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.”

“You asked him if you could marry me?” I asked.

“Well, if the board would support my suit for you, yes.”

“And this was after you had Mercy Atworth fucking you with her mouth. You still thought you would try to marry me.” My voice was flat, and I didn’t care. Let him think I was completely unaffected by him. Let him remain oblivious to the turbulent waves of heartache and lust he stirred in me.

“Yes.”

“Goddammit,” I swore. “Why? Why can’t you just leave me alone? Isn’t life bad enough without you coming back here and breaking my heart all over again—”