Like No Other Lover

by Julie Anne Long

  “Does she?” This came from Mr. Goodkind with bright interest. He’d reached the point in his visit where anything said by Miss Brightly was interesting. And since Goodkind had taken the marble penis in the hat, everyone was more inclined to behave more charitably toward him. “Listen,” Cynthia said, her voice a hush, her eyes downcast.

  They all dutifully harked in breathless silence as though waiting for a rare birdcall.

  In the low murmur of conversation—Miles Redmond’s earnest voice provided the bass notes, a melodic rise and fall of enthusiasm—she heard the word “lepidoptera” and then a chuckle. Perhaps he’d told a butterfly joke.

  Cynthia waved her hand like a conductor as on obliging cue Lady Georgina responded in treble:

  “Oh, Mr. Redmond. How very interesting.”

  Chuckles rustled about the table, a sound much like the sound of shuffling cards. Hands of cards went up over mouths to stifle them.

  “You’re very observant, Miss Brightly,” congratulated Mr. Goodkind.

  Lord Milthorpe bristled, as he’d missed the opportunity to say something flattering to Cynthia. He settled for agreeing with Mr. Goodkind. “Yes! Very observant, Miss Brightly.”

  Violet glanced at Cynthia and surreptitiously rolled her eyes.

  Men battling for her attention, a naughty idea on the boil: Cynthia was feeling decidedly more herself.

  The card players were all now furtively watching Miles Redmond and Lady Georgina over their neglected hands of cards. Miles Redmond’s low voice again assumed the cadences of lecturing enthusiasm. He made a sort of crawling gesture in the air with two of his fingers. Then he made a flapping motion with his other hand. He seemed happy.

  It appeared to be a monologue.

  How very like a man.

  Lady Georgina’s face was a moonbeam of rapt attention. Her body angled toward Miles, as though being pulled into his orbit by the superior force of his intellect, and her lips were parted as though she breathlessly awaited each of his words and enjoyed each one more than the next. They moved a little, too, helping him form his words with the force of her fascination.

  Cynthia wondered if Lady Georgina was actually listening to him or whether she was watching—as it was so tempting to do—the light move in the depths of his eyes when he talked, or the shape of his mouth, which was rather mesmerizing, but perhaps that was only because she knew how his mouth tasted, and felt, and—

  She jerked her head toward her cards.

  Violet seemed a bit skeptical of Cynthia’s assertion, and a little disappointed. She leaned toward Cynthia. “Surely she doesn’t say it all that oft—”

  “Oh, Mr. Redmond,” Lady Georgina breathed. “How very interesting.”

  The card players gasped and then laughed quietly in collective astonishment. Cynthia shushed them over her own laughs.

  Miles Redmond and Lady Georgina turned in their direction a little bit, smiling at the mirth. Then returned to their conversation. Or rather, to their roles as monologist and audience.

  Cynthia felt a twinge of guilt. But honestly, even if Lady Georgina was genuinely smitten with Miles Redmond, was this any reason to behave like a parrot?

  Georgina had tilted her head now to look into Miles Redmond’s face. Parrots do that, too, Cynthia thought. When they’re curious about something. They have eyes on either side of their head, and not in the front, so they had to tilt their heads in order to see.

  See? Never let it be said that I am not knowledgeable about nature.

  “Very well. But it can’t be as often as you say…can it?” Violet was a stickler for specificity, it seemed. Perhaps it was a Redmond trait.

  “I’ve an idea,” Cynthia said slowly. She had only heard Violet peripherally, because her mind was at work on a plan. No, no, no. Her conscience was a little scolding schoolmaster, stomping its feet. Still, she knew that Violet could be persuaded to mischief. She succumbed to a very unworthy impulse to muss the Redmond perfection.

  “Here is my idea. Every time Lady Georgina says…” Cynthia lowered her voice. “…well, what she says…we shall all take a drink.”

  Delighted and appalled silence greeted this suggestion.

  “Of tea?” This was from Violet, who, though familiar with myriad kinds of misbehavior, was new to this particular brand of it.

  “Good heavens, no, you featherbrain.” Lady Windermere turned on Violet with wide-eyed censure, worried that the rules of the game would become corrupted. “Of sherry.”

  “Precisely,” Cynthia agreed happily. “And if the sherry runs dry, we shall ask for champagne.”

  This was optimistically said, as she hadn’t the faintest idea whether the Redmonds would countenance opening up champagne for guests outside the occasion of a ball, but she had all the faith in the world in Violet Redmond’s ability to persuade her father’s staff to do anything.

  “Perhaps you would be so kind as to expand the rules to allow the gentlemen to imbibe port or brandy instead,” Mr. Goodkind suggested shrewdly, as he was a businessman, and believed every deal could benefit from refinement.

  He received a nod of approbation from Milthorpe and a smile of encouragement from Cynthia.

  “Done,” she said crisply, as though they were indeed engaged in a negotiation, easily accepting the role of rule maker.

  “Who wins the game?” Violet asked.

  “The last person upright,” Lady Windermere said with relish.

  They all looked with pity upon Violet, who they assumed wouldn’t make it beyond the first two or three Oh, Mr. Redmonds!

  “Now—everyone review your glasses. We don’t want to miss an opportunity. Quickly now,” Cynthia commanded quietly.

  Glasses were raised into the light, liquor volumes assessed. Violet clapped her hands, and a blue-and-gold liveried footman appeared in the room with breathtaking instantaneousness and rectified inequalities with splashes from a cut crystal decanter.

  Everything had begun to sparkle: eyes, sherry in glasses, moods, smiles.

  “Very well, then. Let the games begin. Shall we play another hand?” Cynthia said sweetly, reaching for the deck.

  Rain was still being flung sideways by the wind at the windows, only now it was dark, and Miles, as pleasant as he often found speaking nonstop about common blues and Formicidae, or his first look at Reverend William Gould’s fascinating Accounts of English Ants, was growing restless. He’d given this particular speech in numerous forms before to the Royal Society.

  She was a woman. He wanted to flirt.

  She was flirting in a way. With those attentive eyes, and her soft mouth, and the neckline cut to ensure admiration of everything it contained, and he was dutifully and discreetly admiring it. And he supposed innuendos could be made from a discussion of the mating habits if he was so inclined. He was not inclined.

  He was bored.

  He found his mind drifting to the third floor, fourth door from the left. Poor Lady Middlebough. He was reducing her to something approaching obviousness.

  He would reduce her to quivering pleasure tonight, he decided firmly.

  And he was steadfastly avoiding Cynthia Brightly, because that way lay danger and confusion. But because when she was near, he tended to do the opposite of whatever he intended to do, he of course looked up to see what she was doing.

  And when he did, he saw a footman hurrying by.

  There was nothing at all unusual about this. Footmen were everywhere in the Redmond house, part of the silent bewigged battalion that kept it passionately clean and smoothly running, along with all the maids.

  But as Miles watched this particular footman, he was struck by a peculiar sense of déjà vu.

  He officially gave up attempting to listen to Lady Georgina and simply watched.

  The footman bore a tray of crystal decanters toward the table in the corner where Cynthia Brightly glowed in pink-faced, burnished splendor, in a champagne-colored satin dress ribboned beneath her breasts in bronze. Other people of course sat round the
table, too, including his sister—all of whom were also peculiarly pink-faced.

  The footman poured for them—brandy and sherry—and hurried out again.

  As he passed, Miles noticed that the servant was a bit pink in the face, too—from exertion. His forehead was a mirror of perspiration. He even huffed a little.

  “Don’t you think so, Mr. Redmond?” Lady Georgina was saying. “Whereas the ants we have here in Sussex are—”

  “Georgina, how many times has the footman passed by in the last hour or so?”

  “I…goodness, I haven’t noticed. Your conversation has been so very interesting.”

  Like a group of gophers popping up out of holes, every head at the card table pivoted alertly in unison.

  “Does that count?” Miles heard someone hiss. It sounded like Mr. Goodkind.

  Some sort of earnest sotto voce conference took place among the card players. Their heads were so close together Miles could only see the tops of them. It became heated at one point—a hand waved out from the circle, adamantly.

  And then everyone sat back, lifted their glasses in unison and took sips.

  Cards were taken up again, a set of glances sent his way, then dropped immediately when they intercepted his steady gaze. He saw the quivering smiles hidden by the lowered faces.

  “Lady Georgina. My apologies. Will you excuse me for one moment?” he said grimly.

  “Cert—”

  Miles was already up and striding away from her toward the game table.

  A pair of gas lamps lit the card players—his father loved the modern conveniences, and he was always the first to employ them, and had the money to do it. And thus he was able to ascertain that his sister’s eyes were downright glassy.

  Everyone turned up faces of cautious greeting.

  “Oh, Milesh!” Violet cried affectionately. They might have been reunited after eons apart. “I’m sho glad you’re here! Where doesh Papa…” She paused and frowned. Then she leaned forward and pulled Lady Windermere very familiarly toward her. “What do you think I meant to ashk Milesh?” she whispered.

  “Champagne,” Lady Windermere prodded on an equally loud whisper.

  “Oh!” She beamed. “Milesh, where doesh papa keep the…champagne?”

  He’d never before seen Violet in her cups, and though part of him—the sibling part of him, the part that Jonathan, who no doubt at this very moment was in his cups at the Pig & Thistle, would have exploited with no compunction—thought it was very, very funny, the other part of him was incensed. He was responsible for her well-being, and she was far better bred than this; she ought to have known better, and he knew, he knew, who had encouraged this.

  “Why do you ask, Violet?” His voice remained level.

  Cynthia Brightly was steadfastly not looking at him. She was studying her cards as though they held the secret to her salvation, and biting one side of her lower lip in a vain attempt to keep it from curling up into a smile.

  Violet was beckoning him closer with such great waving curls of her hand of cards that everyone could see them. Goodkind and Milthorpe leaned over to have a look.

  Against his better judgment, Miles did lean toward his sister.

  She caught hold of his coat sleeve, tugged him abruptly down, and whispered confidingly and somewhat regretfully close to his ear: “Becaush we need it, Milesh. The champagne. If you’re to keep talking with Lady Georgina, we shall need champagne. Becaush the sherry’s nearly gone.”

  Miles gently freed himself from his sister’s grip and was upright again just as the footman approached with the sherry decanter.

  Only to run into the great seething dark wall of Miles’s gaze, turn on his heel and smoothly leave the way he’d come in.

  Mr. Goodkind had opened a few buttons on his waistcoat to allow his stomach to billow forth. Milthorpe was scarlet-nosed and brilliantly scarlet veins webbed his cheeks. Lady Windermere was red and blotchy from the clavicle upward. The color clashed badly with her plum-colored gown and matching plumed turban, which for some reason was now listing badly, though it had been most decidedly upright on her head when the evening began. The plume of it now extended horizontally, and whenever she turned her head just a little, it inserted itself into Mr. Goodkind’s ear. Mr. Goodkind brushed at his ear and smiled in a faintly pleased but puzzled manner every time it happened, but by the time he managed to turn his head, the plume was gone.

  Miles watched this happen twice in the matter of seconds.

  “Are you enjoying your evening?” he addressed the entire group. Some mischief in particular was collectively being enjoyed.

  He disliked being excluded. He disliked not knowing what was afoot. And he had a strong sense it had something to do with him, and this he of course would ferret out easily enough.

  “Oh, yes!” came an angelic chorus from the card players.

  Then silence.

  “What card game have you been playing?” He directed this pleasantly to Cynthia. He couldn’t identify it from the number in their hands or the arrangement of the cards on the table.

  Cynthia couldn’t answer him, because Violet was speaking.

  “Are you having a nice time, Milesh?” Her eyes were limpid with poignant concern. “Are you? You ought to have a good time every now and then, you know. And not just with native girls.”

  Violet clapped an appalled hand over her mouth and gazed up at him with mock innocence. She removed the hand carefully.

  “Hic,” she said.

  Miles felt his internal barometric pressure dropping to thunderstorm levels. He was furious at Violet, and furious at Cynthia, and furious at his circumstances, and furious because he was bored by Lady Georgina and furious because he was almost never furious.

  “Forgive me, Miles,” Violet apologized sadly. “It was jusht in there, I suppose, and out it came.”

  Miles turned his head slowly to look at Cynthia Brightly. Suppressed mirth was vibrating her like a leaf in a windstorm. Her eyes were watering and brilliant pink at the edges. Both of her hands were covering her mouth now, overlapping like palm leaves on the roof of a sturdy hut: wonderful for keeping out typhoons, when done properly. Or so he’d learned. She appeared to be attempting to keep a typhoon of laughter in.

  “Are you having a nice time, Milesh?” Violet pressed, sounding a little belligerent now, as he hadn’t answered her.

  “Yes, Violet. I’m having a very lovely conversation with Lady Georgina. She is speaking to me of ant colonies, and I was sharing a few of my South Sea stories with her.”

  There was an instant, palpable hush. All those glassy eyes and rosy faces gazed at him for a fraught moment, studying him with unholy glee.

  It was Mr. Goodkind who finally said it. In a falsetto, no less:

  “Oh, Mr. Redmond. You’re so interesting!”

  The table exploded into laughter so uproarious Miles actually leaped backward.

  Cynthia Brightly laid her face on the table sideways, her back jumping with such violent mirth she began to cough from it. Milthorpe sounded like a frantic donkey fleeing from a branding-iron-wielding farmer: haw haw haw haw haw! Goodkind’s head was thrown back and his mouth was a perfect wide O from which issued long hoots of laughter. He gave the table a series of good hard slaps, which caused Lady Windermere’s turban to at last vibrate from her head entirely, sending the plume fluffing into his eyes. His hoots stopped abruptly and he flailed at the plume in terror, then lost his balance and toppled from his chair, dragging down the tablecloth, all the sherry glasses, and finally, Lady Windermere, whose hem he’d seized in desperation on his final descent.

  Lady Windermere went pop-eyed with alarm, flung her arms skyward and vanished below the table as though a shark had pulled her underwater.

  Her hand cards sprayed up like sea foam then and rained down.

  It was the funniest thing Miles had ever seen in his life.

  He’d also seldom known such towering anger. Split neatly in half by the two poles of emotion, cleaved as if
by lightning, he was speechless.

  The rest of the table, however, was still crippled by laughter. Cynthia decided she ought to investigate her toppled comrades, but she began to topple when she bent over.

  Miles bent over and began sorting them out. He reached into the melee and carefully seized the proper limbs—arms not legs, because Lady Windermere was involved—and got them upright and propped back into their chairs, where they slumped like marionettes. He was forced to retrieve Lady Windermere’s turban as well. The plume had been crushed. Mr. Goodkind’s flap of hair was vertical now, too, sitting like a little wall atop his head, a plume of sorts of his own.

  “Shinthia is shooooo clever!” Violet said mistily. “God bless Shinthia. Where ish that footman with the sherry?”

  Miles knew the best way to obtain information was to pretend near indifference to it. “Why is Miss Brightly clever, Violet?” He got the words out through clenched teeth.

  Cynthia Brightly, with her instinct for self-preservation, had abruptly stopped laughing and was now waving her hands at his sister in some sort of frantic warning. But Violet was lost in admiration and eager to give her friend credit where credit was due.

  “For thinking of the game.”

  Chapter 12

  Cynthia vanished adroitly moments later when Miles turned briefly away. He would find her later, he thought grimly.

  His primary directive was to get everyone more or less packed off to bed, but it took some time and strategy and a bit of negotiation. As it turned out, Milthorpe liked to sing when he was drunk, and Goodkind got a little maudlin and weepy when he was drunk. And then Jonathan and Argosy returned from the Pig & Thistle, both in their cups, delighted to find Milthorpe and Goodkind in kindred state, and they all had a sing over billiards.

  Goodkind fell asleep with his chin balanced atop his hand atop a billiards cue.

  The footmen were enlisted to help get everyone to their rooms; Miles’s valet did double duty to pull off boots and pour large men into their beds. Miles instructed the maid to put the chamberpot next to Violet’s bed, and knew that his sister deserved every bit of what she would likely feel the next day.