Michael smiled then, a genuine smile that lit up his eyes and allowed his white teeth to glow in the dim light. “Congratulations, old man,” he said happily, punching his banker lightly on the shoulder. “I already wished Mrs. Smith happy when she was in Shipley last week. She came to say you were courting her,” he added, punching Arthur lightly on the shoulder again.
Hearing the good news about the impending nuptials from Arthur directly, Michael considered how relieved he felt. He would no longer have to be Eloisa’s protector, no longer have to provide her with pin money and a maid, and he would no longer have to provide her a place to live.
He was free to be married to Olivia.
Arthur held up his fists in front of him, a bit surprised by Michael’s reaction to his statement and rather incensed at the mention that his betrothed had spoken to Michael in Shipley. “Shall we then?” he asked, his eyebrow cocking in challenge.
“Oh, of course,” Michael replied lightly, holding up his fists in a loose, defensive posture.
Arthur was on the attack immediately, jabbing a roundhouse right into Michael’s ribs so hard that Michael was sure one cracked. More surprised from the ferociousness of the punch than the pain that it created, Michael reacted with a series of quick jabs to Arthur’s face, connecting with his jaw on only one of them. The banker reeled a bit, but was quick to cover himself as Michael tried a roundhouse to his body.
“I must admit, I didn’t know you had proposed to Mrs. Smith,” Michael said conversationally as he dodged a series of punches and then was stunned by an uppercut that caught his jaw. Damn! The man was playing for keeps! “She mentioned you had asked to court her when she saw me at Waterford Hall last week,” he added, feeling the sting of the punch and having a devil of a time hiding it.
“I know,” Arthur replied with a curt nod, covering himself as Michael managed to get close with a series of punches, finally hitting the man along the jawline again. Arthur danced back out of the way and shook his head quickly. “I thought it best to ask for her hand while you could not interfere.”
Taking a deep breath, Michael made sure to hold his arms up in front of him as Arthur moved in to take some more shots to his body. “But, why would I wish to interfere?” he countered as his left fist crunched into the side of Arthur’s arm, sending the man stumbling sideways. “As my sister-in-law, I could only hope she would make an excellent match now that her mourning period is over,” he added, gasping for breath as he danced around the banker. “I do hope you’ll ask me to stand with you during the ceremony.”
But Arthur recovered and managed to slug him hard, first against the side of his chest and again into his forearm before he had a chance to comprehend Michael’s words. Breathing heavily, Arthur furrowed his brows and dropped his arms. “Sister-in-law?” he repeated, sotto voce.
Michael took the opportunity to lightly punch Arthur in the ribs and then again in the shoulder. “Of course,” he replied with a shrug. He returned his arms to their defensive posture. “I was in Shipley to get married to her sister, Olivia Waterford,” he explained lightly, his breaths still short.
Panting, Arthur stared at Michael. “You’re married?” he asked, his expression conveying his shock. He tried a roundhouse, but it went through air as Michael easily ducked away.
“I told you I was getting married. Before I left, remember?”
Arthur Huntington stared at him in disbelief. “You got married?” he repeated, his jaw suddenly slack.
“Yes,” Michael said with a smile, his head nodding as he tried to ignore the sharp pains he suddenly felt from Arthur’s punches. “Olivia and Eloisa are sisters,” he added, just in case the banker hadn’t figured it out from his earlier comment. “I ... I have been looking after Eloisa at the behest of her father,” he lied, hoping the news would force the banker to end the match.
“Indeed?” Arthur replied, a flash of anger mixing with confusion. He rushed at Michael and pummeled him with his fists until Gentleman Jackson himself stepped in and pulled the banker off of Michael. “So, does this mean we’re to be brothers?” Arthur gasped, bending over to try and catch his breath while Jackson looked over Michael’s wounds.
“Uh huh,” Michael replied, not wanting to smile; he thought it would hurt too much. “Are we done here?” he asked, deciding he no longer wanted to fight Arthur, especially if the man was going to be his brother-in-law.
Dazed, Arthur nodded, wandering off without another word.
The proprietor watched the banker leave the ring. He turned his attention back to Michael and his wounds. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked as he reached up to check the source of a stream of blood running down Michael’s face.
“Just a friendly sparring match,” Michael replied as he rolled his eyes. His expression darkened, though, when he saw the blood and realized that some of the punches he had taken had caused damage. There was no doubt he would be left with ugly bruises. He could barely breathe given the pain from the cracked or broken rib. Given the level of discomfort he felt, he rather doubted he would be able to consummate his marriage that night. Damn! It would be at least a day or more before he would be recovered enough to bed Olivia. Double damn! he thought with a sigh, wincing at the sharp pain his simple curse invoked.
But I am free of my obligation to Eloisa. What a relief!
Olivia quietly opened her bedchamber door and stood motionless for a moment, staring at the end of the hallway. Sure it was Michael she had heard come up the stairs, she ventured into the hall and saw that the door to his bedchamber was ajar. Neither he nor Edward had been at dinner that evening; Michael had sent a reminder note saying he would be home late as he was shopping in Ludgate Hill. Olivia had taken her dinner in the parlor and begun reading Pride and Prejudice, becoming so engrossed in the tale she only stopped reading when the clock on the mantle struck ten. Taking the book with her, she retired to her bedchamber .
Olivia took a deep breath and willed herself to confront Michael. Moving quickly and as quietly as possible, she hurried to his room, her bare feet soundless on the Aubusson hall carpet. There was movement inside his room; footfalls on the plush carpet, a coat being discarded. Olivia took a deep breath and stepped into the room, one hand grasped on the edge of the door as she stood staring at her husband. Wearing only breeches and his Hessians, his hair tousled from having removed his shirt, Michael was at first a sight to behold. His broad chest and large upper arms could have only belonged to a man who exercised rigorously. Olivia shivered as she remembered the night he had climbed into her bed and moved his body so that it enveloped hers. Besides the awful odor of ale and cheroot smoke, there was the scent of the laundry soap on the linens and a bit of sandalwood and the scent of him. There was the heat of his body as it permeated her night rail, flowing into her very being. The weight of his right arm as it rested on the side of her body and the incredible sensation that coursed through her body as his hand cupped her right breast. Her entire body shivered as she remembered that night.
Just a week ago?
Just a week, she realized. And yesterday morning. He had done the same thing, although he hadn’t smelled of cheroots and ale, thank goodness. She was sure he would bed her then, but there had been that sudden knock at the door and his hasty departure.
Olivia stood before him now in awe, her gaze finally settling on bruises that were so out of place on a man of such perfection. Without thinking, she moved quickly to stand before him, one hand reaching out to caress the flesh where a blue-green stain was spreading over several ribs.
Surprised when he finally noticed Olivia staring at him, Is that fright I see in her eyes? he wondered, Michael stopped and returned the stare, watching her as she approached him. As her hand reached out to touch him, he grimaced, expecting to feel pain from the place where he had allowed Huntington to punch him with his right fist, a roundhouse blow that he thought at the time might have cracked
a rib or two. But when Olivia’s fingertips finally made contact, the touch was so gentle, his skin shivered as if tickled. His sharp intake of breath caused Olivia to quickly pull her hand away, but he caught it and slowly raised it to his lips. Kissing her knuckles, he continued to watch her as her eyes took in all of him.
“You are hurt. What ... what happened?” she gasped as she reached up to his face with her other hand and cupped his cheek. A slight discoloration was appearing where Huntington’s left upper cut had caught him cleanly on the jaw.
Michael smiled slightly, relieved that at least smiling didn’t hurt too much. “I lost a bare knuckle fight,” he said as he cocked an eyebrow. At Olivia’s gasp and widened green eyes, he shrugged. “Well, lost is a bit of an overstatement,” he corrected as he wrapped an arm around Olivia’s waist and pulled her against him. She let out squeak of surprise as the front of her body was suddenly pressed against his. “I made sure my opponent won,” he whispered as he leaned over and kissed her hair.
“Is he as ... bruised ... as you?” Olivia wondered as she continued to study him, her brow furrowing as her gaze took in the whorls of dark hair on his chest, the shape of his arms as he held her.
Michael grinned and closed his eyes as he considered how to answer. “I can only hope,” he replied, kissing her forehead again.
“And why would you allow him to win?” she wondered, pushing herself away from his body enough so that she could see his face.
Kissing the hand he still held, Michael considered what to tell her. The truth could hurt her, no doubt, but she seemed to know part of it already. He didn’t know if Eloisa had told her anything. If he told Olivia everything, they could get on with their marriage, although he wasn’t convinced she would forgive him once she heard his side of the tale. And there was still that damned bet.
Olivia saw Michael’s face darken, his eyes take on a faraway look that she suddenly found frightening. Her husband was a bare knuckle boxer. What if her query angered him? Would he hurt her? Would he become so angry he might raise his hand to her? His fists?
Suddenly losing her resolve to ask about Eloisa, Olivia stepped away from him.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked as he realized she was staring at him with an entirely different look in her eye. When he moved to step closer, Olivia took another step back. She realized if she didn’t ask him, she would always wonder. She couldn’t not know. Not anymore. Not when she was married to him. “My sister ... is she ... is she ... was she truly your mistress?” she blurted out, tears stinging the edges of her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, Michael slowly shook his head. How long has she thought that? he wondered, a flare of anger igniting inside that suddenly replaced the sense of relief he had felt at having completed the sparring match with Huntington. “Edward told you that, didn’t he?” he replied in a whisper, one hand coming up to scrub his face before he remembered the punch to his jaw. He winced in pain as his hand made contact, barely aware that Olivia had turned and run from the room.
“Olivia!” he called out, following her with his long strides so that he got to her bedchamber just after she ran through the door. His arm reached up and blocked the slamming door before it could latch, and he pushed on it hard, thinking she would be trying to keep it shut from the other side. But she was already to the bed, collapsed onto the counterpane, her shoulders heaving with her sobs. “She promised she would never tell you,” he whispered, knowing even as he said the words that they would be of little comfort.
“She didn’t,” Olivia replied, her voice muffled by the counterpane. “Edward did, but he ... merely confirmed ...” she replied between sobs, her words nearly lost in the fabric. “You did. When you called me ‘El’,” she finally got out, her breath catching as she continued sobbing.
Michael sighed, wondering when he might have referred to her by the name he sometimes used for Eloisa. After a moment of thought, though, he realized that she was speaking of that night – the night he’d climbed into her bed and was caught by her father and more servants than he was expecting to show up as witnesses to his ruination of Olivia Waterford.
He moved to the side of the bed and pulled a handkerchief from his breeches. Holding it out for her, he whispered, “Actually, I called you ‘my beautiful.’”
Olivia gasped and looked up at him from red-rimmed eyes, hesitantly taking the proffered hanky. Reaching down, Michael wrapped his arms around her shoulders and waist, lifting her from the bed while ignoring the stabs of pain where Huntington’s fists had made contact. His face softened as he turned Olivia’s face toward him and saw the pain and hurt in her eyes. He took her head between his hands and pulled her to him. “I promise you, Olivia, I do not have a mistress,” he murmured quietly. He felt her body shake with a sob and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. When he felt her tears on the skin of his chest, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away enough so that he could see her face. “Until a couple of weeks ago, I was ...” He sighed loudly, not wanting to make the confession but realizing it was necessary. “I was Eloisa’s protector,” he admitted finally, “We were never lovers, Olivia. You are my wife, and I intend to honor my marriage vows.”
Olivia buried her face in the space between his shoulder and arm. “I hate you,” she sniffled, wrapping her arms around his chest and pulling herself against his body in a way that clearly indicated she did not mean what she’d said.
Michael pursed his lips at her response. The words stung, but her physical reaction was quite at odds to her claim. He kissed her hair and rested his cheek against her head. “Do you suppose there will ever be a time when you could ... not hate me?” he countered, trying hard to keep his voice steady. He felt her head shake against him, and her body trembled again. He took a deep breath, ignoring the stab of pain he felt from the damaged ribs. “So, you don’t suppose you will ever feel affection for me?” he whispered, his lips finding her forehead and then her temple, his kisses soft and warm.
Olivia quieted and finally turned her face so that her cheek rested against his chest. “Maybe,” she whimpered, sniffling quietly.
Michael’s lip curved a bit then. Cupping her cheek with one hand, he kissed her nose and moved his lips to hers, barely brushing them, his breath warm on her face. “I suppose I shall have to wait then,” he whispered gently. “Come, let’s sit down so that I can explain some things. I owe you that much.”
In her despair, Olivia had no strength to fight him, allowing him to lead her to the alcove and the settee therein. As he sat back into one corner and pulled her against him, she was very aware of his bare skin, of his nipple under her thumb as she placed her hand against his chest. She had dreamt about being this close to him, spent many nights fantasizing about him being in bed next to her, wondered how it would be to touch him, what it would be like to love him – but all those times were under far different circumstances. And those were just daydreams. Just her imagination. Right here, right now, she was truly in Michael Cunningham’s arms. His rather large, bare arms. Against his very bare chest.
When Olivia finally nestled her head into the space between his shoulder and chest, Michael sighed. “You sister is getting married,” he finally said, not knowing quite where to start.
Olivia nodded and raised her head from his shoulder. “She told me this morning,” she whispered, a hitch in her breath breaking up her words. “She said you know the man,” she added, her tears finally subsiding. “That you actually introduced them to one another.”
Michael placed a hand on the back of her head so that he could pull it back onto his shoulder. “My banker, actually,” Michael answered before kissing her on the head. “Arthur Huntington the Third,” he added wistfully. “Not a bad bare knuckle fighter in his own right. And he’s got ten years on me.”
At that, Olivia raised her head to stare at him. “You fought ... you dueled over my sister?” she asked, her face reddening as her ire
returned.
Surprised she would make that connection, Michael swallowed. “I did not. He thought that’s what we were doing. Remember, I wanted him to win,” Michael explained in his own defense. At Olivia’s confused expression, he went on. “Arthur loves your sister very much. Apparently he’s wanted her as his wife for some time now, but he thought I had some kind of claim on her, which, of course, I do not, so we had to fight so he could prove his worthiness and his affection for her.” At Olivia’s continued frown, Michael stared down at her. “As I said, I lost deliberately.” He smiled to himself as he recalled the earlier sparring match, explaining in great detail what had happened, pantomiming some of the moves he’d made against Arthur Huntington and then describing the hits that had resulted in the bruises he now sported, pointing out each one with a self-deprecating tone in his voice.
Olivia’s head was spinning just a bit as Michael finished telling his story. “Do you men often do these irrational things when you’re in pursuit of a woman?” she wondered, her brows still furrowed. A bubble of laughter erupted from Michael, and Olivia found herself smiling in spite of herself as she felt his body convulse against her.
“Irrational, perhaps, but it was ... necessary,” he whispered. He thought of all the things he’d done in the last three weeks to ensure his marriage to Olivia would happen in time to meet the deadline he had set for himself. Irrational? Yes. Necessary? Perhaps not. Did he regret what he’d done? It was still too early to tell, he decided.
“So, why were you holding my sister’s hands and kissing her in the library?”
Michael jerked beneath her, surprised by the question. “You saw that?” he asked, his eyebrows practically in his hairline.
Olivia nodded. “I thought perhaps ... I thought you were proposing marriage,” she murmured sadly.
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