If Arthur showed no interest in Eloisa, other arrangements would need to be made for her welfare, he considered. He chided himself on how awkward that situation could get. Why ever did I offer her protection? Michael wondered absently, knowing full well why, while at the same time remembering his initial hesitation. It would have been far wiser to put her on a coach and send her back to Shipley. Simply set her up as a war widow and be done with her.
Stunned at her brother’s words, Elizabeth sat back on the chaise. Not quite sure what to say, she took a sip of lemonade and pondered his announcement. “When you say you will marry her when you have to, are you referring to the promise you made to our mother?” she wondered in a quiet voice, a look of defeat settling over her features.
Shifting a bit in his chair, Michael nodded and continued to do so. So, Mother told her, he thought, his misery growing.
Matching his nods bob for bob, Elizabeth gave Michael a long look before pulling her shoulders back and sitting up very straight. “That you would be married before your twenty-eighth birthday?” she added for clarification, her eyebrow cocked in a suggestive manner.
“Yes,” Michael agreed, his head still bobbing a bit.
Elizabeth leaned forward and placed her glass of lemonade on the tray. “Well!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her bodice rising as she sucked in an indignant breath. “Damn her!”
Michael was forced to sit back on his lounge chair a bit, stunned at his sister’s curse. “Beth!” he countered, his expression showing his astonishment. He was about to chastise her for her unladylike comment, but the duchess stood up suddenly, and Michael was forced by habit and courtesy to do the same.
“Why ever would she accept my offer of employment if she knows she’s to be married ... in ...in...” She paused as she started to count on her fingers. “In less than a month?”
Michael’s eyebrows furrowed. “What ... what are you talking about?” He wasn’t getting married in less than a month, so why would Olivia?
The duchess stared at her brother for several seconds, one eyebrow elegantly arching up and her arms crossing over her bosom. “Your birthday, you bounder,” she countered. “You just told me you were going to honor your promise to Mother.”
“And I will,” Michael interrupted. “Before I turn twenty-eight.”
His sister regarded him and began shaking her head. “So then ... you must already be courting Miss Waterford,” she stated, frowning again as she wondered why a girl who was about to be betrothed to the son of a viscount would seek a position as a governess.
Perhaps the chit thought it amusing to play such a trick on a duchess ... or on the sister of her would-be husband. Was this some sort of joke? How could she?
“Of course not!” Michael countered quickly, his head suddenly motionless.
Her brows furrowing in confusion, Elizabeth shook her head. She blinked, and blinked again as if she was having a revelation. “She doesn’t know you plan to marry her, does she?” Elizabeth murmured, rolling her eyes as she sat down in the chaise. Well, that was a bit of a relief, she considered. I’m not the brunt of a bad joke.
Michael slowly settled back into his lounging chair, his face reddening with the embarrassment he felt. He never intended to speak with his sister about his choice of wife, at least, not until after he had proposed to Olivia. “I .. I haven’t told her of my intentions, no,” he admitted in a small voice. “I thought her father would do that after our last conversation on the matter.”
“Does she even know I am your sister?”
Rolling his eyes, Michael replied, “Of course not. At least, if she does, it’s not because I told her.” Harold Waterford probably knew. He seemed to know an awful lot about the Cunninghams, Michael considered.
Elizabeth regarded her brother for several heartbeats. The chit doesn’t know!
Michael was about to add that he planned to tell Olivia when it was necessary, but he heard his sister’s sudden titters and glanced up to find her covering her mouth with a gloved hand. “What now?” he asked in a voice that sounded a bit harsher than he intended. She was giggling, damn her. “Whatever are you giggling about?” he queried, taking umbrage at the sudden change in her behavior. “Duchesses aren’t supposed to giggle!” he announced in annoyance, not really sure if they were allowed to giggle or not. A giggle certainly didn’t seem to be suitable behavior for an aristocrat, though. Especially for one who was in possession of a rather impressive coronet.
The duchess rolled her eyes again. “You don’t even know,” she answered, her hands held up near her face. “Forgive me, but Michael, I am just turned six-and-twenty,” Elizabeth claimed when she noticed his quizzical expression. “Your birthday is April twenty-first. Three weeks from this Friday, in fact!”
Michael stared at his sister for nearly ten seconds before he scrubbed the side of his face with a hand, felt the roughness of his afternoon beard and nearly swore. He suddenly realized the meaning behind Edward’s comment just the week before.
I suppose she expects you to have some good news, too.
No wonder he had the distinct impression that something wasn’t quite ... right ... when he left Waterford Hall to head to Wiltshire. The day he arrived at the Waterford’s home, his business partner seemed especially happy, as if the older gentleman expected something monumental to happen, his anticipation nearly palpable. They spent a few hours going over reports, much like they did on all his other visits. Then, when Michael announced he wasn’t staying for dinner – he had promised his mother he would have dinner at Cunningham Park – Harold suddenly seemed out of sorts, as if all the air had left his lungs.
Although Michael meant to ask what might be the matter, he was more concerned about getting to his sister’s before a storm rolled in from the south. So he said his farewells and took his leave of Shipley, blissfully unaware of the calendar and of the events his forgetfulness set into motion.
“That can’t be. I am six-and-twenty right now,” he murmured, his heart suddenly racing and his breathing turning shallow as he realized that perhaps he really was seven-and-twenty and would be eight-and-twenty in three weeks. Three weeks! He leaned over, dropping his head nearly to his lap. How could I have lost track of my own age? he wondered, thinking at first that Elizabeth might be teasing him, that she really was just twenty-five. But, no, her youngest child was now nearly two and ...
Damn! How could this have happened? he asked himself. Of course, it wasn’t as if he celebrated his birthday every year. He deliberately avoided doing so for this very reason! He hadn’t given his age much thought – he hadn’t had to. “Oh, my,” he said again, his voice taking on just the very hint of panic. “Oh, Christ. Whatever shall I do?” he wondered aloud, certainly not intending for his sister to hear his thoughts nor bear witness to his sudden distress.
Fighting the impulse to laugh at her brother’s sudden discomfiture, Elizabeth moved to the edge of the chaise and considered her brother’s dilemma. Although she found herself rather amused by the situation, she could see the panic in his face, in the set of his jaw and the deep furrow between his brows. “You must keep your promise to mother,” she advised with as serious an expression as possible given the humor she still felt at her brother’s expense. “You simply must. And, as far as Miss Waterford is concerned,” she paused, trying to decide if she was willing to give up her new governess in the name of keeping harmony in the Cunningham family. “If you truly want Olivia Waterford as your wife, then you shall have to resort to drastic measures and see the Archbishop of Canterbury about a special license in order to be wed by your birthday. You haven’t much time.” She paused a moment, her lower lip caught by a tooth. “Since you apparently haven’t been courting her, why is it you think Miss Waterford will even agree to marry you?”
Michael considered the question for only a moment. “Oh, I believe she will,” he said hopefully. “Her father will insist on it. He pr
actically promised her to me a year ago.” He suddenly realized it was only nine months ago, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his sister.
How could he have lost track of time? And no wonder Harold Waterford had behaved so oddly! The man had expected Michael to propose to Olivia! There would have been exactly three Sundays for the banns to be read, and then they could be wed the day before his birthday.
One of Elizabeth’s eyebrows cocked mischievously. “He knows his daughter would marry well, then?” she questioned, thinking that Michael would have informed the girl’s father of his station as the second son of a viscount.
Michael furrowed his brows in response, his head shaking from side to side. “Not ... not how you are thinking,” he answered curtly. Although he had kept his full identity from the Waterfords, especially given his older brother’s penchant for losing large amounts of money at gaming hells and spending the rest on whores, Michael remembered when Harold Waterford informed him he knew Michael was a member of the ton. It was the same day Waterford asked about his promise to his mother. The same day Waterford offered Olivia as a potential wife. The same day he assured him there was a sizable dowry. And the same day he claimed that he didn’t care if Michael was a member of the ton or not.
Waterford probably knew all about Michael’s situation long before he’d done business with him.
“Waterford only knows that I am a successful businessman involved in a variety of investments,” he claimed, knowing the statement was only half-true.
Elizabeth’s remaining humor quickly dissipated. “You’ve really gone and buggered yourself this time,” she scolded him, her choice of words causing Michael’s jaw to drop in disbelief and his face to once again turn scarlet.
“Your Grace!” he admonished her, his mouth still open in astonishment.
“Well, you have!” she countered, her humor completely gone. “And don’t ‘Your Grace’ me!” She lowered her voice. “Statton told me what the word means when I caught him using it a few months ago,” she explained as she held up her chin in defiance. “And it defines your situation perfectly. You’ve no time for a courtship, and the poor girl was probably hoping for a real church wedding,” Elizabeth claimed with a frown, shaking her head as if she was ashamed of her brother. “You’ll need a special license, of course,” she said as she leaned forward. “You should plan to wed in Shipley. You’ll want to line up a vicar or a bishop just as soon as you can. They can be notorious for being out of town when a wedding is required,” she added, as if she’d had some experience with the matter. “Just as soon as you get back to London, you’ll have to hire a decorator to create a mistress suite, or at least a decently decorated salon for her in your townhouse” she ordered, her mind racing with a list of things that must be done. “You obviously don’t have the time or the blunt to buy a suitable house in Park Lane,” she complained under her breath.
Frowning at her insult, Michael started to reply, thinking there was already a room on the second floor that would that would make a charming salon and he probably could afford a house in Park Lane, although not a large one. Before he could answer, though, Elizabeth continued her list of necessities. “She’ll need a wedding gown, of course ...”
“Well, I can’t exactly buy that for her now, can I?”
Elizabeth frowned at him, not appreciating his interruption. “If her mother doesn’t know about your machinations, then you’d better see to it her father knows so that he can arrange something. I rather doubt Shipley or even Petworth has a suitable shop for purchasing a wedding gown. She might have to go to Chichester.” This last was said as if going to Chichester to purchase a gown would be a travesty.
Michael shoulders sagged as if he’d been burdened with the weight of the world. “What else must I do?”
“Let’s see,” Elizabeth replied as she took a breath. “She’ll require a key to the townhouse, and a key to the house on Cavendish Square, and her own wax seal for correspondence, and you’ll have to have some witnesses for the ceremony ...” She took a deep breath, remembering everything she had required when she married Jeremy Statton. And for that she’d had several months and a doting mother to help prepare! “It’s rather doubtful that it can all be sorted in such short order,” she complained, taking another deep breath. Then a thought struck her. “Unless you ...” She let the sentence trail off, her teeth firmly planted in her lower lip and a mixed look of disappointment and revelation crossing her face.
“Unless I what?” Michael prompted, wondering what she had in mind.
Sighing, Elizabeth shook her head. “It would be scandalous,” she warned with a raised eyebrow. “Your reputation ...”
Michael’s mouth opened. “How so?” he demanded, now very curious as to what his sister was devising in that devious brain of hers.
“You will have to ruin her,” Elizabeth stated simply, an arched eyebrow daring him to argue the point. “Then she’ll have no choice but to marry you. And quickly. And then I shall simply have to find someone else to be my governess,” she added sadly, her shoulders drooping as she remembered what it had taken to find Olivia Waterford. After a long moment, though, her face brightened again as a huge grin split her face. “But then I shall finally have a sister!” she exclaimed happily, her hands coming together as if she were applauding herself.
Michael stared at Elizabeth for a very long time. “Ruin her?” he repeated in disbelief, stunned that his very own sister could suggest such a thing. Only men without scruples would dare to kiss or otherwise consort with an unmarried woman who wasn’t a prostitute. And only rakes did it when they knew they’d be caught in the act, not caring about the consequences of their actions. Olivia will think I’m a rake, he considered as his brows furrowed. She’ll despise me for ... forever, perhaps. “I cannot do that!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, leaning toward Elizabeth so the servants would not overhear him.
His sister regarded him, a pout having formed on her lower lip as she watched her brother do his thinking. “Do you have a better idea, Cunningham?” she countered, a bit impatient with the stubborn man.
Even as he considered his alternatives – even considered not keeping the promise he had made to his mother all those years ago – Michael realized his sister might be right. In order to gain Olivia Waterford’s hand in marriage, he would have to ruin her. There simply wasn’t time for anything proper. “I do not,” he finally replied. Sinking into his chair, Michael closed his eyes and groaned. Three weeks, he thought miserably.
And then he considered the true irony of the situation.
Eloisa had been ruined. Now he was working to arrange an advantageous marriage on her behalf. Meanwhile, he was considering ruining Olivia just to gain her hand in marriage.
Would she think marriage to him was advantageous?
He could only hope.
Will Olivia ever forgive me?
Chapter 18
Another Fib on a Friday
March 31, 1815
“You look as if you are a million miles away,” an amused voice said from somewhere nearby.
Michael jerked upright as his eyes focused on his banker, Arthur Huntington III. “Beg pardon,” Michael replied as he allowed a smile and stood up from his overstuffed wing backed chair. The cigar smoke had thinned a bit in the parlor of White’s. He’d been enjoying a glass of port as he contemplated his next business proposal for Harold Waterford – and what he might do to ensure his marriage to Olivia. “You look well, Arthur,” he said in greeting before motioning to the seat across from his. “Have you come for a game of cards or for a drink?”
He knew exactly why the banker had arrived when he did; Michael had arranged for one his sparring partners to make the suggestion to Arthur to go to White’s and check the betting book.
The older gentleman, leaner than Michael but in excellent physical shape, sported a mustache and close cropped hair with just a hi
nt of gray at the temples. Befitting his station at the bank, he was always impeccably dressed in well-tailored coats and waistcoats that were fashionable but tasteful. Like Michael, the banker boxed for exercise and was an occasional sparring partner at Gentlemen Jackson’s.
Arthur took the proffered chair. “A drink is on its way,” he said as he motioned toward a butler who was seeing to him. “But, actually, the betting book caught my eye.”
Michael’s right eyebrow cocked up, pleased to hear his suggestion had been heeded. Arthur Huntington wasn’t one for placing bets at the men’s club, although he knew the widower was the subject of one having to do with when he would find a suitable woman to marry.
When Michael reviewed the list of men he knew were in the market for a wife, Arthur Huntington’s name worked its way to the top. He hoped the older gentleman would consider courting Eloisa. But how did one arrange it so the two could meet? How did one arrange for Cupid to make an appearance, for it was rather doubtful Huntington would consider remarrying unless he felt affection for his new wife. And Eloisa deserved a man who felt affection for her.
“Taken to gambling now, have you?” Michael teased gently.
The banker smiled. “Not at all, but I couldn’t help but notice that several gentlemen stand to collect a hefty sum in three week’s time if a particular member isn’t married.” The butler appeared from Arthur’s right and set a glass of port on the small side table. “Thank you, Childers,” Arthur said as he reached for the glass and held it out toward Michael.
The younger man lifted his glass and replied in kind, knowing damn well the banker was referring to him.
Michael struggled to keep his face impassive and took a quick sip from his port. “Ah, but how much do I stand to gain if I am married?” he countered quickly as he mentally counted the days until his twenty-eighth birthday, “In three week’s time?” he added, a gleam in his eye that belied the familiar feeling of panic that was building in his gut.
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