chit,” Violet acknowledged, although the tone of her voice suggested she agreed with Michael’s assessment. “But she’s the daughter of a man engaged in trade, is she not?” she questioned with a wave of her fan.
Michael resisted the temptation to explain that he, too, was now engaged in trade with that very man, although in a very different business than Waterford’s usual ventures. “She is,” he agreed.
“So?” Violet said with a good deal of anticipation.
Michael furrowed his brows; he had hoped his mother had forgotten about Faith Seward. Despite his mother’s desperate attempts to find a suitable wife for him, Michael had politely rebuffed all the debutantes she’d paraded past him during the past few Seasons in London, saying only that none of them suited him. At soirées, she would introduce him to a few biddable girls with the hope that one of them would turn his head, intrigue him, or otherwise interest him in the idea of matrimony. But none did.
Truth be told, he really didn’t want to get married. At least, not at this point in his life. He wondered why she even bothered, and then made the mistake by asking, “Mother, what does it matter?” with an air of indifference. He took the seat opposite her in the coach. He heard her gasp of shock and immediately regretted his comment.
“You are already three-and-twenty!” she claimed, her voice rising a bit too much. At her son’s widened eyes (what happened at twenty-three to illicit such an exclamation?), she sighed and said quietly, “Even as the second son, you are expected to marry and sire an heir. You must for the sake of the viscountcy,” she stated, her impatience apparent in her reddened face and suddenly angry eyes. “Your older brother will no doubt end up in debtors’ prison before your father meets his maker,” she added under her breath, her impatience with her oldest son, Marcus Cunningham, suddenly in evidence.
They rode in silence to Crawley Down, the tension building until they were safely in the library of Iron Creek. Michael did not wish to carry on this particular conversation unless he could clearly see the viscountess.
“I will marry, Mother,” Michael assured her quietly, taking one of her hands in his. She was truly concerned, for the viscountcy as well as for him, he realized as he took in the sight of her countenance. And she was nearly in tears. “I promise.”
Lady Cunningham gasped, as if she was surprised to hear her son make such a promise. “When?” she countered, her mood softening a bit but her hackles still up in response to his earlier insolence.
Michael took a deep breath, realizing now that tears were probably not so imminent. Last time I fall for that trick , he thought bitterly.
Whatever answer he gave had to appease the woman but give him time to make his way in the world. At the rate she was spending his father’s money and his brother was squandering his allowance, Michael wasn’t counting on an inheritance when his father did pass away. And this new business venture, despite its lucrative nature, wouldn’t pay out for a couple of years.
He took a deep breath and considered how much time he needed, how long it would be before he would have enough blunt to ensure a comfortable life for himself – and a family, as well as the assurance that Shipley and the surrounding area was economically viable. Four ... no, five years should do it, he thought, allowing himself a cushion should the situation in Europe change in the next few years.
Michael took another deep breath and let it out. “If not before, then I will be married no later than on the eve of my twenty-eighth birthday,” he answered firmly, holding up his broad chin. A forgotten bruise from his bare knuckle fight with Gentleman Jackson the day before he left London was suddenly quite evident under his jawline. He remembered too late, and Lady Cunningham caught sight of it before he could hide it behind a hand.
Violet gasped and
Michael resisted the temptation to explain that he, too, was now engaged in trade with that very man, although in a very different business than Waterford’s usual ventures. “She is,” he agreed.
“So?” Violet said with a good deal of anticipation.
Michael furrowed his brows; he had hoped his mother had forgotten about Faith Seward. Despite his mother’s desperate attempts to find a suitable wife for him, Michael had politely rebuffed all the debutantes she’d paraded past him during the past few Seasons in London, saying only that none of them suited him. At soirées, she would introduce him to a few biddable girls with the hope that one of them would turn his head, intrigue him, or otherwise interest him in the idea of matrimony. But none did.
Truth be told, he really didn’t want to get married. At least, not at this point in his life. He wondered why she even bothered, and then made the mistake by asking, “Mother, what does it matter?” with an air of indifference. He took the seat opposite her in the coach. He heard her gasp of shock and immediately regretted his comment.
“You are already three-and-twenty!” she claimed, her voice rising a bit too much. At her son’s widened eyes (what happened at twenty-three to illicit such an exclamation?), she sighed and said quietly, “Even as the second son, you are expected to marry and sire an heir. You must for the sake of the viscountcy,” she stated, her impatience apparent in her reddened face and suddenly angry eyes. “Your older brother will no doubt end up in debtors’ prison before your father meets his maker,” she added under her breath, her impatience with her oldest son, Marcus Cunningham, suddenly in evidence.
They rode in silence to Crawley Down, the tension building until they were safely in the library of Iron Creek. Michael did not wish to carry on this particular conversation unless he could clearly see the viscountess.
“I will marry, Mother,” Michael assured her quietly, taking one of her hands in his. She was truly concerned, for the viscountcy as well as for him, he realized as he took in the sight of her countenance. And she was nearly in tears. “I promise.”
Lady Cunningham gasped, as if she was surprised to hear her son make such a promise. “When?” she countered, her mood softening a bit but her hackles still up in response to his earlier insolence.
Michael took a deep breath, realizing now that tears were probably not so imminent. Last time I fall for that trick , he thought bitterly.
Whatever answer he gave had to appease the woman but give him time to make his way in the world. At the rate she was spending his father’s money and his brother was squandering his allowance, Michael wasn’t counting on an inheritance when his father did pass away. And this new business venture, despite its lucrative nature, wouldn’t pay out for a couple of years.
He took a deep breath and considered how much time he needed, how long it would be before he would have enough blunt to ensure a comfortable life for himself – and a family, as well as the assurance that Shipley and the surrounding area was economically viable. Four ... no, five years should do it, he thought, allowing himself a cushion should the situation in Europe change in the next few years.
Michael took another deep breath and let it out. “If not before, then I will be married no later than on the eve of my twenty-eighth birthday,” he answered firmly, holding up his broad chin. A forgotten bruise from his bare knuckle fight with Gentleman Jackson the day before he left London was suddenly quite evident under his jawline. He remembered too late, and Lady Cunningham caught sight of it before he could hide it behind a hand.
Violet gasped and
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