TuesdayNights (4 page)

“I thought you were going to save one for me,” he whispered, his lips so close to her ear she felt his warm breath wash over her neck. Something inside shivered, the sensation leaving a pleasant tickle in its wake.

“I did. I saved this one for you,” she countered with a mischievous grin. The strains of a waltz were just beginning, though; she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to dance a waltz. Apparently Michael was unaware of the rule, however. Olivia was quite surprised when Michael suddenly bowed and then took one of her hands in his. His other hand went to her waist, and before she could protest, he had pulled her to the edge of the dance floor and was swirling her about in time to the three-count music. “But, I’m not allowed,” she said with a quick shake of her head, amazed at how easily he had them moving through the steps. Her own feet must have been moving, but having never taken a lesson in how to do the waltz, she had no idea how her partner managed to keep them both moving so smoothly.

“Oh?” Michael replied with a cocked eyebrow. “Hm.” He moved them through another complete circle before pulling her off the floor and to the sidelines near a table filled with glasses of champagne. “Are you allowed champagne?” he wondered, lifting a glass from the table and offering it to her.

Olivia nodded. “Just one. Two, if I behave,” she added with an arched eyebrow. She took a sip and held the bubbling liquid on her tongue, almost closing her eyes as she swallowed.

Michael watched Olivia as she took her first sip and wondered at her words. “You’re a better flirt than your sister,” he stated before taking a long draught of his own glass.

Blinking in surprise, Olivia had to pull her glass away from her lips just as she was about to take another sip. “I wasn’t aware I was,” she replied, her rounded eyes coming up to meet his.

Michael regarded her for a second too long. “Which is why you’re so much better at it than your sister,” he countered with a grin. His attention was suddenly drawn to something – or someone – behind her. “My apologies,” he said suddenly. “I must take my leave of you.” Before she could ask if something was amiss, Michael had bowed and was moving quickly in the direction of the card room.

Daring a glance behind her, Olivia caught a glimpse of her sister making her way through the crowd in her direction.

“Where is he?” Eloisa asked as she reached Olivia, her breaths coming in short gasps, as if she’d been running.

Olivia blinked. “He, who?” she replied before taking another sip of her champagne. The stuff was rather good, and she was sure her knees were buzzing. She thought if she had another, she would no longer care how tightly her dancing slippers pinched her feet.

“Mr. Cunningham!” Eloisa responded with a hint of annoyance. “I was hoping I could claim my second dance with him.”

Shrugging, Olivia regarded her sister before giving the room a quick glance. “Well, he was around here a few moments ago,” she offered before giving her sister another shrug. “But, I know if I were him, I’d be in the card room,” she said as she placed her empty champagne glass on a footman’s tray. “I’m off to stand with a potted palm,” she added before she surreptitiously took another glass of champagne from the table.

A sense of dread settled over Harold Waterford as he watched Michael Cunningham bow to his younger daughter and then move quickly toward the card room. He was watching when the young man approached Olivia, apparently with a request to dance despite the fact that it was the supper dance and was almost certainly a waltz. Did the viscount’s son deliberately flaunt the rules? Or was he unaware of how inappropriate it was for a sixteen-year-old to be dancing the waltz? At least their turn on the dance floor went largely unnoticed, though, and was quite brief. But Harold was sure he’d seen something between the two, some hint that Michael might not have his daughter’s best interests at heart or that Olivia was a willing participant in what could have been a scandalous dance.

Well, he would have to speak to his new business partner. Not scold him, exactly. But warn him off a bit.

Trouble was, he rather liked the idea of his youngest daughter with the second son of Mark Cunningham. The viscount was well regarded in Horsham, as well as in Parliament. His wife, an elegant woman, would gladly claim their only daughter was a duchess, but only if she were asked. And she would only acknowledge her oldest son if she was in the same room with him. A rake and a poor gambler, Marcus Cunningham would drain the family accounts when or if he ever inherited the viscountcy.

Michael Cunningham, on the other hand, was a bit of a conundrum. Unlike any other son of a peer, he had apparently decided he had to work to earn a living, convinced his father’s viscountcy would be left bankrupt by his older brother. He seemed to genuinely care about Shipley’s lack of jobs, knowing on the one hand it was due to the mechanization that made farming more efficient, but thinking on other that mechanization would require even more laborers to see to the larger harvest. He was never mentioned in the scandal rags, and the only disparaging comment Harold had ever heard was by someone bemoaning the fact that Michael wasn’t seen in the company of Faith Seward. The daughter of an earl, Faith had set her sights on Michael during her first Season – just last year – and seemed willing to wait for him.

The chit would have to wait a long time, Harold considered.

Harold glanced around the room again, hoping he would find Viscount Cunningham in attendance. When he spotted Mark’s viscountess instead, he gave her a nod and was glad to see her move through the crowd toward him.

“Good evening, Viscountess Cunningham,” he said as he lifted her gloved hand and brushed his lips over the back of it.

“Oh, Harold, do call me ‘Violet’,” she replied with a broad grin, curtsying to his bow. “I am quite sure you were looking for my husband, but he’s already in London for the Season,” she offered, opening her fan with a twist of her wrist.

Harold gave her a nod of agreement. “I was, my lady, but you’re far prettier. And easier to ply for information,” he teased as he held out his arm.

Violet regarded his arm and placed her own on top of it, wondering at Harold’s comment. They began walking toward the edge of the room and then turned to follow the walls. “And what information might that be?” she wondered. Violet noticed the Waterford girls standing across the room, their manner with one another suggesting they were engaged in an intense conversation.

“It’s about your son,” Harold stated, one of his eyebrows arcing up a bit.

“Oh, good God, what has Marcus gone and done now?” she asked in alarm. Last she knew, her oldest son was in London, haunting every gaming hell until his monthly allowance was spent.

Harold shook his head. “Not that son,” he answered with a grin.

Violet smiled. “Michael, then. What has he gone and done?” She put the fan to use then, beating it through the air in quick flicks of her wrist.

“Well, besides becoming my business partner, nothing. Yet,” Harold answered with a grin.

Glancing up at her escort, Violet had to suppress a gasp. “Business partner?” she repeated, stunned by his words. Michael had mentioned something the day before, but she hadn’t realized the scope of his involvement. “I ... I had no idea,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

“He’s got a mind for it, my lady,” Harold stated with a nod. “We hosted him at Waterford Park for a couple of days while he and I went over the details. Sir Richard recommended him to me, you see,” he explained, noting how the viscountess gave him a quick glance before returning her gaze to the crowd. “I think we’ll all profit from our iron smelting venture in Shipley,” he added, slowing his steps so they eventually stopped near an empty alcove.

“Oh,” Violet replied with a quick nod. “I suppose I am ... happy to hear it, given the situation there,” she said with a bit of uncertainty. The economy of Shipley had long been in decline. More of the agricultural work was being done by machines, and jobs were scarce in the small Sussex community. Many of the younger men were moving to London for employment.

“Has your son ...?” Harold paused, not quite sure how to broach the subject of Michael’s intentions with respect to any biddable chits. “Spoken of marriage?” he finally managed to get out, surprised the question would be so difficult to ask.

Giving Harold a sad grin, Violet cocked her head to one side. “If he has, I was not in the room at the time,” she replied coyly. “He is only three-and-twenty. And as much as I want another daughter, I do not think he will marry anytime soon.”

Harold nodded his understanding. “I appreciate your answering my question,” he offered before sending his gaze over the crowd. “I shouldn’t want his attentions on anything other than business. At least for a few years.”

Violet frowned suddenly. “Oh. I see,” she replied, trying hard to keep her voice light despite how his words made her feel. None too happy with the thought that her son might remain a bachelor for several more years, Violet realized she might have to broach the subject of marriage with him later that night. If Harold Waterford thought for one moment that she would agree to his suggestion that Michael remain unattached, then he was mistaken. “Forgive me, Mr. Waterford, but I do believe it’s almost time for supper. If you’ll excuse me?” she wondered as she stepped back.

“Of course, my lady,” Harold replied, bowing to her curtsy.

Harold watched as the viscountess made her way toward the ladies’ salon, wondering if he had offended her with his suggestion that Michael should be remain unattached during their business dealings. Reminded of the young man’s behavior with his daughter, he headed in her direction.

Moving through the crowd to the continuing strains of the waltz, Olivia was nearly to the palm plant when her father suddenly stepped in front of her.

“I take it you’re behaving?” he asked as he slipped his arm under hers. They continued walking in a different direction, apparently in an attempt to circumnavigate the room.

“I am,” Olivia replied with a straight face. “Are you?” she countered, her sudden grin causing a dimple to appear in her cheek. “I saw you with a woman on your arm,” she accused in a delighted whisper. “And she wasn’t your wife.”

Harold Waterford regarded his daughter with an amused look. “Your mother is not complaining,” he answered with a cocked eyebrow. Despite his having combed the white, bushy brows, one always seemed a bit out of control, giving the man the means to look sinister if he so desired.

Despite her attempt to maintain a straight face, Olivia giggled. “I should hope not,” she said
sotto voce
.

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.