TuesdayNights (5 page)

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, earlier 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.

His thumbs circled the rosy nipples until they puckered. When his lips took purchase, gently nipping and kissing both a few kisses at a time, Anna sighed and slid her grasp down the length of his manhood and back up and down until she had established the rhythm she knew would bring him to ecstasy. Even now, his gentle hold on her hips and his lips on her breasts were becoming tenuous. She smiled as she heard his breaths come in short pants.

This, they had done before, although never in such an elegant bedchamber and never quite so naked. “The bed,” he managed to get out, pulling himself out of her grasp.

Startled by his sudden departure from her hold, Anna stared at him. Edward took another step back and regarded Anna, his eyes clearing. In the candlelight, her naked skin seemed to glow. He hadn’t had a chance to remove her stockings or slippers – the garters were still tied around her milky white thighs – but the sight of her like this, with her nipples hard and her skin flushed and her lips swollen from his kisses, Edward was quite sure she was the most beautiful sight he could ever behold. “I am going to make you mine again,” he whispered, not giving her a chance to do anything more than gasp as he lifted her into his arms and moved to place her on the bed.

Anna wasn’t about to protest – the space at the top of her thighs was pulsing – she was so wet with desire, she wanted nothing more than his velvety rod to fill her. Who but Edward would she ever allow this kind of intimacy? Slowly, she settled into the linens, sighing as she felt their softness surround her.

Edward leaned over the bed, sprinkling her body with kisses as he moved onto the bed and then positioned himself so his legs were between hers. His kisses became longer and slower, moving toward the throbbing space. First one hand and then the other moved beneath her knees, gently lifting them so her legs bent. Using his teeth, he untied the garters on each stocking, slid a finger beneath the top of each and slowly moved them down each leg, sprinkling soft kisses in their wake.

His hands moved to the inside of her thighs, stroking the tender skin until she relaxed and her womanhood was open to his lips and tongue.

Arching her back at the sudden sensation of his tongue invading her most private place, Anna inhaled sharply. Her hands grasped at the linens, holding onto the fabric as if she had to anchor herself to the bed or float away on the waves of pleasure she felt cresting deep inside. Her moans went from soft sounds to erotic cries in only moments as Edward’s tongue flicked across her womanhood over and over until the swollen bud was red and ready. When his lips captured and suckled it, Anna cried out, her entire body breaking apart as the waves crested and crashed and carried her to ecstasy. The sensations were so intense, she didn’t notice Edward moving up her body, didn’t realize his hardened manhood was seeking her slick sheath, didn’t know quite what was happening until he was suddenly inside her, stretching her and filling her and leaving her and filling her deeply with the same rhythm as the waves that were still cresting and crashing.

Edward knew at some point he had lost control. Perhaps when he’d seen her naked and looking so much like a goddess of temptation, or perhaps when he’d realized just how ripe and ready her body had been for him, how her spread legs had welcomed his touch and how willing she had been to simply let him pleasure her. To thrust his manhood into her warm, wet folds seemed the only thing he could do at that moment. And he had climaxed before he thought to pull out of her, although thinking back, he realized her body had such a tight hold on him, it would have been impossible to separate himself from her body’s undulations.
God, she is beautiful!

When he finally pulled himself out of her, he did so slowly. “Anna,” he breathed, allowing his body to fall onto the mattress. He reached down to slide his hand along one of her thighs, pulling on it so her legs came together. He used the little bit of strength he had left to roll her onto the front of his body, stroking her back and arms as he did so. At the quiet sounds she made with each of his touches, he kissed her hair and temple until they both fell asleep.

Several hours passed before Edward awoke. Embarrassed at having slept so soundly, he kissed her thoroughly. “Christ, I don’t even have a
necklace
for you,” Edward whispered, thinking most mistresses would insist on a bauble from a jeweler after such a satisfying evening. He pulled a ring from one of his fingers, a wide gold band featuring a square garnet. It had been a gift from his parents when he completed his time at Oxford, but it was all he had in the way of jewelry.

He lifted one of her hands from his chest and slid the ring onto her middle finger. When it proved far too large for that finger, he moved it to her thumb.

“Edward, you needn’t, really,” she started to protest, but his lips were suddenly on hers, kissing her until he had to take a breath. “But, thank you,” she whispered, admiring the ring by light of a dim candle.

Thinking back on the evening, Edward considered that he really should have stayed the entire night at the townhouse. But he had a mind to drink, and there wasn’t any brandy at Anna’s.

Not yet, at least.

What had Michael said?
Edward wondered. He’d been so lost in thought, he’d lost track of the conversation.

Birthdays
. They were discussing birthdays.

“I don’t even know when your birthday is,” Edward stated suddenly, as if he hadn’t just been thinking of Anna and how he had spent his afternoon. He took a sip of the expensive brandy. “Ooh, can you taste the cognac?” he breathed, reveling in the warm sensation of the brandy as it slid over his tongue and burned down his throat.

Michael leaned back and allowed his first sip to do its magic. “April twenty-first,” he whispered hoarsely. “And I no longer celebrate it.” The comment came out tinged with bitterness, something Edward rarely witnessed in his long-time friend.

“Whoa,” the taller man said as he leaned forward, placing his brandy balloon on the pie crust table to his left. “Whatever happened to make you want to forget your birthday?”

Giving Edward a wary glance, Michael set his glass on the low table between them. “My mother,” he finally spoke, a grimace crossing his face as he made the admission. “And Sir Richard made it worse.”

Edward slouched in his chair, a look of amusement appearing on his lean features. As the second son of an earl, Edward Seward enjoyed a rather sedate life in London. Just that month, he had taken up residence in a room on the second floor of Michael’s Grosvenor Square townhouse, choosing to sleep there when he wasn’t at the townhouse he provided for Anna.

He hadn’t intended to move into Michael’s home, but having overstayed his welcome at his family’s mansion in Cavendish Square and no longer able to tolerate his mother’s frequent (as in daily) attempts to marry him to some poor daughter – or rather, some rich daughter – of the
ton
, Edward had spent the night and hadn’t left. Although he paid little toward the upkeep of the Cunningham townhouse, he did see to it the wine cellar was stocked with the very best red wines, and the library decanters had a constant supply of French brandy and single malt scotch. Given the current war against France, Michael never asked from where or how his friend managed to acquire the very best liqueurs. He merely enjoyed them as a sort of payment for Edward’s presence there.

Edward’s eyebrow cocked again, giving his aristocratic features a haughty air that suggested he really could one day be the Earl of Eversham. His older brother, Arthur, would have to die before fathering an heir of his own, of course, but it could happen. Being the spare heir gave one a bit of leeway, though, and Edward was quite accustomed to taking advantage of his status. Not having to worry about his reputation meant he could live the life of a rake if he chose. He didn’t, however; his one vice was gambling and his favorite form of exercise was a fencing match on a piste.

Well, second favorite, considering how much he had enjoyed the afternoon with Anna.

“What, pray tell, happened?” Edward asked then, sitting up straighter in the chair.

“I promised my mother that I would marry,” Michael answered, savoring his latest sip of brandy. “By the time I turn eight-and-twenty.”

Edward settled back again, taking another sip of the brandy and swallowing it. “Why ever would you promise your mother you would marry? You’re the second son of a viscount, for Christ’s sake. You don’t have to marry!”

Michael flinched at his friend’s words, the motion causing sudden discomfort near his temple. His earlier bare knuckle match with Lord Everly had ended in his favor, but Everly’s knuckles had to be the sharpest amongst all the men who frequented Gentleman Jackson’s salon. The punch the smaller man had landed on the side of his head threatened to leave him with a bruise that might last for four or five days. He splayed out his broad fingers before him, noting the reddened, scuffed knuckles and the slight bruising around them. Unlike Edward’s fingers, which were long and tapered to the perfect fingernails of a man of leisure, Michael’s were broad all the way to the end. He was careful to keep them manicured, at least.

Despite not having the body of a typical aristocrat, Michael still understood the importance of keeping up appearances. He wore suits tailored by Weston and boots made by Hoby, employed a valet to keep his cravats perfectly folded, and had a membership at White’s.

“Actually, I do have to marry,” Michael replied with a sigh. “I never want to see my mother cry,” he murmured quietly, taking another sip of brandy.

Edward sat up straighter, shocked at his friend’s comment. “Lady Cunningham? Cry?” he asked, not bothering to hide his astonishment. He was shaking his head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but I do not believe your mother is capable of the act,” he said with a shake of his head.

Michael regarded his friend with a grin. “Oh, yes she is,” he countered. He sighed. “Which is why I had to accept Sir Richard’s wager.”