Olivia could feel her sister’s smile in the dim light. Eloisa would probably drink far more than two glasses of champagne.
“Sit up straight. You don’t want your gown wrinkling before you’ve even begun dancing,” her mother said from the other side of the carriage. Olivia turned to look at Eloisa, wondering which one of them her mother addressed.
“My back is as straight as a rod, mum,” Eloisa answered, her gloved hands folded in her lap.
Olivia straightened but dared not let go her grip on the bench seat for fear she would be sent sprawling into the small space between her and her father. The coach driver was quite adept at hitting every pothole.
The thought of her fingers reminded her she wore no gloves. Her only pair was still in her abigail’s possession; the poor girl was quite mortified when she took the wrinkled fabric gloves from Olivia the day before. The day she’d been saved by Michael Cunningham.
“Olivia, dear, do put on these, won’t you?” Louisa spoke as she held out a pair of white kid gloves in her youngest daughter’s direction.
Stunned her mother would have an extra pair of gloves, Olivia reached for them and slid one finger along their smooth surface. “But, aren’t you going to wear them?” she wondered, looking up to find her mother regarding her with a smile. And sporting two gloved hands.
“I keep an extra pair in my reticule, of course,” Louisa replied with a nod. Her statement was following by a hastily swallowed gasp and a quick jerk of one leg, hinting that her husband was already being mischievous.
“Thank you,” Olivia replied, wriggling her arm into one of the long gloves. The leather ended just beyond her elbow. How elegant, she thought as she held up one arm in the bit of light that shone from one of the carriage windows. If she was a wallflower at tonight’s ball, then at least she’d be an elegant wallflower.
As Michael expected, it was nearly eight when he and his mother climbed into the Cunningham coach-and-four for the trip to Crawley. Despite the fair weather, the ball was not a crush. He hoped their hostess wouldn’t be too disappointed as he escorted his mother up the stairs to the ballroom entrance. The lack of a crowd meant a quieter ballroom in which to converse and more room for dancing. As he glanced around the room, looking for familiar faces, he remembered Olivia wouldn’t be in attendance. A sudden melancholy settled over him at the thought. Not wanting his mood to affect his mother, he excused himself and returned to the vestibule to wait for his new acquaintances to arrive.
“Will we be announced?” Eloisa wondered as she gave up her shawl to a footman just inside the vestibule of the Fitzsimmons’ manor house. She glanced about, hoping they weren’t earlier than most of the guests.
“No, dear,” her mother sighed from where she stood with her father. “We’re not in London. And we’re not at a ton ball,” she added as she allowed Harold to remove her wrap and give it to a waiting footman.
Disappointed, Eloisa glanced around, hoping she would recognize someone. “What about dance cards?” she asked, thinking that her come-out should include the opportunity for young men to sign their names next to the dances they wished to claim.
“No, thank the gods,” her father replied as he held out his arm to her. “Come along. The orchestra is nearly done warming up,” he stated. Eloisa put her arm on his and straightened so she was as tall as she could be. Placing a hand on his other arm, Louisa fell into step as they made their way up the stairs to the ballroom.
Following behind, her eyes darting about in an attempt to take in all of her surroundings at once, Olivia marveled at the decor. She wondered at the number of candles in the chandeliers hanging above the stairs. So taken with the thought of calculating just how many were mounted in the fixture above the stairs, she barely noticed her arm lifting onto the sleeve of a black satin topcoat.
“May I?” Michael Cunningham whispered from directly to her right.
Olivia smiled, sure her face was blooming with color. “Since you’re not breaking any of father’s rules, then by all means,” she whispered back, stealing only a quick glance in his direction. Given the level of noise in the vestibule and main hall, their whispers went unheard by any of the people around them, including her parents.
“From your comment yesterday, I thought you wouldn’t be in attendance,” Michael whispered back, his head leaning toward hers so he could be heard.
Olivia ducked her head. “Until an hour ago, I didn’t know I was,” she countered, finally turning so she could look at his profile. Her stomach did a little flip, and she found herself having to stifle the gasp she nearly let out. Michael Cunningham was a handsome man when dressed in his everyday attire; when dressed in black satin breeches, black satin topcoat and a red waistcoat, he was quite stunning. She barely noticed the ruby stick pin winking in the knot of his white cravat.
“You expect me to believe you were able to get dressed, travel from Shipley, and look as if you spent all day preparing for this ball in only an hour’s time?” he asked sotto voce.
Olivia smiled as she kept her attention straight ahead, wondering when either her mother or sister would deign to turn their heads enough to realize the identity of her escort. “Well, it did take two abigails. And hour horses,” she replied, daring a glance in his direction.
Michael kept his attention on Olivia for perhaps a moment too long. Not a vain girl, this one, he considered, admiring her simple chignon and elegant gown. And her sense of humor. With her cheeks still pink from blushing, Olivia looked like she was about to get married. The thought had Michael nearly stumbling on the stairs. “Be sure to give them my compliments,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“The abigails? Or the horses?” Olivia answered with a wink.
Michael pretended to ignore the wink. Lifting her hand from his arm, he bestowed a kiss on the back of her knuckles. “Do save me a dance,” he said before he bowed and stepped away. Before Olivia could respond, Michael quickly made his way back down the steps along one of the railings. The middle of the stairs were too crowded with other guests.
Surprised by his hasty departure, Olivia paused at the top of the stairs and dared a quick glance behind her. A sea of feathers and jewelry-adorned heads bobbed about as the other guests made their way up the stairs. She scanned the crowd again, convinced she would be able to identify her brief escort, but Michael’s head was lost at sea.
“Olivia dear, don’t gawk,” Louisa said as she leaned in Olivia’s direction.
Smiling, Olivia turned to face her mother. “I won’t, mum,” she replied with a brilliant smile.
Sure she wouldn’t be dancing much that evening, Olivia attempted to take her place among the young matrons and old ladies whose husbands were otherwise engaged in the card room. But a steady stream of young men saw to it she danced nearly every dance before eleven o’clock. It was during a quadrille when she spotted a smiling Eloisa paired with Michael. Even though Michael appeared bored to tears, the sight of her sister with their recent house guest left her with a sour feeling. He hadn’t yet claimed his dance with her, and it was already nearing midnight. Perhaps the man doesn’t like dancing, she thought, a sadness settling in to sullen her mood. So it was a bit of a surprise when Michael was suddenly at her elbow.
“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 n
ot 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.
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