His gaze seemed to linger in front of her, the way an image lit by the glare of the sun hovers before your eyes after you close them.
She decided then: only him. Only he sees.
She would need to tread very carefully here.
“Rumor has it that you are a gentleman, Mr. Redmond. A…man of honor.” She hoped to flatter him into helping her in exchange only for the pure pleasure of helping her.
He dashed her hopes.
“‘Rumor’ does?” He sounded amused. “Oh, I hardly think I have ever inspired anything so intriguing as a rumor , Miss Brightly. Particularly regarding honor . Please don’t be tiresome. We were doing so well. Say all that you mean to say and we shall continue our negotiation.”
She sighed, and took pains to sound bored. “Very well, Mr. Redmond. This is what I mean to say. I question your motive in offering to help me. My confusion lies in the fact that we’ve just established that you are most decidedly not of a romantic or whimsical temperament. And a single kiss as payment for information strikes me as a rather romantic—even quaint—notion.”
His smile took its time forming; slowly it spread; it settled in faintly. His head tipped up a little.
“Quaint.” He repeated the word as though it had an unfamiliar taste and a texture. A whimsical one.
He returned his eyes just as slowly to her. “You have never kissed me , Miss Brightly.”
Cynthia stopped breathing.
Their eyes met and held. His words were low, matter-of-fact, comprised entirely of a terrifying confidence. His voice matched his eyes. She felt it peculiarly at the base of her spine; it had an edge that scraped pleasantly over her senses, like ragged silk or the bristly beginnings of a beard brushed against her cheek. She wanted to hear more of it, even as it said appalling things. Her breath rushed out.
And now she was afraid. For the reason she could make comparisons between Redmond’s voice and the beginnings of beards was that she’d felt bristly short whiskers brush her tender cheeks late, late at night, after balls, when young men trembling with eagerness and worship had pressed kisses upon her. But the reason Cynthia was stingy with her favors was twofold: a beautiful penniless girl could keep a man at arm’s length and hope for a good marriage only as long as her virtue was known to remain entirely intact.
And Cynthia did not precisely dislike being kissed.
But no kiss had yet been a match for her bone-deep pragmatism and sense of self-preservation.
She felt fury welling. Despite the spectacles, the verbal fencing, the penetrating observations, the fortune, and the superciliousness, this one was like all the others beneath the skin:
He simply wanted to kiss a beautiful woman. He wanted to kiss her .
And no doubt no beautiful woman would freely consent to kiss him.
She was about to call his bluff.
“Before I kiss you, I shall need proof, Mr. Redmond, of the quality of your information.”
Mr. Redmond froze as though her words were a thrust between his ribs.
Ha! She knew a moment of triumph.
But then he inhaled thoughtfully, exhaled on a nod of agreement, and gestured subtly with this chin to a ruddy, expensively clothed man so rawboned and rectangular he made the teacup he held seem crushable as an egg. He was pretending to enjoy the conversation of Lady Windermere, whose wide rubbery mouth moved and moved and moved animatedly.
“Lord Milthorpe”—Miles Redmond’s voice was quiet, laconic—“is the Marquis of Blenheim—an ancient title. Twenty thousand pounds a year.” He paused briefly, as if to allow Cynthia’s heart to skip a beat over the majesty of the figure. “Clever investor—a member of the hallowed Mercury Club—arrived expecting to find my father here, and will stay until my father returns. A widower. Two vast estates, one in London, one in Sussex. Not adverse to another marriage. A bit suspicious of fortune hunters, however. Prefers the country to the city. A blush would not go
She decided then: only him. Only he sees.
She would need to tread very carefully here.
“Rumor has it that you are a gentleman, Mr. Redmond. A…man of honor.” She hoped to flatter him into helping her in exchange only for the pure pleasure of helping her.
He dashed her hopes.
“‘Rumor’ does?” He sounded amused. “Oh, I hardly think I have ever inspired anything so intriguing as a rumor , Miss Brightly. Particularly regarding honor . Please don’t be tiresome. We were doing so well. Say all that you mean to say and we shall continue our negotiation.”
She sighed, and took pains to sound bored. “Very well, Mr. Redmond. This is what I mean to say. I question your motive in offering to help me. My confusion lies in the fact that we’ve just established that you are most decidedly not of a romantic or whimsical temperament. And a single kiss as payment for information strikes me as a rather romantic—even quaint—notion.”
His smile took its time forming; slowly it spread; it settled in faintly. His head tipped up a little.
“Quaint.” He repeated the word as though it had an unfamiliar taste and a texture. A whimsical one.
He returned his eyes just as slowly to her. “You have never kissed me , Miss Brightly.”
Cynthia stopped breathing.
Their eyes met and held. His words were low, matter-of-fact, comprised entirely of a terrifying confidence. His voice matched his eyes. She felt it peculiarly at the base of her spine; it had an edge that scraped pleasantly over her senses, like ragged silk or the bristly beginnings of a beard brushed against her cheek. She wanted to hear more of it, even as it said appalling things. Her breath rushed out.
And now she was afraid. For the reason she could make comparisons between Redmond’s voice and the beginnings of beards was that she’d felt bristly short whiskers brush her tender cheeks late, late at night, after balls, when young men trembling with eagerness and worship had pressed kisses upon her. But the reason Cynthia was stingy with her favors was twofold: a beautiful penniless girl could keep a man at arm’s length and hope for a good marriage only as long as her virtue was known to remain entirely intact.
And Cynthia did not precisely dislike being kissed.
But no kiss had yet been a match for her bone-deep pragmatism and sense of self-preservation.
She felt fury welling. Despite the spectacles, the verbal fencing, the penetrating observations, the fortune, and the superciliousness, this one was like all the others beneath the skin:
He simply wanted to kiss a beautiful woman. He wanted to kiss her .
And no doubt no beautiful woman would freely consent to kiss him.
She was about to call his bluff.
“Before I kiss you, I shall need proof, Mr. Redmond, of the quality of your information.”
Mr. Redmond froze as though her words were a thrust between his ribs.
Ha! She knew a moment of triumph.
But then he inhaled thoughtfully, exhaled on a nod of agreement, and gestured subtly with this chin to a ruddy, expensively clothed man so rawboned and rectangular he made the teacup he held seem crushable as an egg. He was pretending to enjoy the conversation of Lady Windermere, whose wide rubbery mouth moved and moved and moved animatedly.
“Lord Milthorpe”—Miles Redmond’s voice was quiet, laconic—“is the Marquis of Blenheim—an ancient title. Twenty thousand pounds a year.” He paused briefly, as if to allow Cynthia’s heart to skip a beat over the majesty of the figure. “Clever investor—a member of the hallowed Mercury Club—arrived expecting to find my father here, and will stay until my father returns. A widower. Two vast estates, one in London, one in Sussex. Not adverse to another marriage. A bit suspicious of fortune hunters, however. Prefers the country to the city. A blush would not go
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