Like No Other Lover by Julie Anne Long Read Free Book Online Page A

almost as if all that carpet really were lava and would ultimately lap up over his ankles. The poor man had expected manly company and manly conversation with Isaiah Redmond; instead, he’d been dropped into a party filled with chattering women and handed a teacup half the size of his hand.
    An earlier arrival was Anthony Cordell, Lord Argosy, heir to a viscount and another longtime friend of the family, and a particular friend of Jonathan’s. Indolent from centuries-old money, he’d virtually been born bored. To his credit, he hadn’t yet done anything untoward to rectify this—just the usual gambling, women, pugilism, and shooting. Argosy was not unintelligent, and it was entirely possible he might develop character if given any reason at all to do so. He could not yet be described as dissolute, but only required a nudge or so, really, in that direction. He needed an occupation, Miles thought. But Argosy was none of his concern, unless he intended to lead Jonathan into mischief, or Violet, for that matter.
    And then there were the four women: Violet, whom he needed to watch; Lady Middlebough, whom he very much wanted to speak to privately; Lady Georgina, who looked impossibly fresh and round and who was politely pretending not to be scandalized by whatever Violet happened to be saying. He ought to begin charming her. It wouldn’t be difficult, he decided, looking at her now. And then the one whom…
    He went still. One simply…wanted to warm one’s hands over her.
    Her dress was a deep shining green, cut simply: a rectangle neckline and short untrimmed sleeves. It would have in fact been surprisingly severe but for the overlay of mist-fine net in which little sparks seemed to be caught. Miles was not a modiste. He couldn’t have said precisely what caused the little sparks. He could, however, say quite definitively that the effect was like watching the mist pull back from the Sussex downs in the morning in response to the first rays of the sun, and oh dear God he was thinking again in poetry.
    He frowned darkly to scare away his own thoughts.
    As though she’d heard a rumble of thunder, Cynthia Brightly looked up, saw his frown, and smiled. It was a demure smile, but warm. A soft ray of a smile, that could send mist receding and then heat the downs so that the scent of warm spring grass rose—
    The damned girl was much too certain of her own charm.
    With effort, Miles reduced his frown to a socially neutral expression and turned his head ever so slightly to make it appear he’d been looking beyond her, at his sister Violet, who had just said something to make Lady Georgina laugh.
    Undeterred and unaffected, Miss Brightly turned her head slowly away from him, taking with it that smile. She said something to Violet, who laughed and touched Cynthia affectionately on the arm.
    Miles began to frown again. He caught himself. And did what he always did when he felt uncertain: he observed.
    Miss Brightly wasn’t fully involved in that conversation, though he was probably the only one who noticed. She seemed to be casually touching her eyes on things and people in the room, watching them, in fact, in the way that he normally took in a room: Milthorpe, Argosy, Jonathan, the chandeliers, the furniture. He imagined her registering everyone and everything present the way his father’s man of affairs kept books: compiling neat columns of assets and liabilities, performing the math, arriving at conclusions, deciding upon where next to invest her charm.
    And then she gracefully stood.
    Miles took a step toward Milthorpe. Cynthia had begun a sort of drift toward him.
    And Miles seemed unable to move any farther than that. He waited. And then she looked up, lovely face mildly surprised to find him in her path.
    Ah, very good acting, indeed.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Redmond. You were missed this morning at breakfast.”
    Very direct, very disarming.
    If he could have been disarmed, that is.
    “Good afternoon, Miss Brightly. I