TuesdayNights

by Linda Rae Sande

  The glass of champagne was lifted from her hand. “And that will be quite enough bubbles for you, young lady,” he said as he downed the rest of the glass in one gulp. The glass seemed to disappear from his grasp as he took one of her hands in his and placed his other at her waist. Much like she had with Michael, Olivia found herself dancing the waltz, although she had to concentrate a bit more. Her father wasn’t nearly as strong a lead as Michael had been.

  “I’m sure it was you who said I was not allowed to dance the waltz,” she said, finding it hard to keep a straight face.

  “Did I, now?” Harold replied, glancing to his right to be sure their path was clear. “I suppose you’re going to deny it was you doing just that with Mr. Cunningham only moments ago?”

  Olivia considered how to answer. “Well, it was me, but once I informed Mr. Cunningham that I wasn’t allowed to dance the waltz, he stopped dancing with me,” she explained, failing at suppressing a smile.

  Oh, the joys of champagne!

  “By the way, I’m not allowed to dance the waltz,” she added, allowing a brilliant grin to appear.

  Harold had to work hard to hide his amusement. “Livvy, my darling, you be careful,” he said in a much more serious tone. “He’s a young man. He’s not yet interested in marriage, and probably won’t be for several years. Which means that whatever he was about to do with you behind that potted palm might have been your ruination.”

  Ruination?

  Sobering quickly, Olivia nearly stumbled upon hearing her father’s words. She managed to recover by doing a double-step to keep up, but her expression was more serious than it had been the day before in the yard of the inn.

  The music ended, leaving the two of them right back near the potted palm. Olivia glanced in its direction. “What do you think he was he about to do?” she wondered, one eyebrow arched up in alarm.

  Nothing in Michael’s demeanor had suggested he had anything untoward in mind when he escorted her off the dance floor. Or when he offered her another glass of champagne. Was the man really a rake? Was it his intention to ... to ruin her? Olivia wasn’t even quite sure what that meant, but from how her father had said the word, it couldn’t be good. And it had to be worse than Eli Blaylock kissing her.

  Embarrassed at her question, Harold put her arm on his and led her to the palm. “I ... I don’t know exactly. Except he looked as if he wanted to ... to kiss you,” he stammered, his face taking on a hint of scarlet.

  Both of Olivia’s brows arched up. “Really?” she replied, perhaps with not enough alarm. With a bit too much delight, in fact.

  “Olivia!” her father admonished her. “You can allow the man to kiss you when you’re both sure he’s about to ask for your hand in marriage,” he stated firmly.

  Olivia regarded her father for a moment. “I understand,” she replied finally. After a moment, a hint of understanding shown on her face. “Did he try the same thing with Eloisa?” she asked suddenly.

  Her father seemed to take a step back. “Not that I know of,” he replied with a shake of his head. “In fact, I rather doubt he would. He’s not ...” Harold stopped then, realizing what he was telling his sixteen-year-old daughter. “Just ... be mindful,” he finished and then patted the back of her gloved hand. “And it’s time for supper,” he added, leading them away from the potted palm. “With all this dancing, I find I am famished.”

  Olivia allowed her father to escort her to the supper room, all the while wondering just what Michael Cunningham might have had in mind when he escorted her off the dance floor. And no matter what she imagined, she found she couldn’t be fearful of him.

  Quite the opposite, in fact.

  For if she was pressed to say how she felt about their recent house guest, Olivia would have to admit she had a crush on the man.

  Instead of feeling mortified by her admission, Olivia allowed a grin. Oh, the joys of champagne!

  Chapter 5

  A Promise is Made on a Friday

  One o’clock in the morning, April 27, 1810

  “Now, you really must tell me what you think of Faith Seward,” his mother was insisting as she snapped shut her fan and regarded her son. She and Michael had just walked up to the coach-and-four and were about to get in for the trip to Iron Creek.

  Michael regarded his mother with a rather stunned expression. She usually waited until they were actually in the coach before asking about the biddable ladies of the ton he might be considering for matrimony. And Faith Seward wasn’t even in attendance at the ball they were just now leaving. She was probably still in Bath, or maybe in London for the Season.

  Why would his mother bring up Faith?

  “She’s quite pretty, don’t you agree? And her father is an earl,” Violet said with a good deal of satisfaction. She didn’t add that the chit was barely out of the schoolroom and his best friend’s youngest sister. And her best friend’s daughter. “I’m not so sure about the Waterford girl, though,” she went on, not giving her son an opportunity to give his answer about Faith Seward. “She seemed ...”

  “Which one?” Michael interrupted, wondering if his mother had seen him dancing with Olivia. If so, he had every intention of letting her know Olivia had done the right thing in informing him she wasn’t allowed to waltz. But the few moments he had spent with the chit simply reinforced his initial impressions of her. She was a delight to be around.

  Violet raised an eyebrow before stepping up into the coach. “There’s more than one?”

  Michael held his breath for a moment, enough time to thank the stars she hadn’t seen him dancing with Olivia. His mother had spent a good deal of the night in the card room.

  “Well, only one out in Society,” he amended.

  Spreading her skirts over the seat, Violet settled back into the squabs. “That one, then. She seemed ...” Her voice trailed off as if she was having a hard time describing Eloisa Waterford.

  “Desperate?” Michael offered, thinking it was as good a word as any to describe Eloisa’s behavior that evening.

  “She is a pretty chit,” Violet acknowledged, although the tone of her voice suggested she agreed with Michael’s assessment. “But she’s the daughter of a man engaged in trade, is she not?” she questioned with a wave of her fan.

  Michael resisted the temptation to explain that he, too, was now engaged in trade with that very man, although in a very different business than Waterford’s usual ventures. “She is,” he agreed.

  “So?” Violet said with a good deal of anticipation.

  Michael furrowed his brows; he had hoped his mother had forgotten about Faith Seward. Despite his mother’s desperate attempts to find a suitable wife for him, Michael had politely rebuffed all the debutantes she’d paraded past him during the past few Seasons in London, saying only that none of them suited him. At soirées, she would introduce him to a few biddable girls with the hope that one of them would turn his head, intrigue him, or otherwise interest him in the idea of matrimony. But none did.

  Truth be told, he really didn’t want to get married. At least, not at this point in his life. He wondered why she even bothered, and then made the mistake by asking, “Mother, what does it matter?” with an air of indifference. He took the seat opposite her in the coach. He heard her gasp of shock and immediately regretted his comment.

  “You are already three-and-twenty!” she claimed, her voice rising a bit too much. At her son’s widened eyes (what happened at twenty-three to illicit such an exclamation?), she sighed and said quietly, “Even as the second son, you are expected to marry and sire an heir. You must for the sake of the viscountcy,” she stated, her impatience apparent in her reddened face and suddenly angry eyes. “Your older brother will no doubt end up in debtors’ prison before your father meets his maker,” she added under her breath, her impatience with her oldest son, Marcus Cunningham, suddenly in evidence.

 
They rode in silence to Crawley Down, the tension building until they were safely in the library of Iron Creek. Michael did not wish to carry on this particular conversation unless he could clearly see the viscountess.

  “I will marry, Mother,” Michael assured her quietly, taking one of her hands in his. She was truly concerned, for the viscountcy as well as for him, he realized as he took in the sight of her countenance. And she was nearly in tears. “I promise.”

  Lady Cunningham gasped, as if she was surprised to hear her son make such a promise. “When?” she countered, her mood softening a bit but her hackles still up in response to his earlier insolence.

  Michael took a deep breath, realizing now that tears were probably not so imminent. Last time I fall for that trick, he thought bitterly.

  Whatever answer he gave had to appease the woman but give him time to make his way in the world. At the rate she was spending his father’s money and his brother was squandering his allowance, Michael wasn’t counting on an inheritance when his father did pass away. And this new business venture, despite its lucrative nature, wouldn’t pay out for a couple of years.

  He took a deep breath and considered how much time he needed, how long it would be before he would have enough blunt to ensure a comfortable life for himself – and a family, as well as the assurance that Shipley and the surrounding area was economically viable. Four ... no, five years should do it, he thought, allowing himself a cushion should the situation in Europe change in the next few years.

  Michael took another deep breath and let it out. “If not before, then I will be married no later than on the eve of my twenty-eighth birthday,” he answered firmly, holding up his broad chin. A forgotten bruise from his bare knuckle fight with Gentleman Jackson the day before he left London was suddenly quite evident under his jawline. He remembered too late, and Lady Cunningham caught sight of it before he could hide it behind a hand.

  Violet gasped and sat down in a Chippendale chair, her gown draping haphazardly over the arms. Michael thought the gasp was in response to seeing the yellowing bruise.

  “That’s almost five years!” Lady Cunningham whispered, her despair apparent in her voice and her slumping shoulders.

  The bruise obviously didn’t matter to her in the least.

  “As I said, it might be before, but you must allow me time to build my own fortune, since it is apparent you will spend all of father’s before he dies,” Michael accused with just a hint of amusement, one gloved hand still holding her hand.

  His mother gasped, her mouth opened quite wide and her eyes looking a bit like daggers. “I assure you, my dear son. He can afford my little indulgences,” she countered defensively before seeing the gleam in her son’s eyes. She sat up straighter, suddenly aware of the nature of her son’s comment. “You are teasing me,” she accused then, her mouth pressed into a thin line as she tried not to smile in turn.

  “And I must ask that I be allowed to marry whomever I wish, even if she is not of the ton,” Michael added, thinking that to make clear the terms of the deal now would absolve him of having to attend the Marriage Mart in the future.

  Gasping again, Lady Cunningham pulled her hand from his grasp. “But, she must be!” the woman insisted, her face reddening again.

  Michael sighed, knowing he had the perfect response for that demand. “May I remind you, Mother, that you were not?” he countered quietly, hoping she would simply drop the subject.

  Even when he was a child, Michael Cunningham knew his father loved his mother, knew his father had defied his own father by marrying Elizabeth Williams, the daughter of a gentleman engaged in trade. Although it was a lucrative business involving expensive goods imported from the Colonies, it was trade none the less. But his mother had quickly learned everything she needed to know to be a viscountess, and before long, she was accepted by the ton as if she was one of their own.

  “When you marry, Michael, and if she is not a daughter of a peer, I do hope she’ll have a rather large dowry to make up for it. And if she is a daughter of the ton, I do hope she will help raise your station in life,” Lady Cunningham stated in a quiet voice.

  Michael nodded before he replayed her words in his head. He couldn’t help but notice that neither scenario included another possibility.

  What about marrying a woman because he felt affection for her? Because she felt affection for him in return? Wasn’t that an option? Didn’t anyone in the ton marry for love these days? Or were all marriages simply unions of convenience? Or inconvenience? he thought as he remembered what had happened to cousin Colette. At least her dowry hadn’t been wasted on a rake who would no doubt spend it at gaming hell tables.

  He was about to ask his mother when he realized his mother wasn’t finished imparting her wisdom.

  “And whatever the terms of your marriage agreement,” his mother continued, not noticing his furrowed brows as he tried to consider other marriage scenarios. “Please, honor your vows and quit your mistresses,” she pleaded as tears threatened to escape the corners of her eyes.

  Michael’s eyes widened. “What mistresses?” he countered in surprise, wondering how she might be left with the impression he could afford such an indulgence. Or indulgences? he amended when he realized what she’d said. What man besides the most well-off aristocrat could afford more than one mistress?

  Having a mistress meant having the blunt to cover the rent for a townhouse in Mayfair, not to mention pin money and modistes and tickets for the theatre. And jewelry! Just last week, he had overheard an earl complaining about his monthly bill at Rundell and Bridge and the amount of time he was spending making trips to Ludgate Hill.

  At no point in his life did Michael expect he would ever be able to afford the cost of a mistress. But sobered by his mother’s words, Michael nodded and finally replied, “I promise, I will do so.”

  And then he remembered his promise. Five years. I have five years.

  Chapter 6

  Birthday Blues on a Saturday Two Years Later

  March 13, 1812

  “Today is my birthday,” Edward Seward announced happily, dropping himself into a chair next to the fireplace.

  Michael Cunningham turned from the sideboard where he was pouring himself a snifter of brandy and regarded his best friend with a raised eyebrow. He and Sir Richard had just returned from another trip to Sussex, rather satisfied with how their joint business ventures were faring. In just three years, they were seeing profits from their first iron smelting business, and twelve men from Shipley and West Grinstead were gainfully employed. Given their success, Harold Waterford had agreed to underwrite another venture, this one based on the coal industry in Sussex.

  “Again? Didn’t you just celebrate one of those a few months ago?” Michael wondered, a frown forming on his face as he made his way to the chair across from Edward’s. He let out a heavy sigh as he sank into the well-worn cushions. “At the rate you have birthdays, you’ll be twice as old as me before I reach forty.”

  Edward cocked a blond eyebrow, raising his own snifter of brandy in salute to Michael. “Not funny, Cunningham,” he remarked dryly. “At least I know how to celebrate mine.”

  Edward had just returned from an evening with his mistress, Anna Holdwalter. The young woman, a seamstress at a modiste’s shop in Oxford Street, had moved to London with her family the year before. Her father, Justin Holdwalter, was now employed by several aristocrats who favored his tailoring skills. Although the man had built a respectable reputation and was much sought after for his fashionable waistcoats and tailored topcoats, he was still just a tailor. Since some in London considered tailors the lowest of the low in class, the daughter of such a man certainly wasn’t supposed to warrant the attention of an earl’s son. But she did.

  His childhood friend and confidante had only grown more beautiful whilst Edward continued his studies at Oxford. Now that they were both in London, he had, ea
rlier that month, set her up in a townhouse in Bruton Street. Edward would have married her the same day and moved in with her, but given his status as the second son of an earl, he knew he would have to wait until his older brother married and sired an heir before he would be free of any obligations with respect to the Eversham earldom.

  At least his brother had someone in mind as his future countess. Now, if they would just get married and have some babies, he thought with a bit of impatience, wondering when he and Anna might have some of their own. Maybe as a result of this afternoon, he thought with a sigh as he remembered how their carnal meeting had begun. With soft words, of course. And simple kisses.

  But one thing led to another, and before he quite realized it, his kisses had required he remove Anna’s fashionable gown, and she remove his cravat and topcoat. At the touch of her fingers around his neck and into his blond curls, he pulled the ties of her corset so the laces unraveled. He pushed the offending garment down past her hips, letting gravity do the rest. At that point, she had managed to undo nearly every button on his linen shirt and was pulling the tails out of his breeches.

  Edward pushed the neckline of her chemise past one shoulder, his lips forming kiss after kiss on her heated skin. He was oblivious to her fingers as they undid the fastenings on the fall of his breeches – at least, until the last button was undone. His manhood was so engorged, it sprung forth when released from the prison of his breeches and landed in her far more hospitable hand. He jerked, breaking his hold on her shoulders.

  “Anna,” he breathed as he gathered up the folds of her chemise and stripped it from her body.

  Aware of the lightweight fabric billowing as it made its way to the floor, Anna closed her eyes and allowed her head to fall back on her neck. One of her thumbs rubbed over the wet silken skin that barely contained his manhood, her fingers wrapping around the shaft and squeezing until she heard Edward’s gasp. She had to inhale when his mouth came down on one of her breasts. Although nearly flat, the mounds they formed when his hands moved to cup them filled his palm.