TuesdayNights

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TuesdayNights Page 15

by Linda Rae Sande


  Michael’s reaction was so quick, Eloisa was shocked when her face was buried in his shoulder as his arms pulled her body hard against the front of his. “I would never beat a woman, El, I promise you,” he vowed into her hair as he held her. Then he remembered the bruise she’d had on her cheek the night he rescued her from the brothel. She had been hit at least once, maybe more.

  Still stunned by the sudden movement, by the sensation of being held up against the front of his body, Eloisa nodded into his shoulder. “I know you would not,” she whispered, her attention back on the present. “But ... But, what of your banker? Would he, do you suppose?”

  Sighing heavily, Michael let go his hold on her and led her to the edge of the bed. He turned and sat down, pulling her down next to him. “I believe you have already met Mr. Huntington,” he stated in a hushed tone.” When Eloisa didn’t respond, he added, “He is a widower. He worshiped his wife, and he is desperate to have a love in his life again. I cannot believe the man would lift a hand against a woman. Even a woman who might steal from him,” he added, as if that might be enough impetus for a man to beat a woman.

  Eloisa considered his argument, her gaze deliberately avoiding his. “So, why does he fight?” she wondered, a crinkle appearing between her brows. She already knew that Michael did it for the exercise, or, at least, that’s what he claimed when he first told her his reason for taking up the odd sport.

  “I believe he does it so that he won’t go mad,” Michael whispered in reply, his eyes focused on the pattern in the Aubusson carpet at his feet. “I doubt the man would even consider taking a mistress. It would be like dishonoring his wife, I suppose. But when he finds a woman for whom he feels affection, I expect he will give up bare-knuckle fighting.” He lifted his gaze to Eloisa’s face, wondering if she believed every man capable of hurting a woman.

  Eloisa regarded him for a moment before she nodded. “He needs the ... release, then,” she said with a hint of question in her voice.

  Michael regarded her for several seconds, surprised by her insight. “Exactly!” Michael replied, his eyes widening as he realized her comment could be true for Arthur. She understands. When given the chance, Eloisa could astonish him with her insight.

  She smiled then, realizing she’d pleased her protector. She stood up from the bed and stepped into a pair of black slippers before taking the small chair at her vanity. As she wound her hair into a tight bun and pinned it atop her head, Michael moved to stand behind her, fastening the rest of the jet buttons at the back of her gown.

  Eloisa grinned at his reflection in the mirror. “Are we still going for a walk?” she wondered, thinking perhaps he had something else in mind for the afternoon. Maybe an ice at Gunther’s!

  “Yes, we are,” he replied, wondering what she implied with her question. Did Eloisa think he was reconsidering her offer of becoming his mistress? He wondered if he should tell her about his intention to marry her sister later that month. What would her reaction be? he wondered. “In fact, I need to tell you something,” he said quietly.

  Eloisa paused, about to attach an ear bob to one of her earlobes. “Oh?” she replied.

  “This man ... Arthur Huntington ... we’re going to meet him today. While we’re on this walk,” he explained, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake by telling her what he had planned. “He asked for an introduction.”

  Her eyes widening, Eloisa turned from the vanity to look at him directly. “Why?” she wondered, a bit of panic causing her stomach to clench. Was the man looking for a mistress? Had Michael suggested her?

  “He’s ready to find a wife,” Michael stated.

  Eloisa’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. A banker has asked for an introduction to me! “What ... What have you told him? About me, I mean?” she wondered. Did the man know ..?

  “You’re a war widow, and you’re done with mourning. Nothing more,” he promised.

  Letting out the breath she’d been holding, Eloisa slumped in her chair. “Oh.” She started nodding. “Then, I suppose we should be going,” she said as she turned and finished clipping on the ear bobs, her movements quick and efficient. She had her pelisse pulled on and buttoned before Michael had finished rebuttoning his topcoat.

  Once he glanced out the windows and determined that the street in front of her townhouse was clear of pedestrians, Michael offered Eloisa his arm and they took off for the afternoon stroll.

  Eloisa seemed lost in thought, and not wishing to interrupt the silence between them, Michael was soon lost in his own thoughts – so much so that he nearly missed Arthur Huntington as the man walked toward them.

  “Good afternoon, Cunningham,” Huntington greeted him as he hurried up to Michael with his right hand outstretched.

  Smiling, Michael grasped the hand and shook it vigorously. “And good afternoon to you, Huntington. I see our earlier sparring match has not affected you in the least,” Michael said jovially.

  Arthur shook his head. “No, indeed. It was good exercise,” he replied, his attention turning to Eloisa. The man’s smile of greeting turned to one of appreciation as he nodded to Eloisa and removed his hat.

  “Allow me to present Mrs. Eloisa Smith,” Michael stated as he lifted the arm she held. He couldn’t help but notice Arthur’s gaze on Eloisa. He wondered how long the banker had known about the widow and if he remembered having met her at Waterford Hall. “This is my banker and sometimes boxing opponent, Mr. Arthur Huntington,” he said by way of introduction. “The Third,” he added, thinking the full name might seem more impressive to Eloisa.

  Eloisa’s eyes widened when she realized this was the very man that Michael had spoken of earlier. She performed a curtsy in response to the banker’s deep bow. Even before their eyes met, she was aware of a frisson in her body, of her breath suddenly leaving and her face coloring a bit as the man seemed to openly admire her. “It’s so very good to meet you, Mr. Huntington,” she said with a genuine smile. So very good indeed. She was sure she had never seen the man before; she would remember him if she had ever been introduced to him. And he was even more handsome than she could imagine from Michael’s description of him! He is debonair, she thought happily. A true gentleman.

  Michael noted Arthur’s interest and immediately realized it was genuine. The man had obviously seen Eloisa more often than just the occasion of them shopping on New Bond Street. “Mrs. Smith’s husband died last year,” Michael explained quickly. “His infantry was quite battered in the war, I’m afraid. I try to see to it that Mrs. Smith gets some fresh air now and again.”

  Arthur’s attention went briefly to Michael as he listened to the explanation, but it was directed back onto Eloisa almost immediately. “I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Smith,” he said as he reached for her gloved hand and kissed the back of it. “I lost my wife last year, too, and have found life to be quite difficult without her. Are you ... out of mourning now?” he wondered, noting the color of the gown and the pelisse she wore.

  Eloisa wondered at the man’s curiosity. “Yes, finally,” she replied with a nod of her head. “I suppose I overdid it just a bit,” she added, biting her lip when she realized her comment might seem flippant to the handsome banker. “Mr. Cunningham has been so very kind to look in on me. He and my father are business associates, you see,” she added quickly, hoping she wasn’t saying too much. “And please allow me to say that I am very sorry for your loss, Mr. Huntington. Were you married long?” Eloisa wondered, trying to determine the handsome man’s age. The cut of his topcoat was exquisite, his Nanking breeches were tailored to fit over his knee in a most precise buttoned cuff, and his boots were polished to a near-glass shine. A neatly trimmed mustache gave his angular face a debonair quality, its jet black color contrasting quite nicely with the flecks of gray in his closely cropped hair. Her gaze drifted down to the ungloved hand that held his beaver and kid gloves. She noticed that his knuckles were scuffed much like Michael
’s. He, too, had carefully manicured fingernails.

  The man seemed lost in a reverie of his own as he regarded the pretty woman who stood before him. Her face was beautifully flushed, no doubt from their walk, he considered. The strands of brown hair that had escaped from around her bonnet shown with a hint of red, and although her deep blue walking gown and matching pelisse were not the best color for her fair complexion, their fit promised a pleasant figure beneath. “Thank you. It would have been fifteen years this September,” he answered with a nod, a flush coming over him as he realized he’d been staring too long. “And you?” he wondered, hoping her marriage was not long.

  “Only a couple of months,” Eloisa spoke softly. “I was in mourning far longer than I was ever married,” she added with a slight shrug of one shoulder, not caring one whit that she suddenly couldn’t remember the details of the back story Michael had devised for her.

  Michael cleared his throat, clearly aware of the attraction between the two. “Thank you again for sparring with me earlier today,” Michael said lightly. “I look forward to a rematch.”

  Arthur tore his gaze from Eloisa and regarded Michael with a cocked eyebrow. “As do I. Next week, perhaps?” he offered, realizing he had kept them from their walk far too long. He was obviously satisfied with the introduction, though.

  “I look forward to it,” Michael replied with a slight grin.

  Eloisa turned and placed her hand on Michael’s arm. “Mr. Cunningham, do you suppose it would be acceptable for me to invite Mr. Huntington for tea tomorrow afternoon? My maid would be present, of course.”

  Although he hadn’t expected Eloisa to want to host Arthur Huntington for tea – he thought Arthur would first offer a ride in Hyde Park – Michael found this arrangement more promising. “I think that would be acceptable,” he answered. He turned to Arthur with a raised eyebrow.

  “I would be honored to have tea with you, Mrs. Smith. At what time may I call on you?” the banker wondered, his enthusiasm barely held in check.

  “Four o’clock would be perfect, Mr. Huntington,” Eloisa answered with a heartfelt smile. “I live in the little brick house back there ... with the round bushes on either side of the front door,” she turned and pointed to it as Arthur followed her finger.

  “Yes, I know the one,” he said with a nod, not bothering to give the place much of a glance. Michael nearly rolled his eyes as he realized Arthur had, indeed, been admiring Eloisa from afar for much longer than just a few days.

  Eloisa nodded. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

  “And I you, Mrs. Smith,” Arthur replied, lifting her hand one more time to kiss the back of it. He gave them both a bow and hurried off.

  As Michael and Eloisa resumed their walk, a wall of silence seemed to build between them. Michael’s attention was on his upcoming trip to Shipley while Eloisa considered the caller she would hosting the following day. After a quarter of an hour of no conversation, though, Eloisa could stand it no longer. “You are angry with me, aren’t you?” she half-asked, biting her lower lip as she turned to regard Michael. But he showed a carefree expression and gave no hint that he was feeling anything in particular.

  “Not at all,” he replied lightly, his eyebrows furrowing at her comment. He wondered why she seemed upset. “I feel for Mr. Huntington, and you seemed to have cheered him up quite nicely with your invitation,” he praised her, patting the arm that held his. “Now, if he tries anything untoward, you can be sure I’ll beat his brains in,” he added, a quirk crossing his face as he said it.

  “You brute!” Eloisa gasped, realizing too late that he was teasing. She resumed her walk with him, humming softly as she thought long and hard about what kind of biscuits to bake for Mr. Huntington’s visit. Perhaps several flavors so that there would be at least one he liked.

  “Eloisa,” he said then, his voice lowering so he couldn’t be overheard by a passersby. “I must visit your father next week. We’re working on another business venture,” he murmured. “I’ve much to complete before the trip, so I think it best I forgo visiting you Tuesday. You won’t mind terribly, I hope?” he asked, not sure of her mood just then.

  Eloisa turned her face up to his. “Not at all, Mr. Cunningham,” she replied with a brief shake of her head, a small smile touching her lips. Mr. Huntington is coming for tea! “You must give my family my regards.”

  “Of course,” he answered with a nod. He had to keep from smiling at her change in mood since their meeting with Huntington. She seemed ... happy, he realized.

  Although Eloisa might have at one time wanted a marriage proposal from Michael, she no longer seemed enamored with him. And he never said he would be her protector for the rest of her life. Had she decided at some point during this past eleven months to search for a marriage prospect? Michael wondered as they continued their walk. For if she had, he was hoping she was considering Arthur Huntington.

  She wouldn’t do badly with Arthur Huntington III. Not bad at all.

  Chapter 20

  A Letter is Delivered on a Monday

  April 10, 1815

  Snowflakes fell in thick clumps and settled on the top of Olivia Waterford’s bonnet as she walked quickly towards home. She wondered if there would ever be a real spring that year. The weather had been so cold, her mother’s garden hadn’t yet begun to show its greenery. Only the plants on the south side of the house had shown any signs of life. Tired of staying indoors, though, she’d made the chilly trek to Shipley and spent the afternoon shopping for sundries.

  Given the weather, she was surprised when the mail coach arrived from the north just as she was about to make her way home. The driver, recognizing she was a Waterford daughter, entrusted her with a small bundle of letters. Most of the missives were for her father, but one bright white envelope was addressed to her. The elegant handwriting on the outside of the parchment was written in a feminine hand, but the crest embossed in the wax seal was that of the Somerset duchy. Olivia considered opening the letter right then and there in the middle of the street next to the coach, but she dared not take the chance that the other letters would fall onto the wet and muddy cobbles. It did not matter what the letter contained in the way of news. She was simply excited about receiving further word from Wiltshire regarding the position of governess for the duke’s children.

  Just seven weeks before, she’d sent a letter and a comprehensive list of her coursework and tutors along with a character to the duchy. Even if she wasn’t considered for an interview with the duchess, she hoped her information might be passed along to another family in need of a governess. But then she’d received a letter from the duchess herself, informing Olivia that she had been chosen for the position and asking if she was still available. Olivia quickly replied, telling the duchess she was available at Her Grace’s convenience and that she would await further word about when she should plan to travel to Wiltshire.

  Certainly this letter contained that information.

  And then she found herself wondering if she was making the right decision. If she left Shipley, she would probably only return to visit her parents on rare occasions. She would probably never see Mr. Cunningham again.

  Marriage would be out of the question – had there ever been a governess who was married? But given she had no suitors, she was doing the right thing by accepting the position. She was sure of it.

  Lost in thought about the move to Wiltshire and her lack of prospects for marriage, Olivia was unaware of a coach coming on the road behind her. The driver halted the matched Cleveland Bays and the coach ground to a halt directly to her left. Looking up, she waved when she recognized the driver, Mr. White, and then turned to curtsy when Michael Cunningham called to her from inside the coach. The door opened and Mr. Cunningham jumped from the equipage, calling out a greeting as he did so.

  “May I offer you a ride, Miss Olivia? I believe our destination is the same,” he
said lightly as he held out a hand for her. She’s even prettier than the last time I saw her!

  Olivia colored up a bit, surprised by the sudden appearance of the very man she’d been thinking of, as if her memories had somehow conjured him into existence. “I suppose it would be acceptable,” she agreed as a footman set down the steps. There should really be a chaperone, she thought, but she’d known Mr. Cunningham for a long time. He was a friend of the family. Certainly there would be no harm in riding in his coach the rest of the way to the house.

  “You have quite a burden there, Miss Olivia. Allow me,” Michael offered as he took the bundle of letters from her grasp, leaving her to manage a small parcel under her other arm.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cunningham. You are too kind,” Olivia replied with a grin. She stepped up into the coach, a frisson passing through her as Michael grasped her gloved hand and helped her up the steep step.

  Before he followed her into the coach, Michael’s eye was drawn to the top letter on the stack he had taken from her. The crest of the Duke of Somerset was quite evident in the dark red wax seal, and he surreptitiously turned over the letter as he climbed up into the coach. He noted the addressee was not Harold Waterford but Olivia. And the beautiful handwriting was familiar to him. Michael’s brows furrowed.

  Elizabeth Cunningham, he realized immediately. Michael’s younger sister and the only daughter of Viscount Cunningham understood why Michael did not wish to marry right away, but she also knew of his immediate need to do so. And she was grateful enough for Michael’s introduction to the man who had become her husband, Jeremy Edward Statton, to bend to his wishes when the need arose. Like now, he thought to himself, hoping the letter was to tell Olivia the offer to hire her as governess had been rescinded. “You have quite a number of letters here,” Michael commented as he took a seat across from her and settled back into the leather squabs.

 

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