Like No Other Lover (25 page)

She plucked her furry, yawning feline hat from her head and kissed it good morning. She slid from the bed. She raised her nightdress to lift it over her head, to bath her face, her torso, from the lavender scented basin water.

She stopped abruptly, the nightdress half over her head. She could still smell him. His skin, his sweat. On her nightdress. On her own skin. She took great, dizzying breaths of him.

And then realized it wouldn’t do for the maid to find her with the nightdress half over her head and her sniffing it.

With a sense of ceremony, she pulled it all the way off over her head, laid it gently aside, as if she were indeed shedding him.

And with the same sense of ceremony, she washed her face, her skin.

This can’t happen again,
he’d said. No, it most definitely could not. She would ensure that it didn’t. They needed distance from each other, and Cynthia told herself that her instinct for self-preservation would ensure it, and she would be here only one week more.

Only one more week.

The backs of her hands iced.

She opened up the wardrobe and gave her slim purse a shake. In one week this house party would end. She would have three pounds. A trunk full of wilted clothing. One cat.

And nowhere at all to go.

She sat down hard on the bed, because suddenly her nightmare of falling and falling was a waking one. She looked in the mirror, and the girl who looked back at her wasn’t someone she wanted to know: who would want to dance with that tense, frightened girl?

Though she was admittedly still
pretty
.

This amused her. She had beauty. She had pride. She was clever. She was resourceful. She was suited for absolutely
nothing
.

Apart from what she was doing now.

This last thought made her laugh at herself, and she kissed her cat again, squared her shoulders and went down to breakfast.

But today she couldn’t quite bring an appetite with her. Nerves made rather a whirlpool of her stomach.

She stared at him. Offered a tentative smile. Tried not to picture him in a bonnet, a great satin bow tied beneath his chin.

Blue would be his color, regardless.

He smiled. He
did
have a nice smile, she conceded again. And quite fine eyes, though they looked a trifle bleary this morning. He also had a good deal of forehead, but this was to be expected in a man his age.

“Miss Brightly,” he said suddenly, “I wonder if you might like to stroll in the garden with me. I could use your unique insight into my work.”

His voice was a bit cottony. Jonathan and Argosy must have been keeping him up nights.

Violet, none too subtly, winked. Cynthia gave her a kick in the ankle under the table. Georgina looked encouraging, which made her want to kick Georgina, too, for an entirely different reason.

Lady Windermere seemed puzzled. She glanced at Argosy.

Whose fine jaw looked quite set. When would he understand that feigned casualness had its consequences? Cynthia wondered, giving him a conciliatory smile that softened his jaw.

She had an objective. To the victor goes the spoils, she thought firmly. Rather disliking the word “spoils” at the moment, and wishing she could tell Argosy he had but a week to press his suit, before Cinderella became a char-woman again.

She didn’t touch her breakfast at all.

But off she resignedly went for a stroll near the roses with Mr. Goodkind, because they both agreed they enjoyed the roses.

A gardener had just come out to see to them, and began working up the row, clipping great blown, crisped heads and dropping them into a basket. They heard the snicking of scissors behind them as they strolled. A soothing, summery sound.

“Well, how goes your work, Mr. Goodkind? Are you finding inspiration in your surroundings?”

“Oh, Miss Brightly. I must thank you. You have helped to add a new dimension to my work.”

Upon closer inspection, she saw that his poor hair lay splayed on his scalp, greasy and exhausted. She peered closer still: no, it wasn’t the light filtered through the trees. His skin really did have a bit of a green cast to it.

He correctly interpreted her peering.

“Mr. Jonathan Redmond and Lord Argosy persuaded me to billiards last night. I believe I lost a good deal of money and drank a good deal of brandy.”

“Did you ask the housekeeper for a headache powder, Mr. Goodkind?” she asked solicitously.

“Oh, no. I think it helps to suffer the consequences of my own forays into wickedness in order to effectively repent, and then write passionately about them.” The look he sent her held something of an innuendo. “
You
look no worse for wear.”

It was part compliment, part accusation. He paused at a bench as if to say,
Shall we?

“Ah. Perhaps you are more accustomed to such evenings,” he said after they seated themselves.

“Perhaps,” she said carefully. He suddenly glanced down at her hands. She wondered if he was admiring her gloves.

She felt a slight crawling sensation at the back of her neck. He looked so
ordinary
, really.

Apart from the green skin, that was.

“You’ve some familiarity with various
varieties
of wickedness, Miss Brightly?”

She gave a start. She wasn’t certain whether he was flirting. It certainly sounded like the beginnings of flirtation. Or perhaps…

Perhaps he’d begun to gingerly fish about for her degree of tolerance to various kinds of wickedness? Did dressing in women’s clothes count as wickedness for a man like Mr. Goodkind?

It had never been explicitly addressed in one of the vicar’s sermons, to her recollection.

Perhaps Mr. Goodkind suffered a good deal over his urges.

She looked into his pale blue eyes.
Would
he gravitate to blue? Bonnets with blue linings? Gloves of pale blue kid?

“I’ve experience with a great variety of…needs and behaviors,” she began carefully.

“Do you?” His eyes widened. Then he winced, as the widened eyes allowed in more light than was comfortable. And apparently wincing hurt, too. “Perhaps we should discuss them, Miss Brightly.”

This sounded like an invitation to engage in innuendo.

“Well…for example, I’ve come to understand that certain gentlemen have…idiosyncratic needs.”

Goodkind eyed her with some fascination. “N-needs?”

He’d relaxed his body somewhat and his knee just shy of touching hers, in that accidental way that was entirely purposeful. She could smell him now over the tired roses: mostly he smelled clean. Shaving soap. With an infinitesimal series of glances, he took in her bosom outlined in white muslin, then her lips. And then his eyes went to her hands, gloved in white. They lingered there. His hand crept closer to hers on the bench.

Speaking of needs, she suspected she would need to go gingerly here lest she find herself needing to fight off Mr. Goodkind in the garden.

She reached out and touched a rose nodding over the top of the bench. He followed her hand very closely with his eyes.
It
is
the gloves
.

She turned to him. “But then, don’t we
all
have particular needs? And should we not be forgiving of differences in others?”

“Miss Brightly,” he breathed. “You have a truly revolutionary way of thinking.”

She was encouraged. “And two people with different or unique needs can find a way to live comfortably together.”

This confused him a little. “I suppose you are correct,” he agreed carefully.

“For instance…I am quite a fair seamstress. Which means I could discreetly sew a very large garter.” She sent him a sidelong glance. “The kind that might even fit…a masculine thigh.”

Goodkind froze.

For a brief moment there was no sound apart from the snick of scissors lopping roses.

“Are we still discussing…unique needs, Miss Brightly?” He said this gingerly.

“Oh, yes,” she assured him gently.

He frowned slightly. Then his mouth opened. He began to point with his finger in what appeared to be the beginnings of a fervent comment. Then he stopped, as frowning seemed to make him feel queasy.

“And I believe very strongly in sharing,” she added, prompting him.

“Well…sharing is admirable.” He began to brighten a little.

“I shouldn’t mind at all sharing my bonnets. For instance…” She took a deep breath, in preparation for the plunge. “I have one that I think would look very well on you. It would suit the shape of your face.”

Goodkin recoiled. His blue eyes bulged.

“It has a blue lining,” she added encouragingly, but hesitantly.

He stared at her. Then he stood very, very slowly, straightening very, very slowly, as one crippled.

“A den,” he muttered darkly, sounding amazed.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Goodkind?” She was nervous now.

“A den!”
he roared to her, to the sky. He was upright now. She heard a distant little yelp. He’d frightened the gardener. Cynthia scrambled backward on the bench.

“This place is a
den
of iniquity! First you encourage me to drink myself into foolishness, and then young Redmond and that lordling
rob
me blind with wagering on billiards, and
now
you tempt me with your pretty face and your talk of
needs—
and you want me to wear a garter and bonnet to satisfy
your
unique needs? You are depraved, Miss Brightly. Irreparably damaged by your time in the ton.”

“Mr. Goodkind—”

He shook his head sadly. “I shall pray for your soul, Miss Brightly. But I do thank you. You are the devil in a beautiful disguise. I have seen temptation, and I have shown that I can conquer temptation, but my writing will be the better for it. I need no longer remain in this den of iniquity, and I will not wear a garter. For anyone! I will depart.”

He turned to stalk off. He’d gone a few yards when he turned to her.

“Don’t forget to buy my book this fall,” he added, on a slightly less aggrieved note.

And then he turned and strode righteously to the house.

“Garters,” she heard him muttering.

“Mr. Redmond?”

It was Cynthia. He wasn’t certain whether he was happy to hear it, because he’d spent the morning attempting to drum her from his mind and body with a hard ride and rigorous planning.

Yet something about the tone was portentous. He turned slowly.

Her face inside her bonnet was rosy from heat and from a lengthy walk from the house. She pushed the bonnet impatiently from her face then, and it dangled down her back, and dark dampened streamers of hair clung to her temples. She must have made a
point
to track him down. She must have asked
where
he would be.

Why did he feel a trifle…uneasy?

“Good afternoon, Miss Brightly,” he said, matching her formal tone cautiously, as stable boys lurked nearby, awaiting orders from him, and eager to eavesdrop if he gave them an opportunity.

But he couldn’t help it. No matter what: it was wonderful to see her, and his voice was soft. “Was there something I could help you—”

“It seems, Mr. Redmond, something I said to Mr. Goodkind
greatly
offended him.”

Oh, dear.

“Is that so?” It was a brilliant bit of nonchalance. “Would you, er, care to
share
what you said to Mr. Goodkind?”

There was a pause. “No.” One crisp, inscrutable little syllable. “I would not.”

He waited. He cleared his throat. “What makes you think he didn’t like—”

Cynthia swiftly moved very quickly toward him, stood so close to him he could have counted her eyelashes. Her eyes were ablaze, and two spots of deep color sat on her cheeks.

Well, then. It’s safe to say she’s angry
.

“Mr. Goodkind
has,
in fact, ordered his trunks packed and has departed in one of your family’s carriages for saner climes. Specifically
because
of something I said.”

“He did?” Miles said stupidly. He was stalling now. He made frantic shooing motions at the stable boys, who wisely fled across the yard, sensing that an uproar was about to ensue.

“You lied, didn’t you? About his alleged peccadillo? About the women’s clothing?”

“Well…” He was still picturing Goodkind storming off, and then he imagined the content of the conversation…and it was nearly impossible not to smile.
What
, precisely, had she said? “I might have…
invented—
”

He stopped. Because she looked stunned.

“That wasn’t fair,” she whispered. “What you did…it wasn’t…it wasn’t cricket.”

“Cricket?” It seemed an odd word. He couldn’t quite gauge her mood.

She was breathing heavier now. “This is not a
game
.” Her voice was shaking a little.

“Not a
game
?” He gave a short laugh. “‘Oh, Mr. Redmond,’” he falsettoed. “‘You’re so
in
ter—’”

She flew at him before he could dodge and thumped one of her fists against his chest. “It’s not a
game
for
me
!”

“Christ! Cynthia—”

“It’s not a
game
!” She hit him again. A good one. The third time she tried it, he captured her hands and held her fast, and it was like holding a trapped wild creature. She was remarkably strong for someone so small.

“You—You with your money and your bloody grandeur and your family and history. It’s all very well for you and Violet to
play
at romance. It will all be all right in the end, of course. But I’ve none of that. None. I’ve
no one
. And you’ve gone and played dice with
my
future. Why shouldn’t I have what Violet will have? What
you
will have so easily? Why shouldn’t I? You bloody…bloody…
snob
.” She could have chosen a different word, a much more scathing word, and somehow he didn’t doubt that she knew words like that; still, the one she’d chosen stung.

She tried to kick him in the shins; he dodged.

“Cynthia! Please! Just—”

She looked up at him, attempted to tug her wrists free. At least she wasn’t biting.

Yet.

“I know what you think of me, Miles. I know what you-
have
thought of me. But I have a heart. I do have a
heart
. I just cannot afford to
use
it. Don’t you see? Why can’t you see this? Whereas
you
—may play at all of this as much as you like. There will always be someone for you. And that is the difference: I cannot
afford
to use my heart. And you—you
choose
not to use yours.”

Stunned, he kept his grip on her wrists. And could say nothing at all.

Her voice cracked a little. “I have a heart,” she repeated very softly, wearily, as though some invisible audience had accused her otherwise and had been dunking her over and over again for a witch. As though confessing a fatal debility of which she was ashamed.

She turned her head away from him and gave a halfhearted attempt at freeing her hands.

He maintained his grip. Such fragile wrists. Her skin was hot, as though her anger, her fear, permeated her skin.

“Cynthia…” he said firmly. “Do you have any money at
all
? Anywhere at all to go that isn’t here?”

She turned away from him. Still breathing hard. She refused to look at him.

She had no family, no money, the rumors had said. He’d always thought it figurative, a means of social dismissal, social ranking.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

“I’ll be penniless within a week or so. And no. I have no place to go when this party is over. I have no one.”

He’d given her a kitten, he’d given her bliss with his hands and tongue, he’d known bliss at her hands.
Playing at romance
.

She was mercenary because she was
terrified
.

His stomach knotted in fear for her. Oh, God. He’d been an ass.

“I liked him,” she said again, finally, and he could still hear the thwarted, fear-tinged exhaustion in her voice. “Goodkind. He was pompous and he wasn’t interesting, but he was kind enough and wealthy and he liked me and it would have been…” She shook her head. “It would have been safe.”

He pictured this sensual starburst of a woman standing before him married to a “kind enough” man. Would she end up creeping through hallways in the dark toward assignations? Running away with Gypsies?

No: she wanted safety. She’d never known it. She’d told him that she would be loyal.

He didn’t doubt it at all. She had that kind of fortitude.

He kept his hand tightly round her wrist, as if holding onto her to prevent her from drifting away. Her fist was still a small white knot at the end of it, and her whole body trembled slightly; hectic color stained her face.

“Tell me what happened in London, Cynthia,” he ordered softly. “What went wrong?”

She sighed.

He waited.

“I’m not good,” she finally said, softly.

This was an intriguing beginning. “No?”

“No. Someone was nearly killed because of me.”

“Ah.” His head went back sharply, then came down in comprehension. “Why don’t you tell me the story?”

They were quiet for a time. Around them was the powerful, comforting smell of horse and hay and leather.

“It was so wonderful,” she began, faltering. “If only you know what it meant to me, that season in London. It was a miracle; I could scarcely believe I was there. I was so
popular
.”

“I recall. Diamond of the first water, and all that.”

She made a sound. It was a bleak cousin to a laugh. “And all that.”

“And?”

She sighed. “It was marvelous. Nothing so marvelous had ever happened to me in my entire life. I could have—there was a time during the season when I
genuinely
could have taken my pick of the men, Miles. I was
shocked
. A brief moment in time where little mattered but that I was charming and beautiful and original.”

It is fashionable to be in love with her
, Albemarle had told him then. And yet no one had ever truly known her, he realized. She hadn’t allowed it.

“And then?” he encouraged softly.

“And then…well, Courtland…Courtland proposed.”

This is what Miles knew of Courtland: young, arrogant. Had all of his limbs, even features, splendid manners. Owned fine cattle. Could hold his liquor, could shoot tolerably well. He knew, in short, the things most men knew about other men of a similar station.

He knew nothing of the man’s character. He was inclined to think well of him for not abandoning Cynthia because of her lack of pedigree. “I know of Courtland.”

“I want you to understand, if you can. But I’m not certain you can. Because you…you’ve hundreds of years of family. Family simply
everywhere
. And for me…well, Courtland was the ending of the story, you see. I never sensed I belonged to anyone or anything. My own family history is hazy at best. So I thought:
I
will have a happy ending. I will have a family. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Why not, indeed?” He said it easily, to calm her, but he felt the depth of the loneliness she carried with her in the pit of his stomach. There wasn’t a soul to help her bear it. He stopped himself from putting his arms around her, because he would have done it as much to comfort himself as her. He squelched a directionless anger, because it wouldn’t help her now.

“Well, the Standshaws are from Little Roxbury. And Liza was my friend, and Liza and I made the right friends. I had barely enough money for a season’s worth of dresses, so I took the gamble and I bought them and then…and well, they
fought
over me. The men in the
ton
.” She still sounded breathless, bemused.

“I heard about it.” Endlessly.

“I found it exhilarating. And Miles, I
did
play one off another. I can’t tell you why, precisely. Part of it was the pure pleasure of being
wanted
. For the first time ever in my life someone—everyone!—
wanted
me. And the other part was that I couldn’t seem to stop testing them, to see if the magic would last. I didn’t trust it. And so I tested it again and again, and it lasted and lasted. Until…”

“What finally happened?” Behind him Ramsay whickered, his way of clearing his throat:
Ahem. I’m still saddled.
Ramsay would have to wait.

“Well, I truly thought it was all drama and silliness—the bets, the bristling, the arguments over who would fetch punch for me, the jealousy. All manly posturing. But Courtland truly
was
jealous. He had a temper.” She gave a short, wondering laugh.

There really was no end to the way men could be stupid, particularly over women.

“So there was a duel?”

She inhaled resignedly. Looked up at him more calmly now. “You should know I cared for him,” she said evenly. “I did. Or thought I did. But someone who managed to…kiss me in the garden…just a
little
kiss…” She said this cautiously. She knew all about kisses that weren’t little now, but he wasn’t eager to hear about anyone else kissing her. “I told Courtland about it. To test him, you see. Courtland called him out.”

She tensed again as the memory rippled through her. He stroked, lightly, the insides of her wrists with his fingers.

“He would hear nothing of reason. Bloody
pride
. And so they dueled. He was…” She cleared her throat. “He was shot,” she said baldly. “In the shoulder. Gravely injured. He almost died—it was a very near thing, I’m told—I’m
told
, because they would never let me see him when he was carried off, and I…I haven’t seen him since.” Her voice had gone thin. “His parents brilliantly hushed it up. It’s not as though dueling is
legal
.” She said this with admirable irony. “And they somehow made certain I was dropped. Completely. By
everyone
. I was poison. He broke it off with me with a letter.” She gave a short wondering laugh here, too. It was only a little bitter. “And I can’t say that I didn’t deserve it. And all of this mystery about my sudden loss of status, of course, intrigued Violet. And she invited me here. I’ve always been more fortunate than I deserve.” This she found ironically amusing.

Fortunate.
It wasn’t the word he would have chosen.

“So, you see, though I didn’t pull the trigger, I did play with his life. And he paid for it. So I’m not good.”

Suddenly he
was
angry.

“Cynthia. Enough self-flagellation. I cannot tell you what ‘good’ means. Perhaps it simply means one hasn’t the imagination or character to think of being
wicked
, as you once convinced Goodkind. I don’t admire what you did, but I understand it. And Courtland, the bloody fool, had free
will
. He got
himself
shot. But it’s a measure of your heart that you would suffer at all over what would make Milthorpe happy, or over Courtland. It’s a measure of your heart that anyone would want to help you or be your friend. It’s
you
, Cynthia. Don’t you see? You don’t
feel
kind or good because you don’t like what you’re doing to them or to yourself. People like you because you
are
good. But mostly you’re
you
, and that’s worth…” his voice nearly broke. “That’s worth everything.”