same time that he seemed eager to lay legal claim to my money and my business. I could only conclude that it was a mixture of both things—that he was doing this because he carried some sort of misguided affection for me and a very real desire for my holdings.

  And then I remembered Silas last night, his impassioned speech on the ballroom floor, the incandescent passion that burned between us in bed, with Viola as our tinder. Heat flared deep in my stomach at the same time pain squeezed my heart.

  “Whatever you wish, Hugh,” I said, suddenly ready to be by myself. “And if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for my lawyers. You can expect the contract very soon.”

  He felt his dismissal and, thankfully, accepted it without argument. He stood and kissed my hand. “I want to see you soon, Molly,” he said in a low voice. “Please don’t avoid me now—I don’t want you to interpret our contract to mean that I want to conduct our engagement entirely within the bounds of propriety…”

  He clearly thought he was being charming here, and I felt the kindling of a white-hot anger behind my eyes. He thinks I’ll still fuck him of my own free will? After trapping me with my own company? No, I wouldn’t submit to that humiliation until it was absolutely unavoidable.

  Dangerously close to saying something I’d regret, I stood as well, taking my hand back and moving toward the door with him trailing behind me. I resisted the urge to ball my fists or stomp my feet, despite the sudden rage, and instead I cleared my throat and spoke calmly, “Perhaps it’s easier if we do things the traditional way. After all, I now need to legally protect myself against aspersions against my character, and I’m worried that premarital liaisons between us may complicate that.”

  His mouth pressed together in a thin line, the effect of which made him look ten years older and strangely familiar…

  “You can’t argue with this,” I continued. “This is your own contract, your demands, that you’ve brought to me. I’m only trying to abide by them.”

  I saw him struggle with this information, searching for counter-arguments and finding none. After all, he could hardly threaten me for daring to be chaste. At least before our marriage. Afterwards, I would have no choice but to submit, but until then, my body would remain my own.

  Hugh gave me a curt bow and donned his hat. “In that case, I will wish you a good day and the best of luck with your lawyers.”

  I shut the door behind him with a sigh of relief. And then I calmly walked back to the table, where I just as calmly took my teacup off the table and hurled it against the wall.

  “Everything is more or less in order, Miss O’Flaherty,” my attorney said. “We only wanted to clarify a few more things before we arranged for your signatures.”

  We sat in my office, myself and three of my lawyers, piles of onionskin paper stacked between us. I set down the pen I’d just taken up with a sigh. “What is it?” I asked.

  They glanced at each other. Aaron Caldwell, my lead attorney, seemed to be the one silently nominated to explain. He looked down at the papers as we spoke, shuffling through a few of them. “We took the liberty of investigating Mr. Calvert’s holdings. Which is very standard, of course, in such a union as yours, where both parties are bringing considerable wealth to the marriage.”

  I rolled my hand through the air. “Yes, Mr. Caldwell, I know.”

  Get to your point, I wanted to scream but didn’t. This day was awful enough without me alienating the few people left on my side.

  “Well, Miss O’Flaherty, the thing is…Mr. Calvert isn’t bringing considerable wealth to your marriage.”

  I froze. “Excuse me?”

  “The Beaumont viscounty is quite depleted, both in land and in liquid assets, mainly due to some bad investments made by the Viscount’s late father. Mr. Calvert is actually in a very threadbare financial state.”

  “How could that be?” I sputtered. I’d never seen Hugh lacking for money, ever, not when we were in Europe and not here in England. He’d always worn the most fashionable clothes and stayed in the most fashionable hotels, and never had he indicated that it was difficult for him to do so.

  “Apparently, he has been sustained by loans from a relative.” Mr. Caldwell took a breath as the other lawyers shifted in their seats. “And we feel that you should know that the relative is Frederick Cunningham.”

  It was as if the sound left the room, the sound and all the air and all the light, and for a moment there was nothing but a dull ringing and the knowledge that I’d been duped. Led. Manipulated.

  Thoroughly and utterly fooled.

  Mr. Caldwell kept talking. “It appears that Mr. Cunningham is a first cousin to Mr. Calvert, on his mother’s side. The age difference and Mr. Cunningham’s lack of title have meant that the two have never associated openly in the same social circles, but regardless, it’s been Mr. Cunningham keeping Mr. Calvert’s lifestyle in the manner in which he seems to have been accustomed.”

  “No wonder Cunningham was so insistent that I marry Hugh,” I said, mostly to myself. Hugh had arrived only a couple of weeks before the board had laid down their edict, and at the time, I found his presence a happy coincidence. He kept me company, went to parties with me, played the part of a concerned friend, and now it was all too clear that he’d been courting me, hoping I’d choose him. And when that didn’t happen on its own, Cunningham stepped in and forced the choice upon me.

  I turned to my lawyers, all of whom I trusted and all of whom had been indispensable through this crisis. “Does this change anything about my position in the company?” I asked bluntly. “Does this mean I can avoid marrying?”

  “There is a clear conflict of interest here, but again, since the board would be acting purely of their own free will if they sold their shares—something they all have the freedom to do if they choose—there’s nothing legally reproachable here. Ethically, yes. But in a court of law…we would not be able to make a case.”

  I stared down at my hands. “So the fact that this marriage directly benefits a member of the board is inconsequential?”

  Their silence was sufficient.

  I picked up my pen and unstoppered my inkwell. “Then I suppose I’m just as trapped as before.”

  “With all due respect,” Mr. Caldwell said, “you still have the choice not to marry.”

  “And then lose my company?”

  “In a legal sense, you are already losing it.” Mr. Caldwell placed a large hand over the contract, preventing me from sliding it over to my side of the desk. “Please, Miss O’Flaherty. I’m saying this as an acquaintance who has the greatest respect and affection for you. There is so little to be gained from this match—there is a very real chance that you will be separated from your company and will not have any recourse anyway. Would it be so unthinkable to let the board sell their shares?”

  “It would ruin the company,” I said flatly, pulling at the contract.

  He let go, but his voice and posture remained impassioned. “And what then? With your land investments and other assets, we could make sure that you were comfortable the rest of your days, and then you would be free to marry whom you wanted.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Caldwell,” I said, irritated. Not irritated with him or his well-meant advice, but with everything else. This situation. This business climate. This country. �
�But this company is mine. My father and I built it from nothing after we lost everything, and I will do whatever I have to do in order to keep it alive. Understood?”

  I signed the contract, my signature dark and savage on the paper.

  A knock at the door prevented the lawyers from answering. I rubbed my forehead. It was barely noon, and between Hugh and the contract, I was feeling quite done with the day. An unexpected visitor did not bode well.

  My butler came to the office door. “A Miss van der Sant, madam.”

  My eyebrows raised. Birgit van der Sant was the adolescent daughter of Martjin van der Sant, a man that O’Flaherty Shipping was in negotiations to partner with for business. She’d also caught the eye of the predatory Frederick Cunningham, who had a known proclivity for virgins.

  Known by me, at least.

  I shivered and pushed away the dark memories.

  “Let her in, Mason,” I told my butler. “Show her into the parlor, and I’ll be in shortly.”

  Birgit sat on my sofa, her gloved hands twisting in her lap. When I entered the parlor, she looked up, her young face caught in an expression of vulnerable hope…which vanished after a few seconds, replaced by a calm facade of polite impassivity. I thought of her father—a stern older man with a reputation for rigid Teutonic morality—and decided she probably often had to hide her most vulnerable feelings, her most tumultuous ones. Martjin van der Sant did not seem like the kind of father who would indulge in displays of emotion.

  She stood as I walked to her, and we clasped hands and exchanged kisses.

  “Miss van der Sant,” I said, sitting and indicating she should do the same. “I’m quite pleased to see you, although I confess I’m a little surprised. How can I help you today?”

  She sucked her lower lip into her mouth for an instant before releasing it, a childhood habit superseded by conscious control of her mannerisms, girlhood being subsumed by adulthood. For some reason, that made my heart squeeze, in nostalgia and regret all at the same time.