TuesdayNights Page 6

  His thumbs circled the rosy nipples until they puckered. When his lips took purchase, gently nipping and kissing both a few kisses at a time, Anna sighed and slid her grasp down the length of his manhood and back up and down until she had established the rhythm she knew would bring him to ecstasy. Even now, his gentle hold on her hips and his lips on her breasts were becoming tenuous. She smiled as she heard his breaths come in short pants.

  This, they had done before, although never in such an elegant bedchamber and never quite so naked. “The bed,” he managed to get out, pulling himself out of her grasp.

  Startled by his sudden departure from her hold, Anna stared at him. Edward took another step back and regarded Anna, his eyes clearing. In the candlelight, her naked skin seemed to glow. He hadn’t had a chance to remove her stockings or slippers – the garters were still tied around her milky white thighs – but the sight of her like this, with her nipples hard and her skin flushed and her lips swollen from his kisses, Edward was quite sure she was the most beautiful sight he could ever behold. “I am going to make you mine again,” he whispered, not giving her a chance to do anything more than gasp as he lifted her into his arms and moved to place her on the bed.

  Anna wasn’t about to protest – the space at the top of her thighs was pulsing – she was so wet with desire, she wanted nothing more than his velvety rod to fill her. Who but Edward would she ever allow this kind of intimacy? Slowly, she settled into the linens, sighing as she felt their softness surround her.

  Edward leaned over the bed, sprinkling her body with kisses as he moved onto the bed and then positioned himself so his legs were between hers. His kisses became longer and slower, moving toward the throbbing space. First one hand and then the other moved beneath her knees, gently lifting them so her legs bent. Using his teeth, he untied the garters on each stocking, slid a finger beneath the top of each and slowly moved them down each leg, sprinkling soft kisses in their wake.

  His hands moved to the inside of her thighs, stroking the tender skin until she relaxed and her womanhood was open to his lips and tongue.

  Arching her back at the sudden sensation of his tongue invading her most private place, Anna inhaled sharply. Her hands grasped at the linens, holding onto the fabric as if she had to anchor herself to the bed or float away on the waves of pleasure she felt cresting deep inside. Her moans went from soft sounds to erotic cries in only moments as Edward’s tongue flicked across her womanhood over and over until the swollen bud was red and ready. When his lips captured and suckled it, Anna cried out, her entire body breaking apart as the waves crested and crashed and carried her to ecstasy. The sensations were so intense, she didn’t notice Edward moving up her body, didn’t realize his hardened manhood was seeking her slick sheath, didn’t know quite what was happening until he was suddenly inside her, stretching her and filling her and leaving her and filling her deeply with the same rhythm as the waves that were still cresting and crashing.

  Edward knew at some point he had lost control. Perhaps when he’d seen her naked and looking so much like a goddess of temptation, or perhaps when he’d realized just how ripe and ready her body had been for him, how her spread legs had welcomed his touch and how willing she had been to simply let him pleasure her. To thrust his manhood into her warm, wet folds seemed the only thing he could do at that moment. And he had climaxed before he thought to pull out of her, although thinking back, he realized her body had such a tight hold on him, it would have been impossible to separate himself from her body’s undulations. God, she is beautiful!

  When he finally pulled himself out of her, he did so slowly. “Anna,” he breathed, allowing his body to fall onto the mattress. He reached down to slide his hand along one of her thighs, pulling on it so her legs came together. He used the little bit of strength he had left to roll her onto the front of his body, stroking her back and arms as he did so. At the quiet sounds she made with each of his touches, he kissed her hair and temple until they both fell asleep.

  Several hours passed before Edward awoke. Embarrassed at having slept so soundly, he kissed her thoroughly. “Christ, I don’t even have a necklace for you,” Edward whispered, thinking most mistresses would insist on a bauble from a jeweler after such a satisfying evening. He pulled a ring from one of his fingers, a wide gold band featuring a square garnet. It had been a gift from his parents when he completed his time at Oxford, but it was all he had in the way of jewelry.

  He lifted one of her hands from his chest and slid the ring onto her middle finger. When it proved far too large for that finger, he moved it to her thumb.

  “Edward, you needn’t, really,” she started to protest, but his lips were suddenly on hers, kissing her until he had to take a breath. “But, thank you,” she whispered, admiring the ring by light of a dim candle.

  Thinking back on the evening, Edward considered that he really should have stayed the entire night at the townhouse. But he had a mind to drink, and there wasn’t any brandy at Anna’s.

  Not yet, at least.

  What had Michael said? Edward wondered. He’d been so lost in thought, he’d lost track of the conversation.

  Birthdays. They were discussing birthdays.

  “I don’t even know when your birthday is,” Edward stated suddenly, as if he hadn’t just been thinking of Anna and how he had spent his afternoon. He took a sip of the expensive brandy. “Ooh, can you taste the cognac?” he breathed, reveling in the warm sensation of the brandy as it slid over his tongue and burned down his throat.

  Michael leaned back and allowed his first sip to do its magic. “April twenty-first,” he whispered hoarsely. “And I no longer celebrate it.” The comment came out tinged with bitterness, something Edward rarely witnessed in his long-time friend.

  “Whoa,” the taller man said as he leaned forward, placing his brandy balloon on the pie crust table to his left. “Whatever happened to make you want to forget your birthday?”

  Giving Edward a wary glance, Michael set his glass on the low table between them. “My mother,” he finally spoke, a grimace crossing his face as he made the admission. “And Sir Richard made it worse.”

  Edward slouched in his chair, a look of amusement appearing on his lean features. As the second son of an earl, Edward Seward enjoyed a rather sedate life in London. Just that month, he had taken up residence in a room on the second floor of Michael’s Grosvenor Square townhouse, choosing to sleep there when he wasn’t at the townhouse he provided for Anna.

  He hadn’t intended to move into Michael’s home, but having overstayed his welcome at his family’s mansion in Cavendish Square and no longer able to tolerate his mother’s frequent (as in daily) attempts to marry him to some poor daughter – or rather, some rich daughter – of the ton, Edward had spent the night and hadn’t left. Although he paid little toward the upkeep of the Cunningham townhouse, he did see to it the wine cellar was stocked with the very best red wines, and the library decanters had a constant supply of French brandy and single malt scotch. Given the current war against France, Michael never asked from where or how his friend managed to acquire the very best liqueurs. He merely enjoyed them as a sort of payment for Edward’s presence there.

  Edward’s eyebrow cocked again, giving his aristocratic features a haughty air that suggested he really could one day be the Earl of Eversham. His older brother, Arthur, would have to die before fathering an heir of his own, of course, but it could happen. Being the spare heir gave one a bit of leeway, though, and Edward was quite accustomed to taking advantage of his status. Not having to worry about his reputation meant he could live the life of a rake if he chose. He didn’t, however; his one vice was gambling and his favorite form of exercise was a fencing match on a piste.

  Well, second favorite, considering how much he had enjoyed the afternoon with Anna.

  “What, pray tell, happened?” Edward asked then, sitting up straighter in the chair.

 
“I promised my mother that I would marry,” Michael answered, savoring his latest sip of brandy. “By the time I turn eight-and-twenty.”

  Edward settled back again, taking another sip of the brandy and swallowing it. “Why ever would you promise your mother you would marry? You’re the second son of a viscount, for Christ’s sake. You don’t have to marry!”

  Michael flinched at his friend’s words, the motion causing sudden discomfort near his temple. His earlier bare knuckle match with Lord Everly had ended in his favor, but Everly’s knuckles had to be the sharpest amongst all the men who frequented Gentleman Jackson’s salon. The punch the smaller man had landed on the side of his head threatened to leave him with a bruise that might last for four or five days. He splayed out his broad fingers before him, noting the reddened, scuffed knuckles and the slight bruising around them. Unlike Edward’s fingers, which were long and tapered to the perfect fingernails of a man of leisure, Michael’s were broad all the way to the end. He was careful to keep them manicured, at least.

  Despite not having the body of a typical aristocrat, Michael still understood the importance of keeping up appearances. He wore suits tailored by Weston and boots made by Hoby, employed a valet to keep his cravats perfectly folded, and had a membership at White’s.

  “Actually, I do have to marry,” Michael replied with a sigh. “I never want to see my mother cry,” he murmured quietly, taking another sip of brandy.

  Edward sat up straighter, shocked at his friend’s comment. “Lady Cunningham? Cry?” he asked, not bothering to hide his astonishment. He was shaking his head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but I do not believe your mother is capable of the act,” he said with a shake of his head.

  Michael regarded his friend with a grin. “Oh, yes she is,” he countered. He sighed. “Which is why I had to accept Sir Richard’s wager.”

  Suddenly at attention, Edward stared at his friend. “Wager? You?” he asked in disbelief. Other than during an occasional card game, Michael Cunningham never gambled.

  Shaking his head, Michael groaned. “Sir Richard bet one hundred pounds that I wouldn’t be married by the time I was eight-and-twenty years old.” Shrugging, Michael pondered how the man had even learned of the promise he’d made to his mother. Probably from her, he realized. In fact, she was probably telling everyone she knew that he would be marrying in three years’ time.

  “Can you afford to lose a hundred pounds?” Edward wondered then, his brows furrowed in concern.

  Michael held up a finger, as if to make a point. “I didn’t take the bet. At least, at first,” he replied rather proudly. “Not until I got him to agree that I would only owe him one pound if I didn’t get married.”

  Letting out a hearty laugh, Edward slapped one of his knees. “Leave it to you to make sure you profit from getting married,” he teased. “And you’ll probably get a dowry out of it, too!”

  Cocking his head to one side as he considered his best friend’s words, Michael realized getting married wouldn’t be all bad. As long as his wife didn’t drain his accounts with frequent trips to the Continent and to New Bond Street modistes.

  Like his mother did.

  Edward considered his friend’s plight. Given Michael’s status as a second son, he should have some latitude as to whom he could marry. He wasn’t due to inherit the viscountcy, after all. “And, since you promised, and you said you’ll be keeping your promise, just who do you intend to marry?” he wondered. “Faith?” he suggested as he waggled one eyebrow, giving Michael his very best teasing grin.

  Faith Seward, Edward’s youngest sister, had a tendre for Michael Cunningham – and had since she was still in the school room. Edward figured Michael would somehow end up married to the chit.

  “Oh, I know exactly who I will marry,” Michael replied coolly, draining his first glass of brandy after his pronouncement. “And it won’t be your sister,” he added as he got up to make his way to his bedchamber. I have three years. If she’s still available, I’ll ask Olivia to be my wife, he decided.

  He took a moment to consider how lovely she appeared when she’d come running down to his coach as his favorite team pulled it into the drive at Waterford Park just a few days ago.

  “Welcome, Mr. Cunningham!” she called out, managing to meet him before her sister was even out of the house. “How was your trip from London?” she wondered as she placed her arm on his and walked with him to the steps to find Eloisa glaring down at them. But Eloisa’s expression softened in an instant, and Michael realized how much alike the two girls appeared.

  “Good day, Miss Waterford,” he’d said then as he removed his hat and gave her a bow.

  “And to you, Mr. Cunningham,” Eloisa replied, her manner suggesting she no longer wished to flirt with him. Or that she was incensed at Olivia for having beaten her to his coach. He realized it was the latter when Eloisa tried to flirt with him during dinner. After his talk with Olivia about coal mining and gas extraction just before dinner – a rather surprising discussion given she was eighteen and had never visited the site – Michael found it easy to ignore Eloisa’s overt manner in favor of continuing the conversation. Harold only occasionally chimed in, apparently impressed enough by his daughter’s insights and her questions that he allowed her to talk more than she normally would.

  While he enjoyed a cheroot with Harold in the library after dinner, Michael admitted to the older man that he was a bit smitten with the chit. “Any woman who is comfortable speaking of gas extraction at the dinner table is a woman after my own heart,” Michael claimed before taking a sip of port.

  Harold had merely given him an arched eyebrow and a knowing grin. “But will you still feel that way in two or three years?” he wondered.

  Michael gave the comment a moment of thought. “If I do?” he countered.

  Cocking his head to one side, Harold replied, “If she is willing, she is yours.”

  Michael shook himself from his reverie, wondering how long he had indulged in the daydream. But Edward appeared not to have moved one inch, and his glass held about the same amount of brandy. “When are you going to marry Anna?” Michael asked suddenly, a dark eyebrow cocking up as he regarded his friend.

  Michael knew that discussing marriage to Anna was a sore point with Edward, although he always thought that once Edward reached his majority and Anna reached one-and-twenty, the two would simply head to Gretna Green and elope – the ton be damned – because Anna would make a perfect wife for Edward. She’d been his closest friend since she was in leading strings, her childhood spent in a village near Bath where they both grew up. But as the son of the Earl of Eversham, Edward Seward was all about his responsibility to the earldom and to his family. He wouldn’t dare risk his family’s disapproval until the line of succession was safely in place. So he was a bit surprised to hear Edward’s response.

  “Someday I will marry Anna,” Edward vowed, his words not the least bit slurred. “Someday, I will.”

  Chapter 7

  Business Over Breakfast on a Monday

  April 12, 1813

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Harold Waterford said from behind a copy of The Times he had spread open and was reading during his breakfast.

  About to bring a cup of tea to her lips, Louisa set it down and waited for her husband to explain himself. It was bad enough the man’s breakfast was getting cold; now he was cursing in the presence of his younger son, George. “What is it, Mr. Waterford?” she wondered, deciding she was rather curious about whatever had caught his attention.

  Before Harold could give an answer, Olivia entered the breakfast parlor. “Morning,” she said as she helped herself to a plate and some eggs and a rasher of bacon from the sideboard. “Will Mr. Cunningham be joining us this morning?” she asked, hoping her question didn’t make her sound as if she was pining for her father’s business partner. Despite the fact that it had only been a month since hi
s last visit, he was due to arrive for a few days of meetings and some fishing with her father. “I am curious as to his opinion of the news about the coal gas apparatus.” She turned around to put her plate on the table, stopping short when she realized that both her mother and father were staring at her. “What is it?” she asked, slowly taking her seat.

  “How did you know about Melville’s device?” her father asked, one of his bushy eyebrows cocked up on his forehead. The news of David Melville’s patent for an apparatus to make coal gas had just reached England. “I just now read about it,” he added, waving a hand at the paper.

  Olivia craned her neck to see the page her father had indicated. “I read that yesterday, when it first arrived with the post,” she answered nonchalantly.

  Her father frowned. “Well, why didn’t you say anything about it yesterday?” he wondered. “This is very important news.”

  Intending to remind her father that he was in meetings with Sir Richard at the time, and she didn’t think it appropriate to interrupt, Olivia was about to say so when the butler appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Cunningham is pulling into the drive. Should I escort him here, Mr. Waterford?”

  Eloisa was suddenly next to Smithers. “I’ll escort him, father,” she offered, her normally sullen expression replaced with one of delight at hearing her father’s business partner had arrived. Before Harold could tell her to be seated for breakfast, his oldest daughter had disappeared from the doorway.

  “By all means,” he said with a shake of his head, knowing Eloisa was already out of earshot.

  Louisa turned and said to Smithers, “Mr. Cunningham will stay in the guest room at the end of hall. Can you see to his things and offer breakfast?”

  “If he’s already eaten, you can take him to the study,” Harold said before taking up a fork full of eggs. “And offer coffee. He prefers it over tea.”