Like No Other Lover (8 page)

Violet caught up with her with a bound then. “Cynthia is a
wonderful
huntress,” Violet said earnestly. With a sly sidelong look at her.

“Oh, then
very
good!” Milthorpe brightened. “I see you were just being modest, Miss Brightly. It’s settled, then. I’ll have a word with Miles and we’ll get up a target shooting party tomorrow. Will you be joining us, Miss Redmond?”

“I think I shall,” Violet said speculatively, in a way that could bode no good for any hunting party. Cynthia gave her a surreptitious pinch, and Violet mouthed
Ouch
insincerely.

Up ahead they heard Miles’s voice lecturing to Lady Georgina, “…’tis the season for mating for this particular species, and the eggs will hatch in August.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Miles is always speaking of mating and whatnot,” Violet half apologized to Cynthia. “It’s what insects and animals do.”

“And native girls do,” Cynthia muttered. “Rumor has it.”

Miles spun and turned his head with fixed interest in her direction and pointedly did not look away for a good one…two…seconds.

Enough for her to remember that a prelude to mating was a kiss, and enough for her to picture it, and for her cheeks to flame, and heat to rush over her limbs.

Then he turned around again.

She fanned at her cheeks with one of her blue bonnet ribbons and trudged along the ruthlessly barbered grass. She thought she could feel damp upon her stocking, which meant the boot stitching was at last giving way. Her whole life seemed to hang on fragile, strained threads.

Milthorpe had fallen back to talk to the boys, Jonathan and Argosy, and they all quickly became very animated. Doubtless talking about things with four legs and killing.

“Well, that is,” Violet expounded on her earlier statement, “that’s what insects and animals primarily do, after all. Mate, eat, kill. If you ask Miles, that is. The whole of his conversation is about that.”

Hearing his life’s work summarized thus by his sister, Miles shot a wry look over his shoulder.

“They’re rather like people in that regard.” Cynthia’s voice rose slightly. The business of mating and killing were far, far too closely related in her mind since the end of her engagement to be amusing.

But her remark resulted in a ripple of chuckling and elbow nudging. Lady Windermere, a de facto chaperone for the younger ladies, looked uncertain as to whether she could continue to allow such talk, and irritated by the very notion that she might be called upon to pass judgment upon it.

She decided to fall back and speak to the footman.

“Is there any port in yon hamper, good man?” Cynthia heard her ask in a lowered voice. “Perhaps we can stop and open it up just now?”

Lady Windermere, it appeared, was about as appropriate a chaperone as the Wife of Bath. This cheered Cynthia.

“Actually,” and Miles stopped, and his voice rising to a stentorian lecturing volume. Accordingly, the party instantly fell silent, since Miles was allegedly a renowned adventurer, and one was required to be fascinated. “When the male of the
Pisauridae,
or nursery web spider, is in the mood to mate, he brings a gift—perhaps a fly—to the female spider. Which distracts her long enough for him to get the mating done. But he has to make a quick job of it, because if she finishes her gift before he finishes the job, she’ll turn right around and eat
him
with no compunctions.”

There was a shocked and total silence.

“As for me, I generally like to bring a good brandy,” he added mildly.

There followed an explosion of laughter so unanimous it sent birds scattering like shot from the trees and shrubberies.

“Sweets! I like to bring sweets!” Argosy yodeled.

“Posies!” Jonathon declared. “Hothouse posies! Distract ’er!”

“A quick job of it!” Lady Windermere had seized upon this part delightedly. “How
like
a man!”

“Not like Redmond, I’ve heard,” said Lady Middlebough, in a voice meant only for Lady Windermere, and they nudged each other.

Cynthia turned to look sharply at the handsome married woman again, but she was laughing with Lady Windermere. And as she wasn’t laughing, a sound in the midst of the merry uproar reached her and stood the hair on the back of her neck on end:

“Haw! Haw! Haw!”

What the
devil
was that? It sounded like…could it be…two donkeys angrily mating? A rusty gate flapped vigorously? Avenging crows descending to peck out their eyes and steal the picnic? She spun, looking for its source.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!”

She flung her hands up over her head in case she needed a defense from above and risked a look up into the trees. Nothing stirred up there apart from leaves, as the birds had been frightened away by the laughter. She pivoted left, pivoted right.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!”

And then she saw. Oh. Oh,
no
. That…
sound…

Was coming out of Lord Milthorpe.

His head was tipped back, his mouth open the width of a village well, and
haw haw haws
roared out of it. Over and over and over.

She was riveted.

Milthorpe paused to draw in a wheezy accordion breath, bellowed, “
Brandy
, Redmond! By God, that
is
rich!” gave his thigh a hearty slap, and then:
“Haw, Haw, Haw!”

He could have confidently approached the walls of Jericho with a laugh like that. Joshua could have dispensed with the trumpet had he been accompanied by Milthorpe.

Rattled, she looked away from Milthorpe as the collective laughter continued and saw Miles pointedly watching
her
and grinning so broadly his eyes seemed to have vanished.

She wondered if he’d seen her fling her arms up over her head.

Bloody man
.

Lady Georgina, from the shelter of her large bonnet, looked troubled, too—she was peering at Lord Milthorpe with some of the concern that had plagued Cynthia at first. Or perhaps she was embarrassed by the ribald joke. Or perhaps she didn’t understand it. Or perhaps she was transfixed by a fantasy of Miles Redmond bringing brandy to her and getting the job over with quickly.

“Now, now,
Mister
Redmond,” Lady Windermere admonished as she wiped her eyes. “Perhaps I should now remind you that we are not in the tropics, that we are in England, and that perhaps certain topics are not proper for mixed company.”

It was another halfhearted attempt at chaperoning.

“Oh, I’m absolutely certain brandy and spiders are a proper topic for mixed company,” Miles said soberly.

“Well, when put like that,” Lady Windermere capitulated happily.

And in this state of giddy bonhomie, they all finally came upon a lovely, broad silver snake of water lined by dense clusters of crack willow, ash, and alder trees.

This, apparently, was to be where their picnic was held.

She resisted the urge to tread on his instep.

He stepped away in time, anyway, perhaps sensing the impulse.

The removal of things to eat from the hamper went on for quite some time: stacks of plates and silver, dark bottles of cider and ale, cold chicken and whole golden loaves of bread swaddled in linen napkins. The unpacking slowed when a footman staggered under a half wheel of white cheese, but he was propped up by a quick-moving Miles. Slices of seed-speckled cake were fanned on plates, and strawberries, blueberries, and currants spilled into bowls.

As all the talk of mating and killing and the heat of the day did something to whet appetites, they all fell upon the food like hungry jaguars. A comparison Miles provided, straight from the jungles of Lacao.

They were attended at intervals by tiny flying and crawling interlopers—all of which Miles Redmond identified for everyone by lengthy Latin names.

Some attention had been paid to tending the lawns up to the stream bank, but native Sussex flowers had sprung up: blue-purple rampion and bladder campion nodded on stalks over the stream like bystanders at a boat race. Betony fluttered on stalks; lavender self-heal hid in the long feathery grasses at the bank.

Iridescent dragonflies patrolled the stream and buzzed over them to see what the fuss was about. A butterfly loped by in the air. It, too, was blue-lavender, in keeping with the floral theme of the stream bank.

“Polyommatus icarus,”
Miles told everyone. “The common blue.”

“Do they really have butterflies that eat people in Lacao?”

Jonathan asked this, mostly to make everyone gasp. He knew full well it isn’t true.

“No, but they have plants and people who would happily eat men,” he told his younger brother.

This
did
elicit a gasp.

And suddenly Miles had everyone’s attention, and he talked of Lacao, and she saw him ease out of his coat, out of his hat, roll up his sleeves, and enter, through words, the world he’d explored and loved, the world that had made him famous.

And despite herself, Cynthia was interested, and then rapt. She listened to him field questions—about snakes and flowers, about weather and customs, about dogs (Milthorpe) and cannibals, about poisons and the variety of deaths that could be had from them at the hands of animals and natives, delicately skirting, she guessed, the more prurient and more frightening, and she sensed there was a good deal of that to be heard as well.

And she felt shyer, suddenly: he’d gone and
discovered
with no compunctions, he’d seen things no one else here would ever see, he’d been ill near to death and survived, and this, she suspected, was what gave his eyes and voice that depth and resonance, his bearing that confidence. He contained worlds. The more he knew, the more he wanted to know.

For a moment she thought she could happily listen to him forever. A moment later she blamed the wayward thought on the heat.

She didn’t for a moment think the meeting was accidental. He had a motive, and she was certain she was about to learn it.

Everyone else collected at the stream, and she gazed after them with a certain longing.

“So a spaniel will be the dog for you, Miss Brightly?” he said lightly.

“Lord Milthorpe says spaniels call me to mind,” she said neutrally.

“Because your stern is covered with silky liver-colored hair?”

She bit the inside of her lip to stop her smile, tempted to tell Mr. Redmond he would never get a look at her stern.

Be good.

“And will you name it Lord Milthorpe?”

“Ah, Mr. Redmond. I see you were listening my conversation yesterday. Which leads me to believe your own conversation was less than riveting, because you otherwise would not have been so very rude as to
eavesdrop
.”

“Quite to the contrary. Lady Georgina shares my interests.”

“Ah. Does she? The way I share Lord Milthorpe’s interests?” she said innocently.

This gave Miles pause. “Do you even
like
dogs?”

She considered this. “Probably,” she admitted.

“Probably?”

She looked sideways at him but said nothing.

“You would like a wild boar for a pet if it meant twenty-thousand pounds a year, wouldn’t you, Miss Brightly?”

The look she turned upon him surprised and confused him: it contained pity and the minutest measure of contempt. He was disconcerted into momentary silence.

“I’ve never had a pet,” she said.

“Of
any
kind?”

She flinched. He hadn’t meant to sound incredulous. It was just that animals—all creatures, really, furred, hooved, carapaced—had been so integral to the way he lived his life.

She shrugged, and sent an eloquent look toward the stream. Perhaps if she said nothing at all he would go away. Then again, she conceded that Miles had never once been boring.

Nor, one might argue, were brushfires or earthquakes or tornadoes.

“I like him,” he said suddenly. It sounded like a quiet warning. “Milthorpe.”

Her head jerked up instantly, wary. “I like him, too.”

Another silence. She looked away from him toward the rushing trickle of the Ouse. She would have liked to race a twig boat, too.

“Do you?” Very ironic, his tone.

She turned her head slowly. “What is this, Mr. Redmond?” She took pains to sound bored. “You think me unkind? That I’m a siren, and intend to dash him on the rocks of my charms? You’ve placed enormous faith in my powers, then, if so. He’s a grown man. A widower. Perhaps he’s simply enjoying my company. How do you know what will make him happy?”

Miles didn’t answer this for a long while. He simply leaned up against the willow. It might have been his cousin, that tree: they both had the same dark stolidity.

“Milthorpe doesn’t offer to give his dogs to just anyone,” he said finally.

“Then I shall account it a great honor should I receive a dog,” she said evenly. “Any kind of dog.”

More quiet from the quiet man. “He is what he appears to be, you know.”

And now she was angry. “Meaning I am
not
?”

“He’s kind. He loves the outdoors, and hunting and dogs and horses and his land. He likes a bawdy joke and laughing too loud at things that are only a little funny. He loves ale and making money, which is how he became friends with my father. He’s a good sort. A
simple
sort.”

“I’m puzzled, Mr. Redmond. Do
you
object to any of these things? Are you under the impression that
I
object to any of these things? I find nothing objectionable at all about them. Make your point.”

He uncrossed his arms, and she watched. His arms were brown and hard and sinewy from use. She saw crisp copper hair over them, the trace of pale blue veins.

She imagined brushing her finger across that coppery hair. She saw again, felt again, his hands on her waist.

Rattled, she looked up into his face. Which was hardly safer.

“I am simply wondering, Miss Brightly, who
you
are. I feel some responsibility for your presence here at Redmond House, as I am your host. I feel responsible for your conduct insofar as it affects my guests. I rather unleashed you upon him, and I shall take it hard if he comes to some hurt.”

She felt her face go cold. Anger whitened it. How
dare
—

“Oh, please do make certain you count the silver at night, Mr. Redmond. I may steal it and go tearing off with the Gypsies. Or rob your guests of their watches and necklaces in the night.”

He spent a moment in apologetic silence.

“Gyspies
are
camped outside Pennyroyal Green. They always are this time of year. Wouldn’t be difficult to join their ranks.” He was attempting lightness.

She rolled her eyes and fanned her cheeks with her bonnet ribbon, then stopped herself, as it bordered on fidgeting.

“And then there’s the matter of my sister.”

“What of your sister? She’s amusing. Intelligent. Much more
interesting
than most of the females of the
ton
. I like
her
, too. She invited me because I will prevent her from being bored.” She flashed a sudden smile at him, all mischief.

“Precisely my fear,” he said.

She turned abruptly, preparing to stalk away. Then changed her mind and whirled about to face him again. “Why do you feel you have the right to gravely insult one of your own guests by questioning her provenance and behavior? You, who are so allegedly so concerned about the
welfare
of your guests?”

He inhaled at this and straightened abruptly. She watched his chest rise and fall with that breath.

“You’re quite right, Miss Brightly. It is just that you are…an unknown quantity, shall we say. I know nothing of you or your family, and suddenly you are an intimate of my sister. And Violet can be…willful. If anything, she has become more so in recent years. I am responsible for her well-being.”

Interesting that he didn’t say
we
. That he and not his father was responsible for Violet.

“You distrust the judgment of your sister so completely, Mr. Redmond?”

There was a silence.

“No,” he admitted. “Not
completely
.”

It was an admission that she might be something other than a stranger, and they both began to smile.

“I’m so flattered.”

She could not, however, deny the logic in his concern. She in fact reluctantly respected it.

She tamped her pride. “What will reassure you, Mr. Redmond, that I am not a thief or murderess?”

“From where do you hail? Who are your people?” he said quickly.

Cynthia turned her head toward the stream, as if imagining a boat upon on it, taking her away from here. A tense twig race was taking place. Milthorpe seemed to be captaining the enterprise. He was shouting nautical-sounding orders and waving his arms, and Jonathan and Argosy were kneeling on the bank, as the ladies clustered and cheered them on.

“Do you have any dogs here at Redmond House?” she asked suddenly.

“Of course. Why? Did you wish to practice liking them?”

She smiled again. “I thought Lord Milthorpe might enjoy the company of one.”

“Really? What makes you think so?”

They both smiled at this. And again this exchange of smiles somehow made the world seem dizzyingly large, and made it strangely, deliciously, difficult to breathe.

But then Miles watched as Cynthia shifted restlessly, as if drawing that opened-up world closer about her again.

He waited. He didn’t think for a moment she’d forgotten his question.

“Has it occurred to you, Mr. Redmond, that it might be difficult for me to speak of my family?”

“Yes,” he said promptly. “I suppose I never imagined, however, that you were afraid of difficulty.”

Admiration for this gambit made a rueful smile slowly light her eyes and then her entire face.

Oh, her smile. He felt it like a sharp, shining half-moon in his chest.

He looked swiftly at Lady Georgina, toward her pale gentle colors and curves, to remind himself of his future, of his passion and ambition and duty. And at Lady Middlebough, to remind him of what he allegedly desired. To distract himself from the uncomfortable, baffling intensity of…

…joy.

The word frightened him.

No. That couldn’t be right. He was
never
frightened.

“Very well.” She sighed. “You asked about my people…well, my mother is dead. She died when I was young. I haven’t seen my father since I was five years old. He left us. I imagine he’s dead now, too. I am two and twenty now. Allegedly, my family was related, in some distant way, to a baron.” She punctuated this with a faint ironic smile. “But I know only what I was told, and I don’t know the name of this baron. I hail from Little Roxford by way of Battersea, in London; we moved to the country—I suspect we fled debtors or something less savory since this happened in the dead of night—when I was six years old. When my mother died, I was taken in by the vicar of Little Roxbury and his wife. They were very kind. I had a penchant for mischief, it seemed, and she found me a pleasant challenge.” A wicked little uplift of the brow here. “But the vicar’s wife died when I was eighteen years old, and the vicar’s new wife…” a faint twist of the mouth here. “…wanted little to do with me. She cast me out. The Standshaws befriended me. I went with them to London.” She spread her hands as if to say: and that is all.

Dead, dead, dead. Each time she said the word, she enunciated it very clearly, from
d
to
d,
as if punishing herself or punishing him for asking. It was such a heavy word, an
ending
of a word. How had she gone from being turned out by the second wife of a village vicar to becoming the toast of the ton, the fiancée to the heir of an earl? How had it all come crashing down?

How
true
was any of this?

A common blue flapped by on its way to, he suspected, taking nectar from a self-heal, into which it would nearly blend as it feasted. Nature was clever that way. Beautiful and terrible and practical.

He remembered his first look at Cynthia: her face turned up into the chandelier light, the bemused, encompassing delight on her face. He could imagine why now. And the sheer
determination
of the girl. What mischief this orphan had stirred in the ton that season. No one, he suspected, had ever enjoyed popularity more.

Beneath her eyes were faint blue semicircles. Nearly the color of the wings of the common blue.

She wasn’t sleeping well.

He felt his feet shift restlessly.

The sun beat down even through the trees, warmed his arms. A bead of sweat began the journey from his collarbone down his chest.

“A
vicar
?” He was quietly incredulous. This was the part of her story he decided to take up.

The question emerged sharper than he wished it to. Because he cared more than he wanted to.

Her mouth smiled. Her eyes did not. “Test me on scripture, Mr. Redmond.”

“Luke 12:15.” He whipped out the verse like a rapier.

“And he said to them, ‘Take heed, and beware of all covetousness; for a man’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.’ Very witty, Mr. Redmond, as usual. I expect nothing less of you. But if I wanted to invent my past, I might have concocted a more imaginative tale. Russian royalty, perhaps. I did
not
invent my past. It’s precisely as colorless as I paint it. I hope to, however, invent my future. As you well know.”

She looked evenly at him. Blue eyes dark with challenge.

He leaned back against the tree thoughtfully. They were quiet together.

The common blue decided instead to flutter about Miss Brightly, perhaps confusing her for a nectar-bearing flower or another butterfly.

She smiled at its confusion. “Beautiful color, I’ve always thought. Seems unfair to call it a
common
blue.” She held out her hand, as if hoping it would alight. Alas, the butterfly came to its senses and hied off to drink from the self-heal.

“I would never have seen you at all if not for a butterfly.” The words had emerged from him with no warning, as though he’d fired them from a bow.

Her head jerked up. She stared at him.

“Morpho rhetenor Helena.”
He smiled a little, made those Latin words sound like an incantation. “Native to the South American jungles. It’s large, iridescent, beautiful—blues, greens, violets in its wings. It was the Malverney Ball, two years ago. Your dress. I…I thought your dress…”

Abashed, he trailed off. She was staring at him so wonderingly.

And he couldn’t speak, he
wouldn’t
speak, when he could simply drink up the blue of her eyes with his own.