Like No Other Lover

by Julie Anne Long

  The Gypsy girl slid dramatically to the ground, put her face in her hands and rocked it.

  “Oh! Pistols! They are shooting! ’E falls! Blood! So much blood! It is because of…” She looked at Cynthia accusingly, and every head in the tent swiveled toward her and gaped. “She is…”

  Martha stopped. She studied Cynthia curiously for what seemed a very long time.

  Cynthia’s stomach was as choppy as the English Channel.

  The silence in the tent thickened to palpability. Argosy’s breath was clearly held.

  “Good heavens,” Martha finally said admiringly, as though she’d been reviewing Cynthia’s history in her head. “Ye’re a minx, gadji, aren’t ye?”

  Needless to say, the return carriage ride to Redmond House was an uncomfortable one. Everyone seemed to be holding one-sided conversations. With themselves.

  “Ten children!” Jonathan muttered darkly, incensed. “I’ll break a heart! Hmmph.”

  “What do you think she meant by Lavay?” Violet said aloud to no one in particular. “Who the devil is Lavay? What is Lavay?”

  “She knew the duck was empty,” Argosy mused. His knee was indecisive about touching Cynthia’s. Brushing. Moving away. Brushing again. All in all, he’d become a trifle remote and absorbed.

  “She said I would be wed, and soon!” Cynthia said cheerily and desperately, hoping to herd everyone into her topic. “Mrs. Heron did. She seemed very sane about it all. Not like her daughter.”

  “I don’t think I’d mind a long journey,” Violet mused. “But I wonder who Lavay is?”

  Argosy turned to Cynthia. “Why do you think she called you a minx?” And what did she mean by blood and—”

  “Perhaps she had a vision about the statue of David,” Jonathan guessed. “Cynthia shot its tender parts off.”

  Cynthia glanced at him gratefully. It was a marvelous theory. Entirely wrong, but marvelous.

  “And thought it was a man being shot?” Argosy said dubiously. “But she mentioned blood. Statues don’t bleed.”

  Jonathan slumped in the seat. “Ten children.”

  And so it went until they were home again.

  When they reached the house, everyone spilled out of the carriage and scattered, perhaps to recover from the visit. Cynthia scaled the stairs, hoping to find a safety net in the form of a missive from the unpleasant old woman in Northumberland, waiting for her on her dressing table.

  The table was bare.

  But Spider the cat was delighted to see her. And so she played with her cat for an hour or two, in this way keeping her fear at bay, before venturing down the stairs again. Wanting to see Miles and not wanting to see Miles.

  And the first person she saw when she went downstairs was Miles.

  The rest of the day was too sultry for any vigorous outdoor group activities, and inside the house, party guests formed quiet configurations. Goodkind was said to be upstairs in his room, working on his book about behavior. Doubtless he was learning a good deal about the virtues of wickedness from his visit.

  Cynthia took the lay of the salon. Argosy and Jonathan were slumped in chairs, long legs outstretched, across from Lady Georgina and Violet, who held in their hands embroidery frames and needles. Lady Windermere and Lady Middlebough faced each other over backgammon at the game table. Milthorpe was the only one who had ventured out, taking a carriage to see a nearby Sussex dog breeder.

  Cynthia wondered whether she would be presented with a puppy, or if Milthorpe had decided he only needed for a wife the kind of woman who could shoot an apple even with a spaniel nose in her bum.

  Near the doorway, near her, sat Miles, seated at a petite escritoire facing a window with a view of a leaf-heavy tree. He was bent over correspondence. His too-long hair nearly touched his collar, was swept sideways over his forehead; it gleamed against his pale skin. She’d wanted to know its texture; she now knew just how soft it was. The quill scratched rapidly back and forth over the foolscap.

  He looked up sharply from his work. He’d sensed her standing near, of course. Seemed arrested momentarily by her face.

  Then he looked away slowly. His hands were at once still. The quill, which had moved like a living thing in his hand, seemed unnaturally motionless now.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Brightly.” He said it almost gingerly. He still didn’t look at her.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Redmond.”

  More innocuous words were never spoken between two people.

  Well, what language should she use now to speak to him? After she’d brushed her nipples against his and greedily twined her tongue with his?

  And then the slightest of rueful smiles turned up one corner of his mouth, which made her smile a little, too, because as usual he seemed to know her thoughts.

  “Are you attending to correspondence?” Well, this was inane. She might well have said, Are you attending to breathing?

  “Yes. I shall be meeting a fellow member of the Royal Society this evening to attempt to persuade him to come along on my expedition. Brilliant scientist. From Sussex. I truly hope he agrees to come along. I’m just sending a message off to tell him I’ll be there.”

  She hesitated. “Are you eager to go? Back to Lacao?”

  He leaned back a little in the chair. He breathed out a little. “Oh. If you only knew. There’s so much more to see there. It’s remarkable. I’ve only just begun to skim the surface. I could be forever discovering it. If only you could see how…” He trailed off, fanned his fingers in the air at the enormity of it, the magnificence of it.

  “I should love to see it,” she said fervently.

  He looked up at her wonderingly. “Would you truly want to visit a place where plants eat meat?”

  She smiled. “Good heavens, yes. I’ve never been anywhere at all outside of England. It sounds so beautiful and…different. Endlessly exciting. I should like to see a whole new world.”

  He was watching her talk as if her mouth was a miracle. And then a ghost of a smile touched his own mouth: he knew every word she said was true. She was no stranger to excitement or privation or exploration, and liked all of it.

  Save the privation part.

  Say it, she thought suddenly, desperately, irrationally. Say one day I’ll go to Lacao. With you. Say it, Miles.

  She looked down at him, at his strong throat, the silky dark hair falling to touch his neck. She was suddenly fascinated by the lobes of his ears. She wanted to lick the place below them, where his pulse beat. It suddenly occurred to her that there must be secret little places just like this everywhere on his body: corners, curves, softness and strength that could be explored like Lacao.

  How could this man possibly marry someone like Lady Georgina?

  “When will you go?” she asked softly.

  He hesitated. “I just need to secure funding, and then I’ll be able to complete the planning. Inside a year, I hope.”

  “Will the Mercury Club fund the expedition? Or your father?”

  He looked up, surprised. “You know about the Merc—Ah.”

  Of course she did. An association with the Mercury Club meant a man had money. And Cynthia of course would know this. She shrugged. She wouldn’t deny it.

  “My father…well, my father won’t countenance financing the expedition. He patently doesn’t understand the reasons for it, and he won’t present it to the investment group. But Lady Georgina’s father is an avid amateur naturalist. And if her father becomes a member of the Mercury Club…”

  He said this with peculiar hesitation, and a gentleness that sent a warning prickle along the back of her neck.

  An instant later she understood with a painfully blinding clarity.

  “Lady Georgina’s father will fund the expedition. If you’re a member of his family.”

  His silence told her everything. He tried to hold her eyes. His were enigmatic, his jaw tense. He looked away, dropped his chin to his chest briefly. Then looked out at the tree.

  How like falling and falling tha
t moment felt. The plummet was sickening. And for an instant she couldn’t speak through the pain, which seemed everywhere. She breathed in.

  “I shall need to know about Goodkind.” Her cool tone gave her strength, even as the words were faint.

  They both had their objectives, after all. Despite what their bodies might desire.

  Miles’s gaze remained fixed upon that leafy view. And then a wry and not very pleasant smile touched his lips. When he turned back to look at her, he said flatly, quietly, tautly, “Don’t you trust your own ability to charm, as it were, Miss Brightly? You’ve two men on the dangle. Shouldn’t that be enough for any woman?”

  Only two men on the dangle? She was oh, so tempted to say it. She thought it unwise to test his temper simply because her own had been kindled.

  “It’s important.”

  It was. She’d felt confident enough, she felt she had momentum, until Argosy was spooked by that deuced Gypsy girl, and then she disappointed Milthorpe with her skill as an outdoorswoman, and she still had no letter from Northumberland…

  Miles studied her intently. Her face gave him nothing.

  Then he touched a look upon Lady Georgina bent over her embroidery hoop, as if to remind himself of his own passions, his own objective, to solidify his resolve. Or perhaps to clear his head the way a gentle, smooth landscape soothed one’s soul.

  Cynthia knew she certainly brought him no peace.

  He finally gave a humorless laugh. “Well, what do you know about him?”

  “I know what you’ve told me and what he has shared with me: that he was a soldier, and now he considers himself a man of God. He is writing a book of essays about proper behavior for young men and women.”

  “Is he?” Miles’s eyes brightened at this; a delighted smile slowly spread. “Did he happen to read to you from it, Miss Brightly, when you apologized to him yesterday? Hoping to reform you?”

  His amusement was contagious, damn him. “Do you recall what you said about the spider’s web when Milthorpe broke through it? That when it’s torn, the spider can rebuild it, and it will be stronger than even before?”

  Humor flashed across his face. “I recall every word I ever say, Miss Brightly, and it’s flattering to hear that you’re listening to me. I’m anxious to hear how this applies to Mr. Goodkind’s book of essays.”

  “I said that exposure to wickedness helped to strengthen the soul, because it requires more fortitude to overcome a wicked nature and become good than it does to stay good when one is never tempted to be otherwise. So indulging in wickedness can ultimately only strengthen the soul.”

  Miles stared at her. “Good heavens. Diabolical logic.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is that why he got foxed on brandy?” He was genuinely pleased and wondering.

  She basked in his admiration. “I do take credit for that. That, and I do believe he was a little bored.”

  “Interesting.” Miles tapped the quill thoughtfully; the feathers trembled when he did. She wasn’t used to seeing him fidget; it interested her. “You might not make a terrible naturalist, Miss Brightly, should the predilection ever strike. And to think Goodkind is an ass, typically.”

  “Perhaps ‘ass’ is strong, don’t you think? He can be charming. Any man can be charming, given incentive.”

  And at this Miles froze. He stared at her incredulously. He opened his mouth briefly. Closed again.

  And then he put the quill down so sharply that his hand all but slapped the desk. She flinched.

  His voice was low and quick and fiercely exasperated. “No, Cynthia. Milthorpe is a blustery rustic, Goodkind is a pompous ass, and Argosy is an unfinished, arrogant twig. Not a one of them is actually charming. It’s you—you make them charming. You spoke of spiderwebs to Goodkind? I’ll tell you of chemical reactions.”

  She was completely taken aback. “I…I beg your—”

  “You are the…the…compound that makes them effervesce. You transform them, Cynthia. You. With your…efforts. You listen, you smile, you coax, you include. Otherwise, those men are precisely as I describe them.”

  These last words were delivered with ferocious weight. As though he’d been storing them for quite some time.

  Cynthia’s face went hot. She glanced toward where Violet and Argosy—the “arrogant twig”—and Jonathan and Georgina sat. At least no one was overtly staring at them.

  “I believe I heard the word ‘depleted’ from you recently.” Miles’s voice was still quietly fierce.

  Cynthia jerked her head back as though he’d struck her. “Recently,” of course, meant the night before. Last night, in the dark, by firelight, in a smooth motion he’d slid his long, warm body up next to hers, folded her half-nude body in his arms and took savage kisses, and his big hands had filled with her breasts, and he’d closed his beautiful mouth over her—

  He had no right to lash her with that memory. No right.

  “Rich,” she reminded him evenly, coldly. “Depleted but rich.”

  He turned slowly away from her, toward the window. Great bushels of teardrop-shaped leaves made nearly the entire view green.

  “They aren’t as awful as that. They aren’t,” she insisted in a whisper, almost desperately. She needed to believe that they weren’t. She wanted to persuade him. She wanted him to reassure her.

  He didn’t. He was silent a moment longer.

  “Very well,” he said evenly instead. “Here’s what we know of Goodkind. We know he’s wealthy, pious, pompous. And persuadable.” This he added somewhat wryly. “He’s a widower. Has two children. He has an heir. Wouldn’t be averse to a spare. Was a good soldier. Cannot hold his liquor, or so I’ve learned. But…” He hesitated curiously. “Well, should I assume you are interested in peccadilloes you could…shall we say…exploit?”

  “Explore,” she corrected primly, “is a better word.”

  “If you wish.” He picked up the quill and absently, gently, ran his long fingers along it, as if soothing it after slapping it down impassionedly. “I hadn’t wanted to mention this…as it might remove him altogether from your consideration. And I comprehend you wish to consider multiple options.” Dryly said, that. “And this is something very few know. Perhaps myself and…one or two other people.”

  This was worrying. “Is he…depraved in some way?” Well, that was a very general guess. It just seemed so unlikely.

  “It all depends on how you define ‘depraved.’”

  Worse and worse. “You’d best just tell me.”

  “Let us just say that I have it on good authority from…shall we say…a female acquaintance of mine who works for a house of, er, certain repute…that Mr. Goodkind…”

  He paused.

  “Just tell me,” she hissed.

  “…likes to dress in women’s clothing every now and then. He finds it erotic.”

  Cynthia was dumbstruck.

  “I find women’s clothing erotic, too,” Miles confessed cheerily. “I just don’t like to dress in it. I like to remove women’s clothing from women. Piece…by…piece.”

  He watched her closely. Cynthia knew her face had gone cerise, because the temperature was burning her eyes. She surreptitiously pressed two fingers against her pulse in her wrist, and found it pecking with desperate speed in there. Trepidation about Goodkind and a great whoosh of lust had conspired to make a roiling caldron of her stomach.

  She took a deep breath.

  “He doesn’t…he doesn’t…not in public?” she stammered. Wondering if she should pretend to be worldlier than she in fact was. Trying to find the silver lining.

  “Of course not. Absolutely in private. And he doesn’t do it all the time.” As if this was reassuring. “It’s only upon whim.”

  There was a silence.

  And now…well, now she was curious. “What manner of women’s clothing?” Please not slippers and evening gowns.

  “Oh, stockings. Garters. Gloves if he can get them. Once a bonnet. So I’m told.” He said all of this
matter-of-factly. Miles Redmond had seen and heard all manner of strange things in his life, including plants that ate meat and people who ate people; apparently this hardly registered as such.

  She pictured it. She was quiet. And then…

  “Oh…good…heavens.” It had to be said.

  Cynthia hadn’t decided whether she was appalled. Garters. Gloves. Bonnets. They seemed small, harmless things, when taken separately. But on Goodkind? When engaged in…intimacies?

  Intimacies such as she’d been engaged in…last night?

  “Does this remove him from the running, Cynthia?” Miles simply sounded curious.

  God help her. She could simply not afford to remove anyone from the running. And again…taken separately…garters, gloves, bonnets…

  “Well, he doesn’t do it all of the time, does he?” She was trying to convince herself. “Doubtless he’d like an understanding wife. With a versatile wardrobe.” She said this somewhat desperately. But firmly.

  Miles stared at her for some time, and she saw the light of incredulity in his eyes. She refused to look away, and she refused to be ashamed. Miles would never know what it was like to be her. He could use the money provided by his future wife’s father to send himself into exotic danger and beauty, he could seek out risk and danger and study it at whim.

  He didn’t live on the very edge of survival as she did. He hadn’t been born on the edge of survival.

  He dropped his head to look at his foolscap. He looked at that lifeless quill.

  She was quite, quite sorry she’d asked about Goodkind’s peccadillo. But then again, perhaps forewarned was forearmed. And perhaps she could present herself to Goodkind as sympathetic somehow.

  Miles looked up again. “How is Spider the cat?”

  This was her favorite subject. “Savage. Fearless. Affectionate. He sleeps on my head.”

  He smiled. But his eyes didn’t fully participate in it. They’d gone abstracted; they weren’t warm. He glanced away from her. He gripped his quill and studied the feather pattern. “You don’t have blue beneath your eyes. Are you sleeping at night now?”