She’d recovered by the time Milthorpe looked at her again. “Puppies are delightful! I congratulate you, sir. How fortunate you are.”
He beamed at her. One of his front teeth was entirely gray, like a little headstone in the churchyard. She tried not to stare at it. At least he had a full complement of teeth.
His eyes retreated to the relative safety of her earlobe again.
“I should be…I should be pleased to give you a pup from Eleanor’s litter, Miss Brightly.”
“Oh, would you do that?” she breathed, then leaned the minutest amount toward him. She paused, reached a hand out as if to touch his arm, and pulled it back abruptly, because this caused him to go as motionless as a rabbit before a lunging wolf. His eyes flitted to her cleavage again then fled back to her face. “If you did—if you did—I should be pleased to name it for you. I could name it Lord Milthorpe.”
There was a pronounced cough over near the window. Cynthia cast a glance in the direction in time to see Miles Redmond put a fist discreetly to his mouth.
She knew it! The bloody man had stifled a laugh.
And hell’s teeth, she suddenly needed to stifle one of her own.
She kept her rapt attention on Milthorpe. Talk of dogs had him feeling comfortable, and her cleavage had made him cheerful, and now he was brave enough to look her full in the eyes. What a large face he has, she thought. As large and English as Gibraltar, and nearly as rectangular as his body.
He could not truthfully be described as homely. Nor was he handsome. He had kind eyes.
And twenty thousand pounds a year.
“Perhaps you’d consider naming a dog Monty, instead, Miss Brightly.” He’d lowered his voice for this bold and hopeful jest. “Monty is my given name.”
Good for Lord Milthorpe, she couldn’t help but think warmly. He was clearly out of practice, but he was doing a reasonable job of flirting. She approved.
“Oh! I’d happily name it…Monty…” She ducked her head shyly over the use of his given name. “As long as you don’t mind a—a—” The word did not trip as easily as she would have preferred from her tongue. “—b-bitch frolicking about with your name. For didn’t you say all the pups were bitches?”
Milthorpe seemed dumbstruck. And then he opened his mouth, and out came a rasping bark of a sound. It took a moment for Cynthia to recognize this as a laugh rusty from disuse.
“That’s right! By George, Miss Brightly. Only little bitches left!”
She giggled to encourage him, which caused every head to turn just a little their way, because she had an étude, a minuet, of a giggle, and it made everyone who heard it restless to be near her.
And as nothing essential ever escaped Cynthia’s notice, she saw that Lord Argosy’s gaze lingered upon her speculatively. And that Miles hadn’t turned to look at her at all, and Lady Georgina was still talking. But he’d gone very, very still.
Lord Milthorpe sighed with happiness. “Oh, Daisy will do, Miss Brightly. If you take away one of my pups, you can name the bitch Daisy or some such name. Perhaps one day soon you would honor me with a visit to Milthorpe Crest to see the pups.”
Ah. This was very bold of him. Very promising for her.
But here was where she was required to manage the situation like a conductor standing before an orchestra with a baton. It was not quite time to bring the violins to a swooning crescendo. It was time once again to retreat into stammering shyness.
“I…think I should like that…Monty.”
He went even ruddier when she used his name. His hands had gone a little quieter. He was less lonely when he was talking with her. For some reason this pleased her.
“We can get in a bit of shooting here at Redmond House in the parklands, if you like, Miss Brightly. I’ll speak with Miles and we’ll take a party out for target shooting. You do shoot, yes? Last year I took a party out and we shot so many grouse they heaped nearly as high as a haystack.”
Her smile froze. Men are so eager to shoot things, she thought. Grouse. Each other.
“As high as that? You must be a gifted hunter, indeed. Shooting would be a pleasure.” She cheerfully ignored the question of whether she was a shooter. One lifted, pointed, and pulled a trigger. How difficult could it be? She’d managed any number of tricky situations in her life. She would manage, should she be required to shoot in order to charm Lord Milthorpe.
There was a sharp movement: Miles Redmond’s back straightened as abruptly as though a puppeteer had pulled him upright. She could practically see incredulous hilarity radiating from the back of his head.
Lady Georgina had tipped her head very fetchingly and seemed to be listing something as she spoke—perhaps her very favorite things about herself—judging from the way she was using the finger of one hand to count on the other. Her eyes were clear and charmingly abstracted.
I’ll name my spaniel bitch Lady Georgina, Cynthia thought.
“Lord Milthorpe, I fear in the sheer enjoyment of your conversation I’ve neglected my hostess, Miss Violet Redmond, who is a dear friend. Will you be so kind as to excuse me? I thank you so much for your advice. I do hope we shall speak more of dogs during this fortnight. Perhaps on the morrow, during the picnic.”
“I hope we shall.” He smiled. The gray tooth, she decided optimistically, merely served to make all of his other teeth look whiter. “It will be a pleasure, Miss Brightly.”
Cynthia ducked her head demurely, exquisitely curtsied to Milthorpe, and made her way over to Violet, who was standing near Lord Argosy. Who was fixedly regarding her progress across the room through excitingly lowered lids.
By contrast to Milthorpe, Lord Argosy’s dark eyes were all lazy confidence, his posture easy grace, his smile as loose and sensual as the spirals of dark blond hair spilling over one brow. He had no trouble at all looking at her. Argosy was the sort who was quite at home at house parties. Or anywhere, really. His sort quite firmly believed he would be welcomed in any home, under any circumstance, and he moved through the world with the comfortable manners born of this conviction.
Very appealing, very oblivious, very maddening.
Cynthia pretended not to see him. Which was precisely what one did with the Lord Argosy’s of the world. It was like a razor strop for their interest.
Intrigue them and leave them wanting, she thought. And if at all possible, avoid tempting the men into wanting to kill each other over her.
She thought of shy Milthorpe and his pile of dead pheasants and of other men aiming pistols, and her arms pricked up in gooseflesh.
Chapter 6
They trod out en masse in the late morning, ladies covered in a variety of stylish bonnets against the heat, gentlemen already genteelly sweating in their coats, footmen behind swinging the hampers full of food, napkins, and plates that clinked just a bit inside.
The party’s destination was a stream that ran through the Redmond property and at some point was rumored to empty into the Ouse. It also allegedly joined streams that then meandered over Eversea lands. The symbolism of this was not lost on anyone who lived in the ancient town of Pennyroyal Green, Sussex, as Everseas and Redmonds had blended their histories since the Saxons met the Romans. Sheltering shade trees were promised, however, and Cynthia could see them in the distance, bunched like bouquets: enormous oaks and beeches, walnut and ash, lacy willows lining the water. And should the thick heat bring down rain, as Miles predicted it would, shelter could be had beneath them or in the various follies scattered about the property. It was generally agreed that a rainstorm would be romantic.
Cynthia was in silent but vehement disagreement.
The rest of the company present had the financial wherewithal to replace boots and bonnets and clothes should they become splashed and muddied or otherwise ruined. She did not. She did, however, have the use of Violet’s abigail for the duration of the party, and the girl was talented. She’d sponged spots away from her hems, revived lethargic lace, and restored brightness to some of her white things.
But the
abigail could do very little about her walking boots. She’d begun to feel the ground through them. Perhaps she could insist upon being carried in a litter. Like the savage woman in the bath chair in Northumberland.
Ah, but that could never happen. Not to her. It was easier to tell herself this during the day. Last night her old dream had awakened her, and in the mirror this morning she’d seen the aftermath in the pale violet of her eyelids, and the faint blue shadow beneath her eyes.
Now, as they walked, the pale gold head of Lady Georgina bobbed in front of her. The neatly coiled braid pinned to the back of her head resembled a target, Cynthia decided. She entertained herself by imagining her gaze as a dart, and conceded this was unfair. She told herself she would be happy to like Lady Georgina if there had been anything to like. Last night, after dinner, Georgina’s conversation had primarily consisted of admiring things: dresses, coiffures, witty things said by the other women. She spoke primarily when she was spoken to. She listened a good deal. She was so polite and shiningly nice it was difficult to gain a purchase on her personality.
Next to Lady Georgina, the significantly taller Miles Redmond strode confidently, elegantly, easily, as though the world, and this property, was a coat sewn just for him. Beneath his hat, his hair was long enough for the breeze to lift. Lady Georgina, a blossom in a white muslin walking dress, struggled to keep up with him.
It hadn’t quite become Noah’s ark, however, with paired-off men and women walking alongside each other; the group trundled over the grass in a casual configuration, like a scattering of billiard balls after the first shot was taken. But subtle jockeying for various positions was taking place. A shadow came up behind Cynthia, and the sun blotted briefly as the rectangular Lord Milthorpe overcame handsome young Lord Argosy, who had been casually coming up on the outside in an attempt to catch up to her. She’d seen him from the corner of her eye, and she had rooted for him, but alas Milthorpe was first.
Nonchalance, she could have told Argosy, does not pay.
Argosy was forced to drop back a little to join up with Violet and Jonathan, who were laughing gleefully at something while thoughtfully keeping company with the widow, Lady Windermere, who trudged over the grass as solidly as a four-wheeled cart, and the lushly handsome, married Lady Middlebough, who glided over the lawn in a flattering maroon day dress like a finely sprung barouche.
“I’ve been giving some thought to just the right dog for you, Miss Brightly,” Milthorpe ventured.
“Have you been thinking of me, sir? That is, of a dog for me, that is?”
His ruddy cheeks flushed to a mulberry. Ah! Very good. So both statements were clearly true. But he maintained his aplomb. Dogs, for Lord Milthorpe, were a serious topic.
“There are so many splendid breeds, but I believe a dog should be well-matched to one’s personality. And where you are concerned, Miss Brightly, I cannot decide,” he thrust his hands into his pockets, “between a Sussex spaniel…or a greyhound.”
Ahead of her, Miles Redmond slowed his pace to point to something perched on the leaf of a shrubbery. And then he stopped, drew in closer to it. Lady Georgina peered where he pointed and made an O shape with her mouth. “Mr. Redmond! That’s so interesting,” she piped.
What was interesting? A worm? A fly? A spider?
“…mating,” was the one word that came to her of the all the words in Miles Redmond’s reply to Lady Georgina.
Cynthia returned her focus abruptly to Lord Milthorpe, feeling warmer.
“How did you narrow it to the two breeds, Lord Milthorpe?” she asked
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “The spaniel rather reminded me of you, as it has handsome, long, silky—”
This sounded promising!
“—liver-colored ears.”
Startled, Cynthia’s hand flew up to her ear.
Milthorpe didn’t notice. He was warming to his subject. “In fact, the Sussex spaniel has long, liver-colored hair everywhere. Feathery hair, on their chests and sterns. And a short handsome tail.”
Cynthia heard a peculiar strangled sound up ahead. The sun glancing off Miles’s spectacles gave him away. The bloody man was listening, and the strangled sound was laughter killed before it could escape him.
Her own eyes began to water a little. Hysteria or hilarity? She could not have said.
“They have a very sweet and loyal nature, spaniels do, Miss Brightly. They’re small and compact and limber. And they have lovely shiny eyes.”
Cynthia wondered if she had a loyal nature. She wondered if Lord Milthorpe considered her compact and limber.
Miles Redmond’s shoulders had gone back as abruptly as if he’d been struck by a bolt of hilarity.
“Spaniels sound lovely,” she said more loudly than necessary. She decided she did have a loyal nature: given an opportunity, she would be as steadfast a companion to the right husband as any spaniel. Gratitude would ensure it.
They’d come upon Redmond and Georgina, which was when Miles magically finished examining whatever crawling thing had taken up residence on the leaf and moved on rapidly and suddenly. Georgina puffed to keep up.
“What was your other choice, Lord Milthorpe?”
His expression was dignified and triumphant. “This might strike you as a bit daring, but that would be the greyhound, Miss Brightly. Elegant, sleek, noble animal. They want a bit of winning over, do greyhounds. But they’re wonderful friends when they’ve been won over.”
He was more insightful than she had credited him. She looked over at Lord Milthorpe and tried to picture decades stretched out alongside him in bed at night. He would snore, she was certain of it. She shied away abruptly from the thought of sleeping next to him for the rest of her life and focused on the moment.
Milthorpe’s fingers twitched at his thighs, then curled into a cylinder. They felt empty, no doubt. All this talk of dogs was making him yearn for a gun and a dog the way a sot aches for the wineskin.
“I must say, sir,” she said softly. “Both comparisons flatter me. I hardly know which to choose.”
“On the contrary. The comparisons do not do you justice, Miss Brightly. But it was the best I could do upon considerable thought and our short acquaintance.”
Cynthia smiled. She was unaccountably touched when she pictured Milthorpe carefully reviewing a parade of dogs in his head last night. All for her benefit. She began to feel that nearly any man could become charming given the right encouragement.
Lord Milthorpe saw her smiling, and his entire body seemed to straighten and bloom as though she were the rays of the sun.
He would never be handsome. He would never be young. She doubted he would ever really be interesting.
But he would be kind.
“What say you, Redmond?” Milthorpe called out to Miles, full of the bonhomie and confidence that comes from enjoying the undivided attention of a lovely girl.
Miles Redmond halted mid-stride and turned sharply, smiling politely. He had all of his teeth, they lined up very neatly, and they all were, blast him, quite white.
“What say I, Milthorpe? You’re in need of an opinion? I have opinions to spare. Ask away.”
“You were country bred. What manner of dog ought Miss Brightly to have? I’ve narrowed it down to a spaniel or a greyhound.”
“Hmmm…a dog for Miss Brightly?”
Miles Redmond looked at her directly for the first time that day, and she tensed as though absorbing a small shock. There passed a silence longer than perhaps was wise. A silence people could notice.
Miles straightened his shoulders, clasped his hands behind his back and looked away from her.
“Well, the way I see it is this, Milthorpe. Spaniels flush small game—waterfowl and the like—and then retrieve it once it’s killed. They’re small dogs, rather low to the ground, can get in and out of shrubbery and undergrowth. While greyhounds…ah, greyhounds are an aristocratic breed. They’re used for coursing, typically. Do you enjoy coursing, Milthorpe?”
“A
ye, old man. Oh, if anything involves hunting, I enjoy it. I don’t own a greyhound presently, but Custley out in Shropshire has written to me of his new pups, and I have every hope of going off to choose one to bring home.”
“One can never have too many dogs,” Miles said somberly.
Cynthia stared at him suspiciously.
“Never,” Milthorpe agreed fervently.
Miles continued. “As for greyhounds…well, coursing is a more…ambitious sport. Requires quite a reach on the part of the greyhound, wouldn’t you say? And whereas spaniels are useful for the smaller game, greyhounds can pursue larger, more impressive game and a wider variety of it…” Miles swiftly touched looks upon Argosy, who walked yards behind them flanked by Jonathan and Violet, and Milthorpe. To Cynthia, this was as obvious as a gesturing finger. “…and they do it in the open, over wide-open ground…where anyone can see. And greyhounds can most often be found with the aristocracy and the nobility.”
Miles looked at Cynthia a speaking second longer, then turned abruptly and began striding on again.
“Definitely the greyhound for Miss Brightly,” he said over his shoulder.
She wished she had something to throw at his back.
“I believe I prefer a spaniel,” Cynthia said instantly to Milthorpe. Tightly.
“Both grand dogs,” Milthorpe allowed diplomatically. He looked a little puzzled, watching Miles’s retreating back.
“Pomeranians are lovely!” Lady Georgina turned around and said encouragingly. She was mercifully ignorant of the great cloud of innuendo that Miles Redmond had sent up. “I should like a Pomeranian!”
“Ah, but I’ve heard that Pomeranians bite, Lady Georgina,” Miles said with deep concern, and “we wouldn’t want you bitten.”
Lady Georgina’s giggle was more excited than it ought to have been, given that what he’d said wasn’t funny.
Was I ever such a ninny? Cynthia wondered. She supposed she’d never had the luxury of being a ninny. And yet, there weren’t many years between her and Lady Georgina, if any.
And then they all walked past—or rather, around, since Miles pointed it out so they wouldn’t go blundering through it—a small but beautiful spiderweb linking two shrubberies.
Like No Other Lover Page 7