He dodged that thought as though it were a fist aimed for his head. He jerked his gaze up from Argosy. Like a compass finding north, his eyes immediately found a particular pair of blue eyes in the group of aghast faces.
Her face was white apart from a blaze of pink spots on each cheekbone; her eyes were brilliant. She wasn’t looking down at the floor in concern.
She was looking at him.
And she was quite clearly furious.
Because no doubt she thought the two of them were going to shoot each other now.
Well, then. He’d promised to make it right, and as usually was the case when it concerned her, he’d done the opposite of what he’d intended to do, and instead put it spectacularly wrong.
And here she was, again at the center of yet another controversy.
Miles uncurled his fingers from their fist shape and fanned them out in front of him, over and over, bemused at how quickly one could make a hash of things.
Reflexively, he reached his now benign but still stinging hand down to assist Argosy to his feet, as everyone else seemed far too stupefied to do anything but stare at the fallen man.
When he did this, murmurs began to rustle like the wings of a released hundred moths.
Argosy ignored the proffered hand, touched his fingers to his inflating lip, and continued to glare from the floor. His dark eyes were impressively, aristocratically, flinty.
Miles silently revised his plans for the following day to include the possibility of a duel.
He nodded, as though accepting a verdict. “If you’d like to speak with me, Argosy, I’ll be in my father’s second-floor study.”
The room in which everything of consequence to Redmond history had taken place.
Miles bowed, turned with something approximating his usual dignity, and left the congregation to their gaping.
Chapter 20
I need my own home, Miles thought, resenting this room suddenly and irrationally. He’d been traveling so much, so often, he hadn’t established a home other than his rooms in London.
He wondered dismally if Argosy would manage to recruit seconds from among the guests. He hadn’t the faintest idea of the protocol involved in challenging one’s host to a duel, but doubtless there was precedent. If there was anything he had learned from the books surrounding him now, it was this: regardless of how appalling the behavior, some human had already done it.
The thought cheered him perversely.
What he was about to do was the most difficult thing he’d ever done. Grimly, he thought: Goodkind would think this kind of sacrifice will purify my soul.
And then there was Georgina…
He hadn’t thought once of Georgina, hadn’t sought her eyes out in the crowd.
Again: quite the hash he’d made.
Two vicious raps sounded at the library door.
He was on his feet instantly, but Argosy didn’t wait for admittance: he threw the door open as though it had been put there deliberately to thwart him and flung it shut again with an impressive amount of wounded drama.
He planted himself before Miles and looked up. “Redmond, name your sec—”
“Argosy,” he said evenly. “I apologize. I was an ass.”
“—onds…” Argosy stuttered to a halt. “I beg your pardon, Redmond?”
“I apologize. What I did was unforgivable, Argosy, but perhaps you’ll at least understand if you know why I did it. I beg an opportunity to explain my atrocious behavior.”
Words like “atrocious” were apparently balm to Argosy. He enjoyed hearing his attacker denigrate himself. His feathers visibly settled.
“Firstly, Cavill is wrong. He’s fortunate he wasn’t here, because I might have been tempted to call him out. The rumors about Miss Brightly were a result of jealousy in the ton, nothing more. I greatly dislike hearing Miss Brightly disparaged; it is a personal affront to hear her name at the center of rumors, and to hear them repeated beneath my roof. For Miss Brightly’s character is without question a…” He cleared his throat. “…a very fine one.”
He paused; Argosy was watching him, a bit puzzled, but drinking up the words. And it occurred to Miles again that Argosy genuinely cared for Cynthia, as much as he could care about someone. It was disorienting. It was painful. It was a very good thing.
He forged on.
“She is, like Violet, spirited, true, but she is very…” Such a homely word. Such a right word. “…dear.”
“She’s dear?” Argosy was confused now. Given that this was Argosy, he probably thought he meant “expensive.”
“Rather, I should say, she is a dear friend to this family. And as such, though I am certain you were not aware or else, as a gentleman, you never would have slurred her character”—Argosy stirred a little resentfully; perhaps there was potential in him—“we care very much for her welfare, and slurs to her reputation are felt personally. I am as protective of her as I am of Violet.”
Argosy smiled slightly when he said “Violet.” Her name generally elicited rueful smiles in males.
“I should say that despite her obvious enjoyment of life, she possesses a level head and a soundness of character that would do credit to anyone who associates with her. Regardless, my action was unconscionable and uncharacteristic, and though I do not regret defending her honor—as I’m sure you would do for any of your five sisters…” He paused to allow Argosy to give a short, manly nod. “…I deeply regret the manner in which I did it. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me, and to not think unwell of Miss Brightly for an action I am certain she would never have condoned.”
Argosy said nothing for a time. A rivulet of blood slanted from the corner of his mouth and had begun to congeal.
“It is clear Miss Brightly inspires strong emotions in those that know her,” he finally replied, his words beginning to thicken along with the size of his lip. “It is just that my emotions were so very strongly engaged, and I was terribly upset at the betrayal. What I thought was betrayal,” he added hurriedly.
Miles could only nod. He did feel a twinge of guilt about obfuscating to the man. But no matter what Cynthia had ever done or not done, Argosy was clearly getting the best part of the bargain.
“You see…I’d intended to propose to her,” Argosy confided hesitantly. “Yesterday. I wanted to so badly. You must know that we have formed an attachment. I fear we have been obvious of late. My passions do run quite deep”—this was interesting news to Miles, and rather sounded like a line of poetry Argosy might have read—“and the Fates seem to decree the match…I cannot imagine enjoying another female more than I enjoy her. I am quite in love. I suppose I was gravely, gravely disappointed to hear what Cavill said about her. Her family is a bit of a question mark, I do know that. It matters not to me. But I do know my father would prefer me to bring home a bride whose character has never been called into—”
Miles straightened his spine to full commanding height.
And lied.
“Miss Brightly is a fine young woman,” he said, his voice nearly stentorian. “And I can assure you that she enjoys the abiding friendship and respect of this family. I speak for my entire family when I say that anyone who questions the quality of her character questions the judgment of the Redmond family.” He allowed this particularly subtle threat to penetrate; it would never, ever do to alienate the Redmonds. “And it is our belief that any family, no matter how ancient or noble, would be improved by her. And any man free to do so would be—” He stopped. His heart closed over his words like a fist, as though attempting to prevent him from saying what he was about to say. He was forced to turn away, toward the window, as if to turn his back on his own heart. “—would be blessed indeed to wed her, should Miss Brightly accept him. And that includes you, Argosy.”
By the time he reached the end of the sentence, his voice had turned to gravel.
Argosy was impressed into somber dignity.
“My father would of course prefer an aristocratic bride. But as I am his only so
n, he finds it difficult to deny me the things that I want. And I do feel destiny has decreed that Miss Brightly and I forge a future together. After all, Mrs. Heron predicted it.”
“So she did.”
“And given your defense of her, I congratulate myself that my initial judgment was correct. And I want her.”
He said this very simply. The words of a man who had never before been denied something he wanted. They weren’t combative or defiant. They were breathtakingly straightforward.
Miles found that he could not dislike Argosy. And yet the fact that he did not dislike him was not quite a strong enough reason to like him. The man was simply unfinished, and might never become more than that. Character, he knew, was shaped through resistance and trial.
Then again, Cynthia Brightly for a wife might just prove resistance and trial enough for any man.
And then, realizing that his strength was failing him, it occurred to Miles that this moment was almost too much to ask of any man. Of all the myriad little agonies he’d endured in his day, this one had required everything of him.
But it was almost over. All of it. This entire episode of his life. Almost over.
These were the same words he’d used as he escaped cannibals, as his strength returned to him when the fever finally gave way.
“Miles,” Argosy said impulsively, with charming earnestness, “you are forgiven. Please accept my apologies for my careless and unwitting slur against your dear friend and mine.” He was having a bit of difficulty enunciating his s’s, as his lip, before Miles’s wondering eyes, was growing enormous. “I shall endeavor to behave as reflects my breeding in the future.”
There was ruefulness in this, which Miles liked, and a hint of censure, which he deserved. As it was hardly as though he himself had behaved in a manner that reflected his breeding. “I disliked feeling fooled, you see,” Argosy went on, “and as I said, I was quite disappointed. I should have known the Redmonds would not have welcomed Miss Brightly into their home as a guest if all of the things said about her were true.”
Well, not all of the things said about her were true. It didn’t mean that some of the things said about her weren’t true.
“I am glad we are friends again, Argosy,” was all he said.
“As am I.” The man tried to smile. His lip, however, was inflating, and would not curve.
Miles still could not find it in himself to feel guilty about that lip. Perhaps later.
He extended his hand, and Argosy took it and gave it a good pumping.
They backed away from each other, and a silence ensued.
And then Argosy looked toward the window and fidgeted a bit. He turned back toward Miles, his face alight.
“Well, old man, I find I’m nervous as a cat now.” He tried the smile again; it became a wince. Miles offered him a handkerchief; Argosy took it with something of distracted charm. “I knew I would wed one day, but I never dreamed ’twould be so soon. But I find I am eager for it. I will ask Miss Brightly for her hand tomorrow, and should fortune smile upon me—and as I say, I do believe fortune means for us to be together—she will be my wife within a fortnight. I cannot imagine waiting longer than that to get her into—” The words had a momentum of relish, but he saw Miles’s face and halted abruptly. “May I assume that I have your blessing, as a member of the Redmond family, and your approval when I ask for her hand?” he said humbly.
Well. And now it was done.
Miles could not help but acknowledge the irony of it all: he had done what he’d set out to do. He’d promised her he would make it right, and he had.
And now he realized he’d known this particular feeling before: when he first heard of Cynthia Brightly’s engagement to the heir to the Earl of Courtland. She’d had nothing at all to do with him or his life then, apart from an appalling moment of wounded pride in a ballroom. The peculiar, sharp knell of grief had puzzled him.
He knew now that’s precisely what it had been: grief. Something in him had known even then what she meant to him.
So the place in his chest where his heart used to beat was empty. And Argosy’s words rang in there like the clapper of a bell.
“You do have my blessing, Argosy. I wish you great joy in your marriage.”
And with a sense of something right, and something terribly wrong, he saw the future light up the other man’s face. As though Miles had transferred all of his own happiness to him.
“You’ll want to see the kitchen about your lip,” Miles said.
And that’s where Argosy went.
While Miles went to find Cynthia.
The drawing room had cleared as surely as though he’d fired a pistol into it. Hitting a guest in the jaw was a surefire way to dampen festivities, he supposed.
“Has everyone departed?” he asked a footman.
The blessedly bland face, in the blessedly familiar blue and gold livery his mother had spent a decent amount of his father’s fortune upon, said, “Yes sir.”
As though this was a reasonable question, and Miles Redmond hadn’t just behaved in an entirely unreasonable way.
“Have you seen Miss Cynthia Brightly?”
“I believe she went out to the garden, sir. The other young people decided to do so, anyway.”
Cynthia sat alone in the garden, near the maimed statue of David and the drooping roses. She’d surreptitiously fled while Miles and Argosy were behind closed doors hashing out the rest of her life, wondering which one of them would wind up dead. And she’d been watching clouds, inhaling the heavy scent of the flowers, and holding herself very still, as though her past could not catch up and destroy her if she didn’t make any false moves. Her heart was a stone in her chest.
She heard his footsteps behind her. Saw his shadow fall at her feet.
She didn’t turn just yet. She’d seen Miles shoot, and he did it as easily as he did everything else: it was Argosy who would most definitely die.
Oh, God. He’d knocked Argosy to the ground with one blow.
What had happened?
She looked up at him then. And he must have seen something terrible in her face, because he immediately sat next to her and said without preamble:
“I shan’t be aiming a pistol at anyone at dawn, nor will anyone be aiming a pistol in my direction. I, in fact, made a very impressive speech during which I buffed your reputation and character to a high luster and issued an apology for my behavior, which quite dented my pride, and I believe I have assured you of a proposal.”
They were silent together for a bit.
And then Cynthia slowly released the breath she’d been holding. And closed her eyes.
“Your pride, his jaw,” she mused after a moment.
Miles looked at her questioningly.
“Both dented,” she clarified.
He smiled faintly at this. “I think you’ll find his looks untarnished once the…well, once the swelling diminishes. He did rather go down like a matchstick, didn’t he? And doesn’t he already have something of a dent—in his chin?” He fingered his own.
“I believe it’s called a dimple.”
“Ah.” Miles nodded, appreciating the specificity.
Another silence.
“I’m…sorry,” he said. He sounded utterly bemused. As though he hadn’t the faintest idea what had come over him.
“Miles…” She hesitated to ask the question. “I assume the fact that you needed to buff my reputation to a high luster meant you were defending my honor when you…hit him in the face?”
“Defending your honor rather reflexively, as it turns out,” he confirmed ruefully.
This made her smile a little. “What did he say?”
“Among other things, he said something about you having kissed a half dozen or so men in the ton.”
“A half dozen?” She was appalled. “Who on earth would have said such a thing? I don’t think I’ve kissed more than two, or three at the most. I’ve only—”
“Cynthia. I’m not certain it’s nec
essary to enumerate,” he said dryly, quickly. “And I assure you, I have taken care of it. It’s as though your past never happened. I told him they were all lies.”
A small fat bird landed with a sudden splash in the birdbath near them and began to bathe exuberantly.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Half wondering.
Thoughtful silence ensued.
“That must be why you like him. The dimple. God knows it isn’t his intelligence.”
Was he was teasing her? If so, the attempt was woefully limp. His voice was distracted and hollow.
“The dimple?” She pretended to consider this. “Perhaps. Well, he has three altogether. The one in his chin, one on this side of his mouth, the other—”
“Cynthia?” Miles interjected with sudden strength and urgency.
He hadn’t been listening to her at all. His gaze was aimed gazebo-ward.
“Yes?” She turned, surprised. And her heart stepped livelier.
He said nothing for a moment. She knew him well enough by now to suspect it was because he was deciding precisely what to say. And that when he said it, it would be irrevocable.
“You…do like him?”
The question surprised her. “Argosy?” she replied stupidly, because of course this was whom he meant. “Yes,” she added. Then realizing this sounded rather pallid, she added stoutly, if not with complete fervor, “Of course.”
If Argosy was prepared to offer for her, she was prepared to be grateful to him for the rest of her days. She would like him for that alone. He would have her loyalty. She liked him enough to try to make him happy. But he was not…he was not…
“Because…” Miles stopped again. He pulled in a long breath. Sucking in courage from the Sussex air, it seemed; all the brio from his Saxon ancestors permeating Pennyroyal Green.
Then he exhaled and turned to her decisively.
“Because I cannot bear thinking you will spend the rest of your days with someone you do not…you do not at least truly like. Your happiness, quite simply, is my happiness.”
Cynthia slowly closed her eyes against the look in his.
Cannot bear.
Like No Other Lover Page 28