Like No Other Lover (28 page)

Mr. Miles Redmond was expected to make his proposal soon enough, though less certainty seemed to surround this, as he had appeared so different from himself of late.

“Return of the fever,” it was whispered sympathetically.

But Cynthia, who had progressed to allowing Argosy to touch her hand and call her “Cynthia” warmly, began to feel more confident.

She told Spider the cat as much when she went to bed at night. And as a token of her faith in Miles Redmond, she’d left her reticule untouched for one entire day.

Two nights before the dinner party, Jonathan and Argosy went off to the Pig & Thistle for an evening, because Jonathan was about to win the darts tournament.

Jonathan returned home triumphant. He’d been given a small trophy, which he cherished inordinately.

Argosy, on the other hand, returned distracted, morose, and utterly, terrifyingly silent.

Which they all only discovered the following day. When he refused to talk to Cynthia over breakfast. He in fact left the room when she entered it.

And then left yet another room when she entered that.

His mood was in fact so black and impenetrable it deterred people from pressing the issue beyond, “Are you feeling quite well?”

He confided in no one. He instead indulged in the most thorough, bitterly profound sulk anyone had ever before witnessed.

Blasted pup, Miles thought. He felt a strange impulse to shake Argosy hard.

He pulled Jonathan aside. “What in God’s name is troubling the man? What
happened
at the Pig & Thistle? Who did you see there? Did he stop drinking? Perhaps he should begin again.”

“He won’t tell me, Miles. And I was busy winning the tournament. Didn’t see what Argosy got up to. But whatever happened to him started there, I’ll tell you that much. And whatever it is, it’s clearly all about Cynthia.”

The brothers exchanged a look. Somehow Cynthia’s past had made its way to Pennyroyal Green by way of the Pig & Thistle.

Miles intended to find out how. There was no way in hell he wouldn’t keep his vow to Cynthia to make it right.

Just before three in the afternoon, carriages began to roll into the drive, spilling out neighbors expecting to be entertained, and they came pouring happily into the house, their gaiety jarring.

Cynthia entertained the possibility that Mrs. Mundi-Dickson might have died of meanness, or been murdered, at last, by one of her companions. If so, the timing could not have been worse.

What had
happened
to Anthony—which was how she now referred to Argosy—since they’d become so very intimate, so very
attached
?

With shaking hands, and no idea where to get the bravado she would need to bring with her to the tea party in order to face or, indeed, charm away the impressive aristocratic snit Lord Argosy was indulging in, she got herself into her green dress with the net overlay.

There was a small tear at the hem where it had been trod upon at some point. It suddenly seemed significant beyond all reason.

Her life was unraveling.

On impulse, heart hammering, she crossed to the window and peered up into the corner, half dreading what she might find. She exhaled: The web was still intact. Susan was perched up in the corner of it, quietly waiting for her next meal to fly into it. And somehow this seemed a more significant sign than anything a Gypsy might read in her palm or in the leaves of tea. Cynthia closed her eyes and heard his voice again, saw his eyes, felt his hands on her wrists.

I’ll make it right
.

A smile began to tug up the corner of her mouth, and she felt the beginning of ease in her chest.

She gently detached her kitten from the hem before he turned it into streamers, then made her way downstairs, shoulders squared.

Miles greeted all of them—from Pennyroyal Green, the vicar had been invited, as well as Mrs. Notterley, a local widow who loved gossip as much as his mother and seemed to know it before anyone else. He held entire attentive conversations with a half dozen or so people without remembering a word afterward. And then, when he’d done his duty, he could bear it no longer.

He brought a glass of brandy to Argosy, who had slumped gloomily in a chair in the corner, oblivious to gazes both admiring and curious from all the guests.

He stood there, holding it out, until Argosy’s hand came up listlessly to take it.

“Argosy, old man…is aught amiss? Of late it has been such a pleasure to witness your happiness, and I was so certain I would be able to congratulate you on the same milestone
I
soon hope to reach. And here you have a festive occasion and a crowd of friends with which to share it. Perhaps you can confide in me.”

The younger man’s flawless features tightened with righteous anger and he stood suddenly.

“Very well, Redmond.
I’ll
tell you. I saw Lord Cavill at the Pig & Thistle, Jonathan and I. He was on his way through to take his daughter to Miss Endicott’s academy.”

Ah. Another recalcitrant girl for the school, Miles thought. Miss Endicott did rather a brisk business in that. But the name…Cavill…Cavill…

“He’s a dear friend of the Earl of Courtland.”

Oh, Christ
. Miles felt the backs of his hands go cold.

Involuntarily, he glanced toward Cynthia. Her face was too white above the dark green of her gown, her smile forced. She was talking with Violet, or rather, Violet was talking and Cynthia was merely actively wearing that horrible smile. Probably only he realized was false.

“How
is
Lord Cavill?” he asked calmly.

Argosy was puffed with wounded fury. “I’ll tell you how he is. I shared with him my happy news—that I hoped to be a married man soon, that I was in love—” His voice broke here. Argosy really
had
thought he was in love. “—and I told him about…” It seemed Argosy couldn’t get the name out now. “I told him about Cynthia.” He made her name sound like the blackest evil, synonymous with betrayal.

Miles instantly felt his temperature changing. A blaze of heat raced over his skin, making it difficult to breathe. He was aware of a peculiar metallic taste in his mouth, and tightness in his stomach, like a coiled spring. He listened.

Argosy went on, his voice low and bitter. “He pulled me aside, and quite in confidence, said he’d
heard
of Cynthia Brightly.” He gave an incredulous laugh. “He told me story after story about her, all the things that went on during the season I was on the Continent. All the betting book wagers, the races, the fights, the duels, her playing men off of one another. Rumors of kisses in gardens. And a
duel
? By God, man! The girl’s a
doxie,
from the sound of things!”

Miles’s vision, peculiarly, began to blur. Every muscle in his body seemed to bunch.

“And you saw how she played all the poor fools here, Redmond.
I
was played for a fool. I would have
married
her. I count myself lucky to have seen Cavill. And If Cavill’s correct, the girl must have kissed at least a half dozen—”

Later, he remembered the impressions coming at him swiftly, and all out of order:

First, the windstorm of gasps.

The numb and stinging fist he’d instinctively wrapped in his other hand.

Then he followed the general direction of all the heads in the parlor. The heads of a dozen or so of his Sussex neighbors, people he’d known all his life.

All eyes were on the floor.

Which is where Lord Argosy lay stretched out heaving like a fish, eyes bulging up with disbelief. Which is when Miles fully realized he’d thrown his fist like a shot put at the man.

Clearly, Argosy had gone down like ninepin.

Fortunately, he landed on one of his father’s thick Savonnerie carpets and not the marble floor, so his golden head lolled against an expensive cushion of antique wool.

And then in unison all the heads of all the partygoers lifted up from Argosy and swung toward Miles. A hush thick as that Savonnerie carpet blanketed the room. Shock was palpable and unanimous.

Miles
Redmond—calm, elegant, reliable, renowned Miles Redmond—had just thrown his fist at a guest in his own home during a
party
. Knocked him
flat
.

In front of an
audience
.

And of all the things he probably
ought
to have felt in that moment, the first thing that reached Miles through his ebbing tide of fury was immense and inappropriate satisfaction at meting out justice.

He’d felt Argosy’s words as viscerally as an attack upon someone he love—

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.

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 son, 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.