“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.