TuesdayNights (33 page)

Michael smiled slightly, relieved that at least smiling didn’t hurt too much. “I lost a bare knuckle fight,” he said as he cocked an eyebrow. At Olivia’s gasp and widened green eyes, he shrugged. “Well, lost is a bit of an overstatement,” he corrected as he wrapped an arm around Olivia’s waist and pulled her against him. She let out squeak of surprise as the front of her body was suddenly pressed against his. “I made sure my opponent won,” he whispered as he leaned over and kissed her hair.

“Is he as ... bruised ... as you?” Olivia wondered as she continued to study him, her brow furrowing as her gaze took in the whorls of dark hair on his chest, the shape of his arms as he held her.

Michael grinned and closed his eyes as he considered how to answer. “I can only hope,” he replied, kissing her forehead again.

“And why would you allow him to win?” she wondered, pushing herself away from his body enough so that she could see his face.

Kissing the hand he still held, Michael considered what to tell her. The truth could hurt her, no doubt, but she seemed to know part of it already. He didn’t know if Eloisa had told her anything. If he told Olivia everything, they could get on with their marriage, although he wasn’t convinced she would forgive him once she heard his side of the tale. And there was still that damned bet.

Olivia saw Michael’s face darken, his eyes take on a faraway look that she suddenly found frightening. Her husband was a bare knuckle boxer. What if her query angered him? Would he hurt her? Would he become so angry he might raise his hand to her? His fists?

Suddenly losing her resolve to ask about Eloisa, Olivia stepped away from him.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked as he realized she was staring at him with an entirely different look in her eye. When he moved to step closer, Olivia took another step back. She realized if she didn’t ask him, she would always wonder. She couldn’t not know. Not anymore. Not when she was married to him. “My sister ... is she ... is she ...
was
she truly your mistress?” she blurted out, tears stinging the edges of her eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Michael slowly shook his head. How long has she thought that? he wondered, a flare of anger igniting inside that suddenly replaced the sense of relief he had felt at having completed the sparring match with Huntington. “Edward told you that, didn’t he?” he replied in a whisper, one hand coming up to scrub his face before he remembered the punch to his jaw. He winced in pain as his hand made contact, barely aware that Olivia had turned and run from the room.

“Olivia!” he called out, following her with his long strides so that he got to her bedchamber just after she ran through the door. His arm reached up and blocked the slamming door before it could latch, and he pushed on it hard, thinking she would be trying to keep it shut from the other side. But she was already to the bed, collapsed onto the counterpane, her shoulders heaving with her sobs. “She promised she would never tell you,” he whispered, knowing even as he said the words that they would be of little comfort.

“She didn’t,” Olivia replied, her voice muffled by the counterpane. “Edward did, but he ... merely confirmed ...” she replied between sobs, her words nearly lost in the fabric. “You did. When you called me ‘El’,” she finally got out, her breath catching as she continued sobbing.

Michael sighed, wondering when he might have referred to her by the name he sometimes used for Eloisa. After a moment of thought, though, he realized that she was speaking of that night – the night he’d climbed into her bed and was caught by her father and more servants than he was expecting to show up as witnesses to his ruination of Olivia Waterford.

He moved to the side of the bed and pulled a handkerchief from his breeches. Holding it out for her, he whispered, “Actually, I called you ‘my beautiful.’”

Olivia gasped and looked up at him from red-rimmed eyes, hesitantly taking the proffered hanky. Reaching down, Michael wrapped his arms around her shoulders and waist, lifting her from the bed while ignoring the stabs of pain where Huntington’s fists had made contact. His face softened as he turned Olivia’s face toward him and saw the pain and hurt in her eyes. He took her head between his hands and pulled her to him. “I promise you, Olivia, I do not have a mistress,” he murmured quietly. He felt her body shake with a sob and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. When he felt her tears on the skin of his chest, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away enough so that he could see her face. “Until a couple of weeks ago, I was ...” He sighed loudly, not wanting to make the confession but realizing it was necessary. “I was Eloisa’s
protector
,” he admitted finally, “We were never lovers, Olivia. You are my wife, and I intend to honor my marriage vows.”

Olivia buried her face in the space between his shoulder and arm. “I hate you,” she sniffled, wrapping her arms around his chest and pulling herself against his body in a way that clearly indicated she did not mean what she’d said.

Michael pursed his lips at her response. The words stung, but her physical reaction was quite at odds to her claim. He kissed her hair and rested his cheek against her head. “Do you suppose there will ever be a time when you could ... not hate me?” he countered, trying hard to keep his voice steady. He felt her head shake against him, and her body trembled again. He took a deep breath, ignoring the stab of pain he felt from the damaged ribs. “So, you don’t suppose you will ever feel affection for me?” he whispered, his lips finding her forehead and then her temple, his kisses soft and warm.

Olivia quieted and finally turned her face so that her cheek rested against his chest. “Maybe,” she whimpered, sniffling quietly.

Michael’s lip curved a bit then. Cupping her cheek with one hand, he kissed her nose and moved his lips to hers, barely brushing them, his breath warm on her face. “I suppose I shall have to wait then,” he whispered gently. “Come, let’s sit down so that I can explain some things. I owe you that much.”

In her despair, Olivia had no strength to fight him, allowing him to lead her to the alcove and the settee therein. As he sat back into one corner and pulled her against him, she was very aware of his bare skin, of his nipple under her thumb as she placed her hand against his chest. She had dreamt about being this close to him, spent many nights fantasizing about him being in bed next to her, wondered how it would be to touch him, what it would be like to love him – but all those times were under far different circumstances. And those were just daydreams. Just her imagination. Right here, right now, she was truly in Michael Cunningham’s arms. His rather large, bare arms. Against his very bare chest.

When Olivia finally nestled her head into the space between his shoulder and chest, Michael sighed. “You sister is getting married,” he finally said, not knowing quite where to start.

Olivia nodded and raised her head from his shoulder. “She told me this morning,” she whispered, a hitch in her breath breaking up her words. “She said you know the man,” she added, her tears finally subsiding. “That you actually introduced them to one another.”

Michael placed a hand on the back of her head so that he could pull it back onto his shoulder. “My banker, actually,” Michael answered before kissing her on the head. “Arthur Huntington the Third,” he added wistfully. “Not a bad bare knuckle fighter in his own right. And he’s got ten years on me.”

At that, Olivia raised her head to stare at him. “You fought ... you dueled over my sister?” she asked, her face reddening as her ire returned.

Surprised she would make that connection, Michael swallowed. “I did not. He thought that’s what we were doing. Remember, I wanted
him
to win,” Michael explained in his own defense. At Olivia’s confused expression, he went on. “Arthur loves your sister very much. Apparently he’s wanted her as his wife for some time now, but he thought I had some kind of claim on her, which, of course, I do not, so we had to fight so he could prove his worthiness and his affection for her.” At Olivia’s continued frown, Michael stared down at her. “As I said, I lost deliberately.” He smiled to himself as he recalled the earlier sparring match, explaining in great detail what had happened, pantomiming some of the moves he’d made against Arthur Huntington and then describing the hits that had resulted in the bruises he now sported, pointing out each one with a self-deprecating tone in his voice.

Olivia’s head was spinning just a bit as Michael finished telling his story. “Do you men often do these irrational things when you’re in pursuit of a woman?” she wondered, her brows still furrowed. A bubble of laughter erupted from Michael, and Olivia found herself smiling in spite of herself as she felt his body convulse against her.

“Irrational, perhaps, but it was ... necessary,” he whispered. He thought of all the things he’d done in the last three weeks to ensure his marriage to Olivia would happen in time to meet the deadline he had set for himself. Irrational? Yes. Necessary? Perhaps not. Did he regret what he’d done? It was still too early to tell, he decided.

“So, why were you holding my sister’s hands and kissing her in the library?”

Michael jerked beneath her, surprised by the question. “You saw that?” he asked, his eyebrows practically in his hairline.

Olivia nodded. “I thought perhaps ... I thought you were proposing marriage,” she murmured sadly.

Sighing, Michael rubbed his hand along Olivia’s arm. “She had just told me Arthur was courting her. I was wishing her happy,” he replied in a whisper. “And I was so relieved, Olivia. I cannot tell you how good it felt to know I no longer had to be her protector.”

Relief, indeed. After a quiet moment, the smile disappeared and Olivia pressed her lips together. “So, may I ask how it was you had to provide protection for her in the first place?” She braced herself, thinking he might be embarrassed by her query or that he might simply go quiet and leave her to her overactive imagination. He surprised her by doing neither.

“Do you remember the first time we ever met?” Michael murmured as he leaned back and began stroking her shoulder.

Olivia nodded into his neck. “I was ...sixteen. You saved me from being kissed by Eli Blaylock,” she replied, not understanding why he asked.

“I thought you were so pretty.”

Olivia inhaled sharply. “You did?”

“Oh, yes. Still do, in fact,” he added as he continued to rub her arm with his hand. “And your father knew it immediately. Told me in his study that I wasn’t to go near you for three years,” he spoke quietly. “It was quite an effective threat.”

“It’s been ... five years,” Olivia stated as she lifted her head to look at him, not sure if she believed his claim.

And shouldn’t she be offended that he took so long to climb into her bed?

Michael sighed, and he chuckled softly. “As I said, it was a very effective threat,” he repeated. But he sobered a bit. “Over the years, though, I’ve been a bit put off by the thought of marriage, my love,” he answered in a whisper.

My love? Olivia repeated to herself. She rather liked it when he used endearments like that.

“And you never seemed to show any obvious interest in me,” he accused with a shrug. “At least, not that kind of interest,” he amended quickly when he felt her body go rigid.

“I conversed with you during dinner,” she countered, a bit too indignant with her response. “I read books to you. I played the piano-forté for you. I walked to Shipley with you.”

Michael pretended to ignore the comments. “Your sister was another matter, though.”

Olivia stiffened even more as she realized to what he was referring. Eloisa was always quick to offer him tea, to engage him in conversation, to volunteer to serve him first at dinner. Her flirting was a testament to her attraction to the man. If asked directly, Eloisa would admit out loud to having a crush on Michael Cunningham. And although Olivia, too, had a crush on him, she wouldn’t admit it.

Sometimes not even to herself.

“Tell me, did your sister wish to come to London because she didn’t have any marriage prospects in Shipley?” Michael wondered, the back of one finger brushing along Olivia’s neck. She shivered a bit at his touch but left her head resting against his shoulder.

“Eloisa always had admirers in Shipley. And West Grinstead. And all around Horsham,” Olivia replied with a shrug. “But she made it very clear before she was even seventeen that she had no intention of marrying a barkeep, or a farmer, or a miner or anyone involved in smelting.”

Michael grunted. “That doesn’t leave a lot to choose from,” he murmured, his fingers combing through the hair near her temple. He felt her smile as she continued to lean against him.

“No, indeed. She wanted a gentleman in town. Nothing else would do,” she sighed, wondering what it was about London that made country girls give up their perfectly acceptable situations and take the risks that some did to have a life in the world’s largest city.

“Did you know that I have an older brother?” Michael asked then.

The change in topic caught Olivia off-guard. “Y ... Yes. But what has ...?”

“Patience, my sweet. There is much to tell if you really want to know how I came to be Eloisa’s protector.” At Olivia’s hesitant nod of agreement, Michael continued, “Last May, I received a note from Marcus asking me to meet him at a brothel over in Covent Garden.” He felt her body stiffen again at his mention of the brothel. “I just went for the brandy,” he added quickly, not wanting her to think that he would indulge in such behavior, even if he was a bachelor. “I’m sure Marcus would have engaged one of the harlots, but he had actually shown up the night before. I read the note a day later than he intended me to.”

There was a long minute before he heard her say, “Oh.” Then she relaxed back into his arm.

“While I was enjoying my brandy, I noticed a girl crying in the corner. At first glance, I thought she was you ...”

Olivia suddenly pushed herself up from Michael’s body and stared at him, her mouth open in shock.

“Ouch,” Michael growled as he leaned forward, his free hand going to the large bruise on his rib.