Like No Other Lover (10 page)

So she dressed for the evening with particular care: a dress with a coppery sheen that echoed the shine of her hair. A neckline just shy of scandalous, showing a half circle of snowy skin and much of her very good bosom. Hair coiled up high to expose her long neck, streamers of it pulled artlessly down.

Mrs. Fanchette Redmond had arranged for two large dinners to bookend her house party, inviting two dozen or so members of Sussex gentry to each. The first dinner, on the heels of the picnic, went flawlessly: the household staff scrupulously trained, the cook and staff was gifted, the courses multiple. Miles and Violet and Jonathan possessed exquisite manners and had known these people their entire lives. Even Violet said nothing unduly scandalous.

But because the seating had been arranged in advance by Mrs. Redmond, Cynthia was seated between two voluble elderly widows, one of whom nodded off over the soup.

And once dinner was concluded and the business of separating the ladies and gentlemen had come and gone, Lady Georgina was settled before the pianoforte with sheets of music, which Lord Milthorpe volunteered to turn for her. Lady Windermere was elected caller of dances.

One of the neighbor girls had unfortunately claimed Argosy first, but she had spots on her face and hairy arms, so Cynthia was not at all concerned about losing his interest to her. But because destiny has a black sense of humor, she found herself facing the prospect of a reel with Miles.

The music began. Jaunty, irresistible, demanding.

And they both had what appeared to be a simultaneous realization: they would need to touch each other.

Oddly, never had anything so innocent as a reel seemed so fraught.

They stared at each other for an absurd moment while all the other dancers began the steps.

And then Miles took her arm as though it were a fragile, breakable thing.

She frowned faintly.

Gently, he placed her arm upon his own. And began to move her in the steps that Lady Windermere called.

Neither of them seemed able to speak. His hands meant something different to her now, his arm, which she now knew was brown and covered in copper hair and strong, seemed to burn through his coat, through her glove, and she was excruciatingly aware of the man beneath it.

This was
ridiculous
.

It occurred to her to listen to the music. Lady Georgina
did
play very well.

Lady Georgina, the woman intended for Miles Redmond.
Ah, sanity.

“I shall need to know about Lord Argosy,” Cynthia said immediately.

They parted from each other in the figure called by Lady Windermere. When they came together again, Miles said, “He’s very wealthy and unmarried. Isn’t that what matters?”

It felt as though his irony drove them apart, though dancers everywhere in the room backed away from each other, as required by the dance.

And came together again. Cynthia coaxed, “Don’t be tiresome.”

His smile was small and tight. And they circled each other, in the steps Lady Windermere called out like two wary cats undecided as to whether to fight or mate. Eyes locked.

“Very well, Miss Brightly.” He began another of his helpful, scathing lists. “Argosy has thirty thousand pounds a year. He’s an heir, as you know. I’ve not heard of any terrible debts or vices. He does very little of anything at all beyond amusing himself in various male ways. Horses, pugilism, women, hunting, gaming. He doesn’t seem particularly inspired to improve himself in any way. But of course this wouldn’t
matter—
”

The requirements of the dance parted them. They backed abruptly away from each other, and Cynthia was left in clenched-jaw suspense until they approached each other again.

“—to you. So forgive me for digressing. He does have two titles, several enormous properties entailed to him, and—”

“—five sisters,” Cynthia completed.

“Ah, so you and Argosy are confidants already?” His voice was curiously even.

“I’ve learned a thing or two about him. Do go on.”

But the next called figure required Miles to take her hand.

They faltered, began to lose their place in the dance, and it would soon become obvious. She felt herself flushing. Her hand rose; she gave it to him hesitantly.

He took it as though she’d handed him a rare artifact. As though puzzled to be handed such a precious thing, he gently closed his fingers over it. Then firmly, decisively claimed it.

And led her in the figure the dance required.

Conversation was forgotten. The world was comprised of the place where their fingers knit.

Cynthia felt suddenly she danced not on carpet, but on clouds. The thought shook her. She glanced over at Argosy, deliberately, and her feet felt the floor once more.

Miles noticed, of course. Because noticing is what he did best.

“Argosy has never wanted for anything,” Miles said, sounding quieter, conciliatory. “He therefore, I imagine, would find it stimulating to want what he cannot have.”

Cynthia nodded; she understood instantly, and knew precisely what to do. “Does he have any peccadilloes? Predilections?”

“You would make use of a
peccadillo
, Miss Brightly?” He sounded genuinely curious. “How so?”

“One never knows what will be useful, Mr. Redmond, as you should know. I don’t know why you should be the only person allowed to ask questions.”

Oh, God. Lady Windermere called a figure that required them to rest their hands on each other’s shoulders.

Time slowed, even as the music did not. Cynthia watched their arms rise, and then his hand was resting on her shoulder. She saw how small her own hand looked there. If they walked two steps closer, they would be in each other’s arms. It seemed ironic, unfair, that the requirements of the dance should simultaneously link them and keep them apart.

His eyes were dark and fierce. And as their bodies rotated slowly in the dance, he spoke, his voice so low, so close to her, so resonant, that it called up gooseflesh along her throat.

“Miss Brightly, what do
you
want?”

Heat washed her limbs. She ducked her head so he couldn’t read her eyes, and her eyes wanted to close so she could shut out all sensation apart from his hand upon her shoulder and the smell of his linen and his clean warm body, so she could imagine his hands on the rest of her, relive the feel of his hard arousal pressed against the frail fabric of her gown.

But she wasn’t a ninny. She breathed in.

“I want you to answer my questions, Mr. Redmond,” she said with some strength.

She forced her head up then, forced herself to casually look away from him. Outside the line of the dancers she saw the clean profile of Lady Georgina as her fingers jumped over the pianoforte keys in a facsimile of the dance. Lord Milthorpe looked up, catching Cynthia’s eye as he turned a page of music for Georgina. One dim tooth and one bright tooth side by side in his smile.

She reflexively gave him a smile of her own.

Miles’s hand tightened on her shoulder. She felt the humming tension of the muscles in his arm beneath her hand. She looked from her hand up into his face too quickly and shaken, saw that everything about his face, every bit of it, was simply
right
.

“Here is something,” he said suddenly, finding his voice. “Argosy is superstitious. He’s drawn to the supernatural. I know he has visited a mesmerist more than once in the
ton
; he has also attended more than one séance held by a madame, and swore that he has spoken with the spirit of his dead mother more than once.”

Good heavens. “Heavens” was particularly apt, since Argosy apparently sought conversations with those living in the afterworld.

“His mother is dead?” she said softly. This was something she had in common with Argosy.

“He was raised by a stepmother. A friend of my mother’s. She’s a pleasant woman, quite handsome. Then again, his father wouldn’t countenance a homely woman. I’m certain Argosy won’t, either.” He said this with mock reassurance.

“You know a good deal about Argosy, Mr. Redmond.”

“People talk to me, Miss Brightly. I’m not certain why.”

“And I assure you I can shed no light on that particular mystery, either, Mr. Redmond.”

And at that he laughed. She’d surprised it from him. It was a glorious sound, and at once she felt strangely floating and formless, unaccountably delighted.

They danced in a sort of détente.

“I have a question, Miss Brightly. If you could choose a mate—if you could choose one by
design
—what qualities of character would you choose?”

She stiffened instantly. “I find such speculation pointless and frivolous.”

“I’m curious whether—”

“Yes, yes, I know: you are
nothing
if not curious, Mr. Redmond. But
I
find speculation a waste of my time. As you noted earlier, marriage is a business arrangement. I would
prefer
a man of character—”

“What sort of character?”

“—and despite the pleasure I take in music and—”

“You take pleasure in music? What kind of music?” he demanded instantly.

“—other pastimes, I am a practical woman to my bones, and I do not wish to—”

“What kind of character should a man have?”

“—speak about this
further
. Particularly to
you
.”

He raised his brows again. Her vehemence merely inspired him, of course.

He gave another of those Socratic nods, as though he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d extracted all of her secrets. Perhaps he would publish a scientific paper, and travel the country to give lectures about them.

“Why the
urgency
for a match, Miss Brightly? Is it something more than ambition? Or greed?”

It was a lash. A sign of his own frustration.

She lashed back. “I did you the honor of assuming you were a man of your word, Mr. Redmond, when I…You promised to help me in exchange for…in exchange for…”

“For?” He raised his brows, daring her to produce the word.

She gave her head a rough shake. “Please do not
ever
think I did such a thing lightly.”

Such a thing, of course, meant kiss him—and kiss him and kiss him—in the alcove.

It was as truthful and as complete an answer as she wished to give him.

The music came to an end with a flourish. Dancers began to bow and curtsy and disperse in search of new partners.

And it was his turn to go silent. He frowned faintly, in the way he did when he was ferreting information away to the laboratory of his mind to decide what it meant to him. Or to formulate another question.

“Why does it matter, Mr. Redmond?” she asked. It was almost a plea.

Here was a question, at last, it seemed he couldn’t answer. He glowered at her in silence.

“Because everything matters,” he said tersely at last.

And he left her abruptly.

Just as Lady Middlebough was being persuaded to change places with Lady Georgina at the pianoforte.

And Lady Georgina clapped her hands delightedly together at the prospect of dancing, and acquired, to her visible pleasure, Miles Redmond as a partner.

Fortunately, Cynthia had never been naive about secret smiles, and she could supply one of her own. And did.

He bowed, she curtsied, and another reel leaped into the room from the pianoforte—Lady Middlebough was less accomplished than Lady Georgina, but she played the notes in the right order and with aggressive vigor.

It felt almost peculiar to dance with the slimmer, smaller Argosy, as though she were accustoming herself to a less substantial conveyance, one that could be blown over in the road in a stiff wind.

“Are you enjoying your stay with the Redmonds, Miss Brightly?”

Ah. So he was to begin with clichéd pleasantries.

“I am, thank you. Are you, sir?”

“Indeed. I find myself in pleasant surroundings and among pleasant company.”

“Will you next compliment my dress? I should like to be prepared with the proper response.” She was teasing him.

He laughed. “Forgive me, Miss Brightly, if I err on the side of banal conversation. I am out of practice with English girls, you see, as I have been traveling in France and Italy for lo these last few months, and my knowledge of pleasantries in those languages is limited. I must ask you something. Have we met before this week? I feel I most certainly would have remembered you. And yet I cannot shake the sense that your name is familiar to me.”

Oh
no
.

“Oh, no doubt my name seems familiar because it’s an adverb,” she said lightly. “Perhaps you’ve used it before in a sentence? ‘The stars shine brightly.’ Something along those lines?”

He laughed again. “I can think of all manner of sentences in which I would like to use the words ‘Miss Brightly.’ But I think they would make you blush.”

Oh, this was
very
good! Last season she would have taken a statement like that and spun from it an entire delicious, naughty web of innuendos, and she might have included a mention of Lord Milthorpe, perhaps, just for the pleasure of inciting competition.

But she knew the dangers in that. And alas, she was endeavoring to be
good
.

“Then, Lord Argosy, perhaps you oughtn’t to say those sentences aloud. Do, however, feel free to
think
them.”

He laughed
again
, delightedly. Good! She intrigued him. She knew it was necessary not just to charm but to intrigue someone like Argosy.

They dutifully hopped, clapped, and turned as the reel required, and when they faced each other again, he said:

“And you are unmatched, Miss Brightly?”

She decided to misunderstand him. “Good heavens, Lord Argosy. I do thank you for the compliment.”

He laughed again. Peculiarly, it was almost wearying to charm someone
so
easily. It was a bit like playing tennis with a wad of feather down. One wanted a bit more
resistance
.

She glanced over at her source of resistance. Just as he was glancing over at her.

She jerked her head away.

“Though that statement is very likely correct, Miss Brightly—you are indeed matchless in
this
room, Violet notwithstanding”—Argosy said this with a pretty gallantry she approved of—“I did wonder whether you were unwed. I think perhaps my French and Italian are battling with my English for expression, and so my question emerged oddly. I have not made so bold as to ask anyone the question, though I assumed it was true, and I confess…the question has been pressing upon me.”

He confided this last in the low and ardent fashion she had come to know and expect during her glorious London season.
Pressing
upon him, indeed.

She knew precisely what to do about this: she ducked her head shyly for a brief second. Then cast up at him her patented through-the-lashes gaze.

Argosy parted his mouth with fascination. Then clapped it closed, and his jaw tensed with burgeoning yearning.

Splendid!

“I don’t find your question at all bold, sir. For those of us of marriageable age, it is an
important
question, is it not?” Lord Argosy nodded his head vigorously. “I am not yet wed. I am tremendously particular, I am afraid.” She made it sound as though she were simply
spoiled
for choice.

“Are your parents ambitious for you, Miss Brightly?”

A very good and circumspect question. He was not a fool, Lord Argosy.

“Well, that’s precisely it, you see. I do believe they would have been, but…my parents are…” She took a risk. “My parents are deceased. I lost my mother when I was quite young, and my father even before her. I know my mother would have preferred me to marry a man of the finest character and fortune, and it is often difficult to be certain of someone’s character or fortune without a long acquaintance. I so often wish I knew what the future held. If only there were a way to know! I so
often
wish I could benefit from the advice of my mother.”

Argosy stumbled for an instant. He forgot to clap his hands. He stared at her.

He recovered himself neatly in a few nimble movements. “Oh, Miss Brightly. As do I…” He sounded almost breathless. “…as do I wish I could communicate with my mother, that is.”

“
Do
you?” She matched his breathless tone.

“I lost her when I was young as well. I so wish I could contact her, as she hid from me one of my favorite toys when I misbehaved. I should like to know where it is.”

Well, then. So much for Lord Argosy missing the warm words and advice of his sainted mother. Imagine a wealthy young lord missing his favorite
toy
. More charitably, she considered that the toy might represent a lost fragment of his childhood, something of his mother to remember.

“It’s a wooden duck one pulls about on a string,” he continued. “Family lore has it a fortune in rubies is stuffed inside.” He said this pragmatically. “
I
think not—I think they were stolen long ago by an unscrupulous guest of my uncle’s—but wouldn’t it be better to know?”

So much for maternal longings.

“Goodness. I can see how you might like to have the duck, if that’s the case. Do you know, Lord Argosy…this may strike you as a frivolous or unusual idea, but…oh, I cannot say.”

“Please do feel free to share your idea with me, Miss Brightly. I have had
many
of my own unusual ideas in my day.” He gave her one of his secret little smiles.

Cynthia was suddenly both curious and a little worried about Lord Argosy’s unusual ideas, but she stopped herself just in time from encouraging him to launch into a series of innuendos regarding them. It was imperative she remain single-minded about her own agenda.

Single-mindedness reminded her of a large, bespectacled man who at this moment was dancing with a small blond girl with every appearance of deference and pleasure.

Did he put
Lady Georgina
under the lens of his questions? Perhaps the very fact that the girl didn’t seem to have acquired any real
faults
as of yet—no angles of character under which hid secrets, nothing interesting to
expose
, for that matter, as far as anyone could discern—made her as soothing to Miles Redmond as that spreading green surrounding Redmond House.

She was certainly pretty. If tremendously, monochromatically blond.

Cynthia inhaled deeply and jerked her head away.

“Well, here is my idea, sir,” she confided to Argosy. “I have learned of a Gypsy encampment on the outside of Pennyroyal Green. And as I have longed for some time to—” She stopped; the dance drew them apart briefly. When they were together again she said, “Oh, I cannot say. You’ll think me foolish.”

She ducked her head again shyly, and turned it away from him again just in time to see Jonathan dart an arm out, tap his sister Violet on the shoulder, and dart it back to his side again. He remained straight-faced. Violet swiveled her head to and fro, puzzled, started to frown and stopped herself, as Violet lived in dread of frown lines encroaching.

Cynthia bit back a smile. She would have loved to have brothers to look after and torment her.

“Nonsense!” Lord Argosy was saying eagerly. “I think I know what you’re about to say, Miss Brightly. You would like your fortune told!” He presented this conclusion to her with a patronizing triumph:
Feel free to bask in the rays of my insight.

She rewarded him with awe. “Oh! How did you
guess
?”

“You see, I, too, have always wondered what the future might hold. And the Gypsies—they read tea leaves and the like, and see portents in the shapes of them, and I’ve heard many of their predictions are eerily accurate. My dear friend Mr. Geoffrey Woolsey once visited a Gypsy who saw a wheel in the tea leaves. Three days later, Woolsey lost a wheel from his barouche!”

“You don’t say!” Cynthia breathed.

Argosy nodded his own awe. “And the Gypsies will throw the tarot—fortune-telling cards, you know, with symbols upon them that tell a story about your future—and look at your palm and read things in it about ocean voyages and marriages and children and the gaining and loss of fortunes.”

She knew this much about Gypsies, but she allowed Argosy the thrill of informing her. “Gypsies sound quite accomplished. Do they do all of this out of charity?”

“Good Lord, no. We shall need to pay them. Do you know whether these are the kind of Gypsies who tell fortunes? Or do they paint sorry horses and try to sell them as good ones? Unsavory lot, on the whole, Gypsies are, but they excel as entertainers. We must be careful. I shall protect you.”

“You are too kind, sir. I’m not certain what manner of Gypsies these are, these Gypsies in Pennyroyal Green. That is, if they are the fortune-telling variety. Perhaps—”

“I’ll ask Miles,” Argosy proclaimed. “He knows everything about these parts. He’ll be able to tell us.”

Cynthia wasn’t eager to see the mirth on Miles Redmond’s face when he learned they were on a quest to have their fortunes told. He would know precisely how that had come about. And Cynthia had no real illusions about the Gypsy ability to tell her future.

She would, however, be willing to pay one of her remaining five pounds to a Gypsy to ensure that Lord Argosy’s future included her.

“Perhaps we can arrange a visit to the camp, if they
will
tell our fortunes,” she said. Arriving, at long last, at her objective.

“I would very much enjoy embarking upon an excursion with you, Miss Brightly.” He smiled again. He had the kind of smile that turned
everything
into an innuendo. She wondered if perhaps it was something he was born with and couldn’t help.

She returned his smile. She would need to be warm, but not
too
warm, with Argosy.

She did wonder why he should be concerned about the future. But perhaps his future struck him as so endlessly
certain,
he would have liked to know if anything at all of interest could ever occur.

“I do marvel that we have a certain amount of serendipity in our favor, sir. Imagine the two of us meeting here unexpectedly at Redmond House, the two of us longing to know the future! Only to discover that the keys to the future may lie but a few miles away, hidden in tea leaves or in our own palms. It’s as though it was meant to be.”

These last words suffused Argosy’s face with a celestial light.

“Meant to be,” he repeated dreamily.