TuesdayNights (32 page)

Blushing, Eloisa rolled her eyes. “Yes, but only thirty-eight, and quite handsome,” she gushed. “Debonaire, I think you would say.”

Olivia let out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Thirty-eight,” she repeated with a nod. That’s not so very old, I suppose, she thought.

“And he has the most beautiful home in Cavendish Square, and a house in the country near Bath!”

Olivia leaned back a bit.
Cavendish Square.
One of the best addresses in all of London! Her sister’s fiancé sounded like an excellent match. “And do you ... feel affection for this man?” Olivia ventured, wondering if the arrangement would be a marriage of convenience or one of love.

Taking a deep breath so as to contain her enthusiasm, Eloisa nodded. “Olivia, I love him,” she said quietly. She leaned forward and took another breath. “And I told him so last night when he gave me this ring and confessed his love for me.”

Olivia shook her head in stunned disbelief. “Two weeks?” she repeated again, realizing what that meant for her. “Oh, my,” she murmured, suddenly feeling faint. By finding someone to marry Eloisa, it seemed as if Michael had divested himself of his mistress before his trip to Shipley.

So why did he come to my bedroom thinking she was Eloisa?

Or did he?

“Olivia, are you alright?” she finally heard Eloisa ask, apparently for a second or third time.

Shaking her head a bit, Olivia sat up straight and nodded. “I am,” she said, continuing to nod her head. “I am very well, in fact,” she said, her face showing a grin that was growing into a very large smile. “I am so very happy for you, Eloisa. You will be marrying for love!” She clasped her hands around Eloisa’s and squeezed gently.

Eloisa smiled at her sister’s response, but the smile faded as she continued to stare at Olivia. “You say that as if you ... as if you did not,” she murmured, her brow furrowing a bit. “I thought ... I thought you had always ... I thought you felt
affection
for Mr. Cunningham ...”

“I did,” Olivia admitted quickly, nodding and taking a deep breath of relief. “I ... I do. Feel affection for him, I mean,” she added, her head still spinning a bit. “But our wedding was a bit ...”

“Rushed, I know,” Eloisa finished for her, a worried expression on her face. “Pray tell, what really happened?” she whispered as she leaned in closer. “I do not believe Mr. Cunningham ... I do not think him capable ...” She stopped and wondered how much to admit. She could not believe Michael would have ruined her sister, as the servants in the Waterford household seemed to believe. And their father seemed to have known Olivia and Michael would be wed, and soon. But she could not tell her sister what she knew of Michael without exposing herself as having been close to the man for the past year.

“He truly did not
ruin
me,” Olivia whispered with a shake of her head. “Although, it seems it was meant to appear that way.”

Eloisa cocked her head to one side, wondering what her sister meant. “Are you saying his intention was to be discovered by father? In your room?” she queried, her shocked expression conveying her surprise. But after thinking about the events of the past two weeks, Eloisa considered that her sister was probably correct. What had Michael Cunningham been up to?

“I truly do not know,” Olivia muttered with a shrug. “But, enough about me. I want to know all about the man who will be my brother-in-law,” she claimed as she leaned forward and helped herself to a biscuit. For, with the relief of knowing her sister was getting married came the realization that she was hungry, both for food and for time with her sister. It was hours before she made her way back to the Cunningham townhouse.

Michael appeared at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing parlor in Bond Street at exactly three o’clock, the time requested in the note he’d received from his banker.

Arthur Huntington III was already in the ring. Wearing only breeches, the banker displayed a physique that belied his thirty-eight years as he bounced about, occasionally throwing punches into the air.

Moving quickly to the changing room, Michael stripped his coats and shirt from his body and removed his boots. Remembering his banker’s lack of stockings, he removed his own and walked calmly out to the area which held the fighting ring. He waved in the direction of Jackson himself, nodding when the proprietor acknowledged him with a slight bow.

“Cunningham!” Arthur called out from inside the ring. “So glad you could join me,” the older man commented as he watched Michael approach the ring. His face held no humor, though.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Michael replied as he climbed into the ring and began to loosen up. “I am at a loss as to the reason for this match, though,” he claimed, jabbing his right hook into thin air several times. “We usually don’t
schedule
when we spar.”

Arthur dropped his arms and strode to Michael, wanting their conversation to go unheard by the few bystanders that hung around the ring. “I believe you to have a claim on Mrs. Eloisa Smith,” he replied evenly, holding his chin up so that he might convince Michael he would not back down nor back out of their sparring session.

Frowning, Michael shook his head. “As I said before, I have no claim on the widow.” At Arthur’s look of disbelief, Michael added, “I admit to helping her where I can, but ...”

“You’ll no longer be doing that,” Arthur interrupted, his chin back up and his gaze very steady. “I have asked for her hand, and she has agreed to marry me,” he stated, a hint of pride – or was that challenge? – in his voice.

Michael smiled then, a genuine smile that lit up his eyes and allowed his white teeth to glow in the dim light. “Congratulations, old man,” he said happily, punching his banker lightly on the shoulder. “I already wished Mrs. Smith happy when she was in Shipley last week. She came to say you were courting her,” he added, punching Arthur lightly on the shoulder again.

Hearing the good news about the impending nuptials from Arthur directly, Michael considered how relieved he felt. He would no longer have to be Eloisa’s protector, no longer have to provide her with pin money and a maid, and he would no longer have to provide her a place to live.

He was free to be married to Olivia.

Arthur held up his fists in front of him, a bit surprised by Michael’s reaction to his statement and rather incensed at the mention that his betrothed had spoken to Michael in Shipley. “Shall we then?” he asked, his eyebrow cocking in challenge.

“Oh, of course,” Michael replied lightly, holding up his fists in a loose, defensive posture.

Arthur was on the attack immediately, jabbing a roundhouse right into Michael’s ribs so hard that Michael was sure one cracked. More surprised from the ferociousness of the punch than the pain that it created, Michael reacted with a series of quick jabs to Arthur’s face, connecting with his jaw on only one of them. The banker reeled a bit, but was quick to cover himself as Michael tried a roundhouse to his body.

“I must admit, I didn’t know you had proposed to Mrs. Smith,” Michael said conversationally as he dodged a series of punches and then was stunned by an uppercut that caught his jaw. Damn! The man was playing for keeps! “She mentioned you had asked to court her when she saw me at Waterford Hall last week,” he added, feeling the sting of the punch and having a devil of a time hiding it.

“I know,” Arthur replied with a curt nod, covering himself as Michael managed to get close with a series of punches, finally hitting the man along the jawline again. Arthur danced back out of the way and shook his head quickly. “I thought it best to ask for her hand while you could not interfere.”

Taking a deep breath, Michael made sure to hold his arms up in front of him as Arthur moved in to take some more shots to his body. “But, why would I wish to interfere?” he countered as his left fist crunched into the side of Arthur’s arm, sending the man stumbling sideways. “As my sister-in-law, I could only hope she would make an excellent match now that her mourning period is over,” he added, gasping for breath as he danced around the banker. “I do hope you’ll ask me to stand with you during the ceremony.”

But Arthur recovered and managed to slug him hard, first against the side of his chest and again into his forearm before he had a chance to comprehend Michael’s words. Breathing heavily, Arthur furrowed his brows and dropped his arms. “Sister-in-law?” he repeated, sotto voce.

Michael took the opportunity to lightly punch Arthur in the ribs and then again in the shoulder. “Of course,” he replied with a shrug. He returned his arms to their defensive posture. “I was in Shipley to get married to her sister, Olivia Waterford,” he explained lightly, his breaths still short.

Panting, Arthur stared at Michael. “You’re married?” he asked, his expression conveying his shock. He tried a roundhouse, but it went through air as Michael easily ducked away.

“I told you I was getting married. Before I left, remember?”

Arthur Huntington stared at him in disbelief. “You got married?” he repeated, his jaw suddenly slack.

“Yes,” Michael said with a smile, his head nodding as he tried to ignore the sharp pains he suddenly felt from Arthur’s punches. “Olivia and Eloisa are sisters,” he added, just in case the banker hadn’t figured it out from his earlier comment. “I ... I have been looking after Eloisa at the behest of her father,” he lied, hoping the news would force the banker to end the match.

“Indeed?” Arthur replied, a flash of anger mixing with confusion. He rushed at Michael and pummeled him with his fists until Gentleman Jackson himself stepped in and pulled the banker off of Michael. “So, does this mean we’re to be brothers?” Arthur gasped, bending over to try and catch his breath while Jackson looked over Michael’s wounds.

“Uh huh,” Michael replied, not wanting to smile; he thought it would hurt too much. “Are we done here?” he asked, deciding he no longer wanted to fight Arthur, especially if the man was going to be his brother-in-law.

Dazed, Arthur nodded, wandering off without another word.

The proprietor watched the banker leave the ring. He turned his attention back to Michael and his wounds. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked as he reached up to check the source of a stream of blood running down Michael’s face.

“Just a friendly sparring match,” Michael replied as he rolled his eyes. His expression darkened, though, when he saw the blood and realized that some of the punches he had taken had caused damage. There was no doubt he would be left with ugly bruises. He could barely breathe given the pain from the cracked or broken rib. Given the level of discomfort he felt, he rather doubted he would be able to consummate his marriage that night. Damn! It would be at least a day or more before he would be recovered enough to bed Olivia. Double damn! he thought with a sigh, wincing at the sharp pain his simple curse invoked.

But I am free of my obligation to Eloisa. What a relief!

Olivia quietly opened her bedchamber door and stood motionless for a moment, staring at the end of the hallway. Sure it was Michael she had heard come up the stairs, she ventured into the hall and saw that the door to his bedchamber was ajar. Neither he nor Edward had been at dinner that evening; Michael had sent a reminder note saying he would be home late as he was shopping in Ludgate Hill. Olivia had taken her dinner in the parlor and begun reading Pride and Prejudice, becoming so engrossed in the tale she only stopped reading when the clock on the mantle struck ten. Taking the book with her, she retired to her bedchamber .

Olivia took a deep breath and willed herself to confront Michael. Moving quickly and as quietly as possible, she hurried to his room, her bare feet soundless on the Aubusson hall carpet. There was movement inside his room; footfalls on the plush carpet, a coat being discarded. Olivia took a deep breath and stepped into the room, one hand grasped on the edge of the door as she stood staring at her husband. Wearing only breeches and his Hessians, his hair tousled from having removed his shirt, Michael was at first a sight to behold. His broad chest and large upper arms could have only belonged to a man who exercised rigorously. Olivia shivered as she remembered the night he had climbed into her bed and moved his body so that it enveloped hers. Besides the awful odor of ale and cheroot smoke, there was the scent of the laundry soap on the linens and a bit of sandalwood and the scent of him. There was the heat of his body as it permeated her night rail, flowing into her very being. The weight of his right arm as it rested on the side of her body and the incredible sensation that coursed through her body as his hand cupped her right breast. Her entire body shivered as she remembered that night.

Just a week ago?

Just a week, she realized. And yesterday morning. He had done the same thing, although he hadn’t smelled of cheroots and ale, thank goodness. She was sure he would bed her then, but there had been that sudden knock at the door and his hasty departure.

Olivia stood before him now in awe, her gaze finally settling on bruises that were so out of place on a man of such perfection. Without thinking, she moved quickly to stand before him, one hand reaching out to caress the flesh where a blue-green stain was spreading over several ribs.

Surprised when he finally noticed Olivia staring at him, Is that fright I see in her eyes? he wondered, Michael stopped and returned the stare, watching her as she approached him. As her hand reached out to touch him, he grimaced, expecting to feel pain from the place where he had allowed Huntington to punch him with his right fist, a roundhouse blow that he thought at the time might have cracked a rib or two. But when Olivia’s fingertips finally made contact, the touch was so gentle, his skin shivered as if tickled. His sharp intake of breath caused Olivia to quickly pull her hand away, but he caught it and slowly raised it to his lips. Kissing her knuckles, he continued to watch her as her eyes took in all of him.

“You are hurt. What ... what
happened?
” she gasped as she reached up to his face with her other hand and cupped his cheek. A slight discoloration was appearing where Huntington’s left upper cut had caught him cleanly on the jaw.