TuesdayNights

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TuesdayNights Page 14

by Linda Rae Sande


  Arthur snorted and appeared surprised by Michael’s response. His gaze darkened a bit, though. “A few thousand pounds, I would guess,” he replied quietly, the mirth suddenly gone from him. “I would be quite jealous, you know,” he commented then, his attention on his port as he swirled the contents of the glass and watched the liquor slowly collect in the bottom of the glass.

  Perplexed by the man’s comment and a bit stunned at the mention of a few thousand pounds, Michael leaned forward. “What ever do you mean? You are not a betting man, Arthur. I can’t imagine my winning a ...”

  “It’s not about the money,” his banker interrupted, his voice a bit too harsh and his expression suddenly very serious. He quickly glanced around the room to see if anyone had overheard his outburst, but the club members playing cards were too engrossed in their game, and the butler was no longer in the immediate vicinity. “Your ... getting married. That is, if you truly keep your promise to your mother.”

  Taking a deep breath, Michael furrowed his brow and regarded the older man. Did everyone know of the promise he had made to his mother? “I was not aware that you were already seeking a wife,” Michael replied quietly, lying through his teeth and hoping he sounded respectful of the widower’s situation. The man had been in mourning for nearly a year. How many widowers mourned that long before remarrying? Very few, he thought.

  Arthur regarded him and tried to shake off his melancholy. “I ... I miss her, Cunningham. I truly do. And I find myself wanting nothing more than to find a woman ...” He paused a moment and glanced away as if he was embarrassed by his emotional reaction. “I wish to find a wife,” he stated finally. “Many others would probably find my position enviable since it allows me to frequent brothels or employ a courtesan without reprisals from a jealous wife, but I don’t want to share a woman. I wish to have a woman all to myself ...”

  “You are a man of scruples,” Michael commented lightly, appreciating his friend’s candor. “There is nothing wrong in wanting a wife, Arthur,” he said in a low voice, wondering if he would ever feel as his friend did. “Perhaps I can be of help?” he offered, not expecting the banker to suggest anything. Normally, finding a suitable wife for the man would best be handled by a matchmaker or one of the patronesses of Almack’s. But in Huntington’s case ...

  “Perhaps you know of someone ... a young lady who may have been overlooked during last Season’s balls ... or a young widow, perhaps?” Arthur hinted with what looked like a pre-rehearsed shrug. “Someone who is seeking a gentleman for a husband?” The look on his face suggested that he had someone in mind, someone Michael knew – and that he knew Michael could provide the necessary introductions. That is, if the woman wasn’t already about to be claimed by Michael to fulfill his promise to Lady Cunningham.

  Michael considered the man’s words and allowed a brow to rise as he feigned thinking over the situation. Having long ago decided to arrange an introduction to Eloisa and seeing to it that Eloisa was on display whilst they shopped in New Bond Street at the same time as Arthur was on his way to his tailor, it was now only a matter of suggesting a time and location where the two might meet.

  “There is a widow I look in on occasionally,” he answered carefully. “As a favor to her father, of course,” he added hastily, wanting to be sure Arthur didn’t misunderstand the situation. “Her mourning period is over,” Michael added as he carefully watched his banker’s face.

  Would Harold Waterford be pleased to discover his eldest daughter had landed a well-to-do gentleman for a husband? A man with whom he had done business? Arthur had even been a guest of the Waterford’s. Perhaps Arthur had already met Eloisa. Would he remember her from his brief stay?

  For Eloisa to be wed to a banker was a far better situation than to be a ruined chit, he considered, thinking of the alternative should someone recognize Eloisa from Lucy’s brothel. It had been nearly a year, though. Who would remember a terrified girl who had been at Lucy’s for less than a day? The man who had taken her virtue was probably too drunk to remember anything about her.

  “I would, of course, be happy to introduce you to the former Eloisa Waterford,” Michael offered. “Mrs. Smith,” he added quickly. “Do you ever take walks near Grosvenor Square?” Michael asked with a cocked eyebrow, knowing he’d seen Huntington on foot near his townhouse on several occasions.

  Arthur sat up straight and suddenly seemed most pleased. “I can. Just name the day and street,” he said, unable to hide his anxiousness. “To be clear,” he added suddenly, his eyes darting to his hands, “This is Harold’s oldest daughter?” he half-asked. “The same woman I saw you escorting in New Bond Street a few weeks ago? On a Tuesday afternoon?” he quickly added, suddenly nervous. His eyes darted about, as if he was afraid someone might be eavesdropping on their conversation.

  Michael suppressed the urge to grin. His tactic had worked. Allowing a quizzical expression to cross his face, he answered, “Yes, she is the one.”

  He had taken Eloisa to get a new corset and a morning gown, but the trip had been brief – they had only visited a few shops on a single block of New Bond Street when he noticed his banker watching them from across the street. “Did you find her ... pleasant to look upon?” Michael wondered, noting the man’s nervousness.

  Arthur took a deep breath and let it out before answering. “Indeed, although I must admit that when I met her at Waterford Park, it was only in passing, and it was a few weeks ago. And I saw her only ... briefly ... when you were shopping,” he admitted with a nod. “And you?”

  Blinking, Michael regarded Arthur, wondering at the question. “Beg pardon?” he replied, his brows furrowing.

  Rolling his eyes, Arthur lowered his voice. “Do you find her ... pleasant to look upon?” he echoed, his nervousness still apparent.

  “Oh!” Michael said with a bit of relief. “Well, she is ... pretty enough, I suppose,” he answered with a shrug. He did not want to seem enamored with the woman and take the chance of scaring away a possible courting opportunity for Eloisa. “In fact, now that I think about it, she looks a bit like your late wife,” he said thoughtfully.

  The banker seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, although he was still anxious. “And you have no claim to her?” he whispered, his tone suddenly suspicious.

  Michael regarded the banker with an upraised brow. “No,” he answered with a shake of his head. Does he believe she’s my intended? he wondered suddenly. Or does he suspect she might be my mistress?

  “So, when can I meet her?”

  For a fraction of a moment, Michael was left with the impression of a cat pouncing on an unsuspecting mouse. And he wondered, in this case, if he was the mouse or if Eloisa had that honor.

  Michael quickly ran scenarios through his head as to where he could arrange an introduction. He could see to it they met at a chocolate shop. No, that would be too public, he considered. Eloisa’s maid had Saturdays off. He could arrange to meet her at noon and they could run into Arthur during an early afternoon walk. Green Street was not too busy in the early afternoon. “Tomorrow. One o’clock or thereabouts. Green Street near the square,” Michael stated firmly.

  Arthur cocked an eyebrow and allowed a smile to slowly spread over his face. “Thank you, Cunningham,” he said with a nod as a sense of relief seemed to settle over the man. He took a sip from his drink and set it down. “Now, about that bet. Do you truly intend to keep your promise?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow. “I could enter my own bet in your favor and use the winnings to pay for a number of fripperies,” he hinted with an amused expression.

  Michael pretended to ponder the banker’s question before he finally responded. “Oh, I do,” he said with a nod. “And thank you for asking about it. I am reminded of a few items I must see to acquiring before the auspicious occasion,” he added with a smile. He stood up, gave the banker a nod, and left the club.

  Yes, it was quite fortunate that Arthur Hunti
ngton appeared when he did, Michael considered again. When he left White’s that Friday evening, Michael hurried home and headed directly to his study, intent on writing several letters. It was imperative that a certain duchess understand that the governess she had just hired was definitely about to become his wife. There was a bill to pay for the furnishings that had been ordered for the new purple and gold salon on the second floor. A missive to his father in Horsham would inform the viscount of Michael’s intention to keep his promise to his mother. A note to his future father-in-law would request his hospitality so he could make his request for the man’s daughter and schedule a quick wedding. A locksmith would be hired to create a duplicate set of keys. And an order for a wax seal with the initials ‘OWC’ needed to be placed with a local stationer.

  The next business venture, nearly ready to present to Harold Waterford and Sir Richard, needed a hint of refinement and a bit more data to back up his claim as to its long-term payoff possibilities, but he was sure he could complete it before next week.

  And he had to figure out how he was going to get Eloisa to take a walk with him tomorrow at about one o’clock in the afternoon.

  Chapter 19

  An Important Introduction on a Saturday

  April 1, 1815

  Eloisa Waterford sat on the front edge of a yellow damask settee as she pushed a needle through fine muslin. Pulled taut in a wooden hoop, the muslin was still a bright white despite months of handling. The satin embroidery thread shimmered in the spaces where she had filled in the flowers and leaves, and the ribbons winding in and out of the foliage appeared to be made of silk. Another few days of handiwork and she’d be ready to insert the words of the wall hanging using delicate back stitches.

  At one time, she thought the wedding sampler would feature her own marriage information, but now she wondered if it was likely she would ever wed. Perhaps she could finish it for Michael’s wedding, should his mother ever coerce her protector into a suitable marriage.

  The knocker on her front door rapped three times. Startled, she pricked her thumb with the needle. Sucking the edge of her thumb to stave off the droplet of blood that was about to appear, she placed the embroidery on the settee and hurried to the door, wondering who would be calling on her at noon. She opened the door to find Michael Cunningham, hat in hand, standing on the stoop of her townhouse.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Smith,” Michael said as he bowed, smiling mischievously at the name he called her.

  Eloisa blushed and gave him a quick curtsy. “And good afternoon to you, Mr. Cunningham. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” she wondered with a grin as she stepped aside to allow him to enter the small vestibule.

  Michael gave her a peck on the back of her hand once he was safely out of sight from the street. “I was hoping you would agree to a walk this afternoon,” he stated as he glanced into the small parlor from whence she’d come. “That is, if you’re not otherwise engaged.”

  Eloisa gave a very unladylike snort in response to the comment. “Embroidery is becoming very dull and boring. Of course, I will go for a walk with you. I should change into a mourning gown, though, don’t you suppose?” she asked as she indicated the pale blue batiste gown she wore.

  Michael allowed his eyes to travel the length of her gown before replying, “If you mean mourning gown, as in bereaved widow, then ... no,” he said with a glint in his eye.

  Although he’d never told Eloisa that he was the son of a viscount, there were those in London who did know. For the sake of discretion, and because he did not want his mother learning about Eloisa, it was imperative that no one know that he provided protection for Harold Waterford’s daughter. Having her pose as the widow of a soldier killed in the war gave her some respectability and him an excuse to call on her when he didn’t wish to busy himself with his business ventures. But today, it was more important that Eloisa be as presentable as possible.

  Eloisa stared at him for a moment. “I have a blue walking gown and pelisse,” she suggested.

  “Perfect,” Michael replied with a nod.

  “It is my maid’s day off ...”

  “I know,” Michael replied with another nod, implying that he wouldn’t even be calling on her if the maid was present.

  “It’s just that ... I don’t think I can reach ...” she motioned to her back, indicating the buttons.

  “I will help with the fastenings of your gown,” Michael offered, his manner quite serious.

  Eloisa gasped, a shocked expression finally softening to one of acceptance at the idea of Michael buttoning her gown. But after another moment, her expression turned more serious. “It’s not even Tuesday,” she said as she headed to the stairs.

  Michael colored a bit and followed her to her second-story bedchamber. “If today is not convenient for a walk, I can certainly ...”

  “Today is fine, Mr. Cunningham,” Eloisa answered brightly as she pulled shut the drapes. “You must know I would never deny you,” she paused a moment, looking up suddenly as she considered why he might be there on a day other than Tuesday. “... Anything you wanted,” she finally whispered, wondering if he had changed his mind about taking her as his mistress. Or had he come to tell her he would no longer be providing protection? A place to live. It had been ... eleven months! Oh, dear.

  As she moved toward the dressing screen, Michael reached out for her arm and pulled her to face him. “Eloisa, what is wrong?” he asked, knowing enough from his time with her to realize that she was upset about something. “Truly, have I come at an inconvenient time?” he wondered, his brows furrowing.

  Trying to seem embarrassed, Eloise shook her head. “It is only that ...it’s my maid’s day off, and I have to dress my own hair,” she whispered.

  Michael pulled her closer. “Which will be covered by a bonnet. We’re only going for a walk,” he reminded her, wondering what she was thinking. Did she think he’d come for a tumble? Good grief! He was going to marry her sister!

  But she doesn’t know that.

  Grinning at his persuasiveness, Eloisa reached up and smoothed his hair where the wind had tousled it. “Alright, then, but you must really help to dress me. I cannot reach the buttons.”

  His eyebrow cocked in a most delightful arch, Michael reached around her shoulders and began undoing all the buttons down her back. He struggled for a moment. “If it’s your maid’s day off, however did you get these buttons fastened in the first place?” he whispered, his face betraying his concentration as he worked on the tiny fastenings.

  “The neck opening is quite large enough that I can simply pull this gown over my head without undoing any of the buttons,” she replied with an arched eyebrow, amused by his concerted effort.

  “You minx!” Michael said suddenly, his hands giving up on the buttons and instead grabbing some folds of her gown and lifting them up. The dress was over her head and tossed to the bed before Eloisa could protest.

  Despite Michael’s assurances that she was a pretty woman and had a pleasant figure, Eloisa was modest, especially in the light of day. With Michael having removed all but her corset, chemise and stockings in a few quick moves, Eloisa blushed bright red. “Cunningham!” she scolded as she tried to cover herself with her arms.

  She turned and lifted up the blue walking gown she’d retrieved from the dressing room. About to pull it on over her head, Michael took the gown from her and slipped his hands into the skirt, opening it with his arms. At her stunned expression, he rolled his eyes. “I said I would help!” he claimed, keeping his eyes on her face. He couldn’t help but know she wore only a chemise, corset and stockings, though. He thought of how much she looked liked Olivia and wondered if Olivia would look like this when she wore only a few undergarments. He wondered if her skin would be as smooth and fair, if she had the same feminine curves, if her breasts were larger or smaller than Eloisa’s.

  Still bright red with e
mbarrassment, Eloisa ducked into the gown and allowed Michael to turn her body so that he could fasten the jet buttons at the back. “I did not expect you would play lady’s maid,” she countered, accidentally bumping her elbow into his ribs. At the sound of a hiss, she turned to regard him. “I apologize. Did I ... hurt you?” she wondered, not thinking she’d hit him that hard.

  Michael frowned. Turning around so his back was to Eloisa, he moved toward the cheval mirror in the corner and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He lifted his shirt to expose his well-muscled chest. Curious, Eloisa peered into the glass from behind and around him. She let out a gasp. At the sound of her shock, Michael looked into the mirror and followed her gaze to a large bruise on his chest.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Michael whispered with a slight grin. “Just took a hard punch is all.”

  Eloisa relaxed a bit. She’d seen far worse bruising on Michael Cunningham’s body over the year since he’d become her protector. He’d taken up bare-knuckle boxing for exercise at some point in his past, and on the occasion when he required a plaster or bandage, he’d allowed Eloisa to see to his care. She seemed determined to provide some kind of service in return for his generosity. “I do hope you gave as good as you got,” she murmured as she crossed her arms.

  Michael grinned in spite of the pain he felt when he gingerly touched the bruise. “I did, indeed, although I must admit, I hesitated a bit,” he said as he undid the fall of his breeches and tucked in his shirt. “He’s my banker, and I’d rather not hurt him too badly. He has grieved quite enough as it is.” There was a hint of a grin as he rebuttoned his waistcoat, but he paused as he noticed Eloisa. She was staring at his body, one hand held out but not touching him. “What is it, El?” he asked, his brows furrowing as he noticed her faraway expression.

  “It’s so brutal, isn’t it?” she murmured, her gaze focused on something not there. “Men beating each other. And beating their women.”

 

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