‘Please, don’t scream,’ might have been a better choice of words, but then they wouldn’t be discovered by her forewarned father and three unknowing servants.
Olivia’s body suddenly stiffened. He heard her sharp intake of breath and felt her hand atop the one covering her breast, her fingers gingerly rubbing his knuckles before her panicked yell for help filled the room and the hall beyond. Michael held her more closely, kissed the back of her head, and allowed his nose to take in the scent of all of her until the door flew open and he was discovered.
Having finally jerked herself away from this hold and spun her body around in the bed, Olivia stared at her interloper.
Michael was sure he would never forget the look of astonishment on her face. But with it, there was something else. Regret, perhaps? Disbelief, certainly. And definitely surprise.
Half an hour later, the house once again quiet as the servants returned to their rooms and her parents left hers, Olivia climbed into her bed as if in a trance. I’ll wake up in the morning, and this will all have been a bad dream, she hoped as she pulled the covers over her body. In doing so, she caught the familiar scent of sandalwood and citrus. She couldn’t help but allow the frisson that passed through her body, a frisson that reminded her of Michael’s hand on her breast, of his body against the back of hers, of his kiss on the back of her head and ...
Indeed, it wouldn’t be a bad dream at all, except she couldn’t help but remember the words she’d heard him say just before they were discovered.
“My beautiful El, please be mine.”
Chapter 22
An Announcement on a Wednesday
April 12, 1815
Eloisa approached her sister’s bedchamber door, her footsteps deliberately soft. Knocking lightly, she placed her ear against the wood, hoping Olivia was awake.
“Come in,” she heard. She’s awake. After the chaos of the night before, which resulted in the entire household being up until the wee hours of the morning, she thought she might be the only one awake and about. But the rest of the family was at breakfast at the usual time; only Olivia was absent. Their conversation was light and varied, and, as usual, her father was mostly hidden behind a copy of The Times. When Michael appeared at the threshold, though, her father stood up and left the room, their house guest in tow as they headed for the study.
Turning the knob, Eloisa opened the door just enough to see Olivia sitting on the edge of her bed. She was fully dressed in a sprigged muslin gown, with her hair already pinned up in a bun atop her head. “’Morning,” Eloisa murmured as she slipped into the room and took a seat next to her sister. “We missed you at breakfast. I wanted to be sure you were ...”
Olivia gave her a nod. “Is it a good morning, do you suppose?” she wondered, her face suddenly lifted to the ceiling, as if she had to stave off tears.
Eloisa clasped her hand over one of Olivia’s and gently squeezed. “Of course, it is. Mr. Cunningham will do the right thing, you must know,” she replied with a smile.
“I don’t want him to do the right thing because ... because he feels like he has to,” Olivia countered. “I only ever wanted him if he felt affection for ...” She paused, realizing she had just put into words something she had never completely admitted to herself.
Leaning her head to one side, Eloisa regarded Olivia with a half-smile. “From the first day you brought him home, you were smitten with him. And he with you, I think,” she whispered, remembering the jealousy she’d felt at seeing her younger sister with the handsome man who was to be their house guest. I had such a crush on him, she thought, realizing it was only in the last year that she no longer held a candle for Michael Cunningham.
Having the man as a protector had taught her the importance of mutual affection. After nearly a year of Michael’s regular Tuesday visits, she grew to realize he wasn’t particularly attracted to her. And he seemed preoccupied, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
Or were for someone else.
Olivia blushed, surprised at her sister’s words. “I was, wasn’t I?” she admitted, one tooth capturing her lower lip.
A quick rap at the door had the two girls jumping. Their lady’s maid, Caroline, poked her head into the room. “Miss Olivia, your father wishes to speak with you. In his study,” she said quickly. Before Olivia could even respond, the door was shut and Caroline was gone.
Sighing, Olivia gave her sister a glance. “Even the maid thinks I’m a ruined woman. And I didn’t even do anything,” she commented before taking her leave of her sister.
Eloisa stared at her sister’s retreating back, realizing just then they had something in common. I know exactly how you feel, she thought with a bit of sadness. But at least you’ll be married as a result.
Olivia descended the stairs and headed for the study. She passed their house guest in the hall as Michael left the study, his face unreadable as he nodded to her. But she could feel his eyes on her back as she entered the study to stand before her father. She found herself wondering if Mr. Cunningham would eavesdrop at the door. He had been in there with her father for at least an hour after breakfast.
“This is a most auspicious occasion,” her father said with a genuine smile. A smile! Olivia couldn’t remember ever seeing her father displaying such happiness as he did when he gave her the news. “You are to be married to Michael Cunningham. Tomorrow, if the vicar can be located.”
At her stunned silence, Harold Waterford came around from the other side of his desk and did something he rarely did. He hugged her. He rubbed her back, kissed her cheek, and then held her out at arms’ length. “I have been waiting for this day for a very long time,” he said, his eyes bright with tears. “Mr. Cunningham will make the announcement to the family during dinner this evening. I do hope you’ll agree this is an excellent match.”
And then, as quickly as she was summoned, Olivia was dismissed from her father’s study.
And she hadn’t spoken a word.
Of course, it was an excellent match, Olivia decided as she made her way to the parlor. She should be ecstatic at becoming the wife of the only man for whom she had ever felt affection, innocent as it was. But she could not help but feel that the marriage was forced on their guest – that her father had demanded that Michael Cunningham marry her. And she knew that Mr. Cunningham had agreed due to honor and who knew what other code a man followed in situations like this.
As her father promised, Michael did make the announcement of the impending nuptials later that night. He stood up during the family dinner and announced that he would be marrying Olivia by special license the very next day.
Stunned, Olivia stared at Michael and wondered how was it possible that he could procure a license so quickly. She understood special licenses were only obtainable from the Archbishop of Canterbury.
And weren’t they only good for three months?
Did he keep one handy for just this sort of situation? she wondered then, daring a glance in his direction.
The stunned silence that followed Michael Cunningham’s announcement was most uncomfortable until her mother clasped her hands together and grinned like a school girl. And then George pushed his chair away from the table, walked to Michael, and took his hand to shake it, saying, “Congratulations. Glad to have another brother,” as if he was several years older than his eleven years.
Her family should have been more shocked than they seemed that night. During Michael’s recurring stays at the Waterford’s, neither he nor Olivia had shown the kind of interest in one another that would lead someone to think that they might eventually marry.
That’s not quite right, Olivia admitted to herself. When she was seventeen or so, she had once welcomed Mr. Cunningham as if he was a member of the family, hugging him when he stepped out of his coach. He had wrapped one arm around her waist that day and nearly lifted her from her feet. She was sure he had buried his f
ace in the space between her shoulder and head, could almost imagine he had kissed her on the neck before she caught her mother’s arched eyebrow and let go her hold on him. But, now that she thought about it more, her mother hadn’t seemed shocked or angered by her display of ... whatever it was she was displaying when she hugged Michael.
Affection, she realized then, remembering the scents of sandalwood and tobacco and man when her head had been pressed against his shoulder.
From that very first day in the Ship’s yard, she had found him interesting. She occasionally conversed with him on a number of topics after dinner. But anyone from London would have been welcomed at their table, she considered, as remote as the Waterfords were from city life. Mr. Cunningham brought news of the latest theatrical productions, soirées, balls, books, and opera singers, but he doled out the information in bits and pieces that allowed him to contribute just enough to each dinner conversation to keep them entertained during the few days he would stay with them.
But he certainly hadn’t courted her.
And from the time she’d first met him – I was sixteen – she thought him attractive. As a result of reading her sister’s Gothic romances, Olivia spent more than a few nights wondering what it would be like to have Michael Cunningham’s large arms wrapped around her, to be held against his broad shoulders and to be kissed by his mouth. To have those dark lashes brush her cheeks and his blue eyes look upon her with favor. And those large hands, with their long, broad fingers and beat up knuckles but perfectly manicured nails – how would it feel to have those fingers comb through her hair? To hold her cheek while he kissed her? To caress her body? A frisson suddenly passed through her as she gave her mind free reign to remember everything she ever thought of Michael Cunningham.
Did he have similar fantasies about her? she wondered.
Well, she supposed she would soon find out. By this time tomorrow, she would be Mrs. Michael Cunningham.
Chapter 23
A Wedding on a Thursday
April 13, 1815
Michael woke up with a start, his breaths coming in short gasps.
My wedding day, he thought suddenly. And I have no ring! How could his sister have neglected to mention his need to get a ring? In her list of everything he needed to do before he married, she never once mentioned a ring!
He dressed quickly, noting the sounds in the household indicated others were up and about. Making his way to the breakfast parlor, he found George the only Waterford at the table.
“Good day, Master George,” he greeted the young boy. “Would you know where I might procure a wedding ring?” he wondered nervously. The vicar was due at eleven. There wasn’t time to make a trip to Horsham, let alone Petworth.
George regarded his future brother-in-law with an expression of concentration. “The mercantile doesn’t have jewelry,” he replied finally. “But Mr. Coomber can pro’bly make you one.”
Michael’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mr. Coomber?”
Nodding, George stood up from the table. “The blacksmith. I can give directions,” he offered, taking his leave of the breakfast parlor.
Michael watched as the boy made his way to the vestibule. Realizing George intended to go with him to the blacksmith’s shop, Michael hurried to catch up. “Is he far?” Michael wondered as fell into step next to George.
“Not far,” George replied. “Just the other side of Shipley,” he added. “Are you nervous? he wondered. “Father says you will be.”
A bit taken aback by the young boy’s question, Michael gave it some thought. “I am,” he replied finally.
“Why?” George asked.
Michael nearly snorted. Such a simple question, he considered. “Marriage is a big step. I’ll be ... taking responsibility for your sister. Providing protection for her.”
George gave him a sideways glance. “Because you want to? Or because you have to?” he asked bluntly. “I heard one of the servants say you ruined Livvy,” he added, as if that excused his having asked such a personal question.
Michael wondered if the boy even understood what ruination meant. “Well, I ... I do have to marry her because I ruined her,” he admitted. “But I ruined her because I need to marry her,” he added, the words sounding awkward to his ears.
“So, why do you need to get married to Livvy?”
Suppressing the urge to laugh, Michael considered how to respond. “My birthday is next week. I made a promise to my mother that I would marry before my birthday. And since I ... I love your sister, I need to marry her,” he managed to get out, surprised he could admit his feelings to George.
I have to because I love her, Michael thought suddenly. Leave it to an eleven year-old to help bring things into focus.
“So she doesn’t go to Wiltshire?” George reasoned, his faced turned up to the man who walked beside him.
Michael had to nod. “Something like that,” he replied. “She would make a fine governess,” he added. “My sister, the duchess, hired her, you see.”
George shook his head. “But you want her as a governess for your own children,” he said matter-of-factly.
Michael nearly stopped in his tracks. Children? “Well, of course, I expect she’ll make an excellent governess for our children. When we have them,” he reasoned, his grin broadening as he thought of Olivia with a child. With children.
My child. My children.
Before George could ask yet another question, he turned sharply, leading them to the blacksmith’s shop just off the road. The smithy was wielding a hammer, striking blows onto a piece of metal that looked like it might end up as a horseshoe.
“Mr. Coomber?” Michael called out, not wanting to get too close to the open fire.
“Aye,” the smithy replied, putting down the hammer and wiping his hands on his apron. “Hello, George,” he said as he moved to shake hands with Michael.
“Michael Cunningham,” he said with a nod.
“Robert Coomber,” the smithy replied. “Aren’t you about to get married?” he asked with a grin.
“I am,” Michael acknowledged. Did everyone in Shipley know he had ruined Olivia? “But, I find I left the ring behind in London, and I’m in need of one. Today. The vicar is due at the Waterfords’ at eleven. What might you have available?”
The blacksmith’s expression changed to indicate confusion. “I only have iron,” he countered. “No gold or silver,” he added with a shake of his head.
“I understand. As I said, I have one in London, but I just need something I can use for today’s ceremony.”
Mr. Coomber nodded and disappeared into his shop, returning after a moment with a collection of iron circlets in the palm of his hand. “Any of these work?” he wondered as he spread them out on his palm with a grimy finger.
Michael regarded the collection, a bit disappointed at the selection. But one seemed the right size, and its band was even and smooth. “That one,” Michael said as he pointed to his choice. “How much?” he asked as he reached into his waistcoat pocket.
The blacksmith shrugged. “Five shillings,” he replied. “And I’ll polish it up a bit.”
Michael nodded, thinking he was fortunate to find anything he could use this close to his wedding.
He and George walked back to Waterford Hall in companionable silence. When they were climbing the front steps, though, Michael paused. “Will you stand with me today?” he asked solemnly.
George blinked and then gave him a nod. “Of course,” he answered. “I have to change clothes, though,” he said as he glanced down at his dusty breeches. “My mum will make me wear my Sunday best,” he explained.
“As do I,” Michael agreed. The two disappeared into the house.
Olivia sat at her escritoire, a quill poised above the white parchment. She felt sick at what she was about to write. How did one go about informing the Duchess of Somerset her ne
wly hired governess would be unable to make the trip to Wiltshire because she was getting married?
Deciding not to mention the sudden wedding, Olivia wrote a short note saying she was unable to accept the position due to unforeseen circumstances. Apologizing for the inconvenience she had caused, Olivia wrote that she hoped the duchess would have success in finding a suitable replacement. The very last thing she wanted was to insult a member of the aristocracy. One last ‘thank you’ and her signature, and Olivia set down the quill. At least I won’t be an old maid governess, she considered, the thought not bringing her the comfort it might have the month before.
Folding the paper, Olivia dripped a bit of wax onto the back and sealed it with her ‘OW’ stamp. This will the last time I use this, she thought suddenly, admiring the swirl of the letters in the engraving.
When she stood up, intending to take the missive to the vestibule, she glanced out the window. The sight of two figures in the distant caught her attention. She was aware of Eloisa entering her room and moving to stand behind her.
“What are you looking at?” Eloisa asked.
Olivia didn’t answer as she watched her brother and the man she was about to marry as they walked toward the house.
“Where do you suppose those two have been?” Eloisa wondered from behind her shoulder, following Olivia’s line of sight to the lane that led to Shipley.
“The Ship?” Olivia guessed, trying to keep her response light. The flutterbies in her stomach were making it all but impossible to feel anything but nervous, though.
Eloisa gave a giggle. “I doubt that.”
But Olivia convinced herself the two had been at the pub. The thought that Michael would have to have a drink before he said his vows only added to the heaviness in her stomach. But to have to take her younger brother with him?
Wasn’t it bad enough that Michael was marrying the wrong Waterford girl?
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