Tuesday Nights
LINDA RAE SANDE
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
Tuesday Nights
ISBN: 978-0-9893973-2-2
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2013 Linda Rae Sande
V1.2
Cover photograph © RomanceNovelCovers.com
Cover art by KGee Designs.
All rights reserved - used with permission.
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To Amanda, Hannah, Ben, Elizabeth and Sam
for making it so easy to be a proud aunt
Chapter 1
First Impressions on a Monday
April 23, 1810
Michael Cunningham, the second son of a viscount, was minding his own business as he strode toward the Ship. He intended to take a room at Shipley’s only inn, the establishment promising a clean room and hot meals for the few days he would be in the Horsham District of Sussex. Although his family’s small estate, Cunningham Park, was just south of Horsham, he thought the daily trip to Shipley would take too much time away from his opportunity to meet with Harold Waterford. Sir Richard Waggoner had taken a risk in arranging for him to meet with the businessman, and Michael didn’t want to disappoint either of the gentlemen by not being available on an hour’s notice.
So it was a surprise and a bit of an annoyance when his attention was suddenly diverted. A young lady’s scream, followed by a drawn out cry of “No!” stopped him in his tracks. Michael glanced around, realizing almost at once that the sound had come from behind the inn. Hurrying around the whitewashed stucco building, he spied the source of the scream. A young woman, her back pressed against the inn’s carriage house, was pinned in place by a taller young man, his bent arm pressed across her throat. Dressed in trousers and a wool shirt, he looked like he belonged at the edge of the flock of sheep that were grazing just east of town. But this wolf had his lamb at a distinct disadvantage, and Michael was quick to act on the lamb’s behalf.
“Now, see here,” he shouted, reaching out to grab the attacker’s shoulder. He instead ended up with a handful of shirt, lifting it so the man was suddenly off his feet and turned facing him.
“Wh ..?”
Before the predator had completely turned to see who it was that had him pulled away from his prey, Michael’s skills as a pugilist took over. His right fist struck the man’s jaw, and then Michael let go of the shirt. Dazed from the blow, the young man stumbled backwards and landed on his bum, his nose dripping blood while one hand reached up to his cheek.
“The young lady said, ‘no’!” Michael yelled, uncurling his fist and stretching his fingers to determine that, thank the gods, none were broken. He needed that hand to take notes whilst in his meetings these next few days. “You go near her again, and I’ll see to it every bone in your body is broken,” he vowed.
His eyes wide as saucers, the young man nodded. “Yes sir,” he mumbled, his hand still rubbing his cheek.
Michael’s attention turned to the young lady whose back was still against the wall, her arms straight while her palms were flat against the stucco. Although her bodice was a bit askew, and her face had a look of astonishment, she seemed in one piece.
At least she hadn’t had a fit of the vapours and fainted on him.
“Are you ... hurt?” he asked, careful to keep the tone of his voice as neutral as possible. He didn’t want the girl as frightened of him as she was of the man who was scampering backwards like a crab toward his escape.
For the first time in several seconds, Olivia Waterford let out the breath she’d been holding. She was sure Eli Blaylock was about to kiss her. Perhaps about to have his way with her, although she still wasn’t quite sure what that would have entailed. Ruination, certainly!
Her green eyes, still quite wide, took in her rescuer. Tall – at least six feet, she surmised – dark haired and broad of shoulder, he had a rectangular face defined by a rather square jaw and straight eyebrows. Under those brows were blue eyes, eyes that had seemed full of mischief when he confronted her attacker but were now regarding her with a great deal of concern. His broad nose was a bit crooked, but not so much that it looked out of place. And his lips made it rather difficult for her to remember what it was that had just come out of them only a moment ago. Kissable lips, she thought, just as she remembered how they were described in a novel she had finished reading only the week before.
Olivia blinked in an attempt to remember what it was he had asked.
“My lady, are you unhurt?” Michael asked then, moving closer so he might determine if she really was about to faint. Don’t faint, whatever you do, don’t faint. He glanced down to her hands, noticed how one was flat against the carriage house wall while the other clutched a reticule and what looked like a terribly wrinkled hanky. One knuckle on her fourth finger was red; he reached out and carefully pried her hand away from the wall, lifting the finger so he could examine it. The knuckle was bleeding from a deep scratch. He wondered if she had attempted to defend herself or had merely scraped it on the stucco. “You’re bleeding,” he murmured before placing his lips over her finger. Sucking on the wound for a moment, an action that seemed to bring the young lady back to awareness, Michael tasted the iron tang of blood before he pulled away to examine the wound again. He noticed how long and slender her fingers were, how pale and beautiful her hand was, despite there being no gloves in sight. Her fingernails were perfect ovals, trimmed short but not bitten off. He imagined a ring at the base of that finger. A sapphire would look most becoming, he thought, with a diamond or two on either side. And then he chided himself. Why am I thinking about jewelry? he wondered, the thought nearly bringing a grimace to his face.
Once he determined that the injured knuckle had stopped bleeding, he dared a glance at his patient’s face. She was younger than he first thought, but quite pretty, with mahogany hair caught up in a bun at the back of her head. Her smoky green eyes were tilted up at the outer corners, giving her a slightly exotic look despite her youthful cheeks and pert nose. But those lips – reddened a bit from her attacker’s attempt at a kiss – were full and sensual. Kissable lips, he thought, and was about to find out for himself when he remembered he had just rescued her from such an assault. He took a step back.
Staring at her rescuer, Olivia forced her mouth closed. She dared a glance beyond the man. At least the yard was still abandoned; no one had witnessed Eli’s attempt on her virtue nor this man’s unusual ministrations with regard to her finger. She turned her attention to where his lips had just been and arched an eyebrow. Her knuckle, where it had intersected one of Eli’s teeth when she attempted the same move this man had accomplished with a good deal more ease, was no longer bleeding. A shiver passed through her as she relived the sensation of his lips against her skin, of how his warm hand had held hers with so much care. Was the man a doctor? she wondered. Well, whoever he was, he was giving her that look again, as if he expec
ted her to say something.
“It appears I am now,” Olivia answered finally, her eyes lifting to meet his. “And to whom shall I address my gratitude?” she wondered.
Michael let out the breath he had been holding for that moment. “Forgive me.” He removed his hat and bowed. “Michael Cunningham, at your service,” he spoke formally.
Giving him a smile, Olivia pushed herself away from the carriage house wall and curtsied. So this is Mr. Cunningham! Her father had made mention they would be hosting the man for a few days – something having to do with a business venture he was considering. Mr. Cunningham was certainly younger than she expected given her father’s typical business associates. “Olivia,” she replied finally, reaching out with her hand to shake his. The man intercepted it with his own gloved hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed the back of her knuckles before she quite realized what was happening and had to still the sound of a gasp when the renewed dart of pleasure shot up her arm.
Either he was a gentleman or a bounder. She wasn’t sure which just yet.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said with a nod as he let go of her hand.
Olivia found that her hand suddenly felt leaden without his support. “And yours. Thank you, truly, for what you did.” She looked toward where Eli had crawled off, disappointed that the boy had escaped.
In fairness to the would-be rake, Eli had been dared by his friends to kiss her. His first attempt the week before had ended when she’d managed to get a knee shoved up into his groin before he could get her against any wall. His second attempt had been interrupted by his mother’s shouts – the woman had no doubt been a Welsh milkmaid in her younger years. This attempt, though, had been carefully calculated and timed for when she exited the mercantile with a package in one arm and her reticule and gloves in the other. She’d been unable to use her fists until she dropped her parcel, and by then, Eli had her in the inn’s yard and halfway to the wall.
“You’re welcome, of course,” Michael replied before tearing his eyes away from the young lady. He glanced about the yard, rather surprised that no one else had joined them to determine the fate of the young lady. Certainly someone else had heard her cries.
“Mr. MacFadyen is at the mercantile. To pick up his weekly order,” Olivia said, realizing her rescuer was probably wondering why no one had come out of the inn at the sound of her scream. The comment reminded her about her package. She glanced about, trying to remember just where she had dropped her book. Somehow her reticule and gloves were still clutched in her uninjured hand. My poor gloves, she thought as she realized how tightly she’d been clutching them.
Furrowing his brows, Michael regarded the young lady for a moment. “I take it Mr. MacFadyen is the ... proprietor?” he half-asked, trying to remember the name of the family that was supposed to be in residence.
Olivia shrugged as she regarded her gloves. “He runs the pub portion of the inn on behalf of the owners,” she explained as she moved away from the carriage house wall and walked toward the front of the inn. “Which is why Eli chose this particular place to try to ... kiss me,” she explained, affording Michael a sideways nod. She spotted her bonnet and hurried towards it, surprised when Michael beat her to it and had it in hand before she could even reach the spot in the small lawn where it had landed. “Thank you,” she added as she regarded the hopelessly crushed hat.
“Allow me,” Michael countered, using the fist from one hand and fingers of his other to pop the straw back into shape. He regarded the bonnet inside and out before holding it out for her inspection. “It’s not perfect, but ...”
“It’ll do!” Olivia interrupted, amazed that the man was able to restore the bonnet to a wearable state. She allowed him to place the bonnet on her head, adjust it and tie the ribbons while she pulled her wrinkled gloves onto her hands. “Thank you again, Mr. Cunningham,” she added, resisting the urge to add that he would make a good lady’s maid. No need to embarrass the man. Especially since her mother was expecting him for dinner that evening.
“You’re most welcome, Miss Olivia,” he replied. Michael noted her increasing consternation. “Is there something ... else ... missing?” he asked finally.
Olivia sighed. “My book,” she answered impatiently. “I dropped it when I tried to punch Eli.”
His eyebrows nearly into his hairline, Michael had to resist the urge to laugh. So, she had tried to defend herself. He held out his arm, intending for her to take it so he could escort her off the inn’s lawn and onto the lane that led back toward the mercantile. He couldn’t help but notice her hesitancy, but she placed a gloved hand on his arm.
“A fan of Minerva Press, are you?” he teased with a raised eyebrow. He wondered if she would blush at his words, wondered if her complexion would turn a glorious pink whenever she was the least bit embarrassed.
He was not disappointed.
Despite her bonnet, he could see the flush of pink bloom on her cheeks. “I rather prefer more ... serious material,” she replied quickly, her head dipping a bit. “As to Minerva Press novels, my sister has been known to bring some of those books home on occasion,” she added, a dimple appearing in one cheek.
“Is she ... older?” he wondered, hearing a hint of derision in Olivia’s comment. He wondered if Olivia found Minerva Press novels really so objectionable or if there was some sibling rivalry involved.
“A couple of years,” Olivia answered carefully before adding, “And quite out of place here in Sussex. I imagine she’ll be headed to London before she’s reached her majority. Although she has had some local boys come to court her, she is quite sure she wants a match to a more sophisticated gentleman.”
Michael nodded his understanding. “And, no doubt, a man with a bit of blunt,” he commented, wanting Olivia to think he didn’t have much, which, come to think of it, was one of the reasons he had come to Shipley to pursue a business venture with Harold Waterford. The other had to do with how that business venture might become a boon for the local economy. “Is it large?” Michael asked suddenly. “The book, I mean,” he added and then wondered why he had made the clarification.
Olivia shrugged as she scanned the area. “Somewhat. Rather thick, really, and wrapped in brown paper.”
Even before she’d completed her description, Michael noticed the parcel on the edge of the dirt road. Some of the paper wrapping had torn away, and the book’s cover was a bit scuffed, but the spine seemed intact. He reached down to retrieve it at the same time as Olivia, her bonnet nearly colliding with his head. “Oh,” she managed to get out when she lost her balance and fell against his body as he was returning to a standing position.
His fast reflexes had her captured in one arm as he held onto the book with his other, Olivia’s body was suddenly pressed against the front of his, her upturned face within inches of his own. A most becoming pink blush suddenly colored her face, and it took every bit of Michael’s restraint not to kiss her right then and there. What is wrong with me? he wondered suddenly. She cannot be more than ... sixteen or seventeen years of age! “Pardon, milady,” he managed to get out before he removed his arm from her waist.
Olivia continued to stare up at him, wondering if the man might want to kiss her. I certainly would not object, she decided. He looked as if he might, as if he was deciding whether or not he should; he had angled his face as if he would before lowering his lips to hers. But then his arm suddenly fell away from her waist and he straightened.
Olivia had never before felt such disappointment.
“Oh, I am such a klutz,” she whispered hoarsely. “It is I who should beg your pardon.”
Michael regarded her with mischievous eyes before he shook his head and turned his attention to the book. The Flora of England. The title was so unexpected, he had to use his gloved hand to uncover the book completely to ensure he had read it correctly. An eyebrow arched as he turned his attention back to ... what
had she said her name was? Olivia.
Noting his surprise at her choice of reading material, Olivia swallowed. “I like to read. I thought it would be ... interesting,” she said with a slight shrug, her face coloring up again.
“You are educated, then,” Michael half-questioned, a quizzical expression on his face. He didn’t try to hide his surprise. Girls raised in the country were rarely taught anything beyond simple reading and math skills.
Swallowing hard, as if she regretted leaving him with the impression she was educated, Olivia nodded. “It is my father’s intention that I should be,” she replied then, worried the man would think her a bluestocking. She glanced around, realizing she needed to be on her way home.
“Indeed?” Michael replied, wondering who her father might be. “And your ... siblings?” He began walking, noting the direction in which she was going matched where he’d left his gig and horse.
Olivia shrugged. “All of us, really, but my sister is not as inclined to it as I am. Eloisa would rather shop for ribbons and frippery and look at fashion plates,” she explained with a shrug. “My father is of the mind that men have no right to complain about chit-chat if they have not properly educated their daughters so they might speak on topics other than gossip and Paris fashions.”
Michael considered the comment for a moment. It was true that too many young women were uneducated, and those that could afford to send their girls to finishing schools or hire a governess only wanted to see them learn French, elocution, and how to play piano-forté or do needlework. “Is your intention to ... to employ your education somehow?” he asked then, suppressing the urge to remove her bonnet and pull the pins from her hair. There was a passing thought of how she might look in a thin night rail with her mahogany hair down past her shoulders and her rose-tipped breasts showing through the translucent fabric. He tried to erase the image as soon as it formed, his cock suddenly hardening at the carnal thought.
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