Free Like No Other Lover by Julie Anne Long Page B

enclosed in the entirety of that attention. Light glanced from his sleek dark head. He raised his hand to gesture: in that instant she thought she could still feel a handprint of warmth on her waist, and her breath snagged.
    It occurred to Cynthia that calling Miles Redmond “handsome” would not in fact be absurd. The realization struck her as trickery. As something unfair he’d perpetrated upon her, a power he could flex or sheath at will.
    She forced herself to address Milthorpe’s question. She could not in truth have said what sort of girl she was anymore. She’d lived in the country; any bright memories of that time were limned in darker ones. She’d loved her time in the city: the giddy social whirl, the heady sense of her own power.
    Mostly she wanted peace and certainty and permanence and a reticule that jingled healthily, and she’d take them wherever she found them.
    “I’ve…I’ve spent a good deal of time in the country, Lord Milthorpe. But life finds me ever in London, and—London is ever crowded and noisy, wouldn’t you agree?” She darted a look about the room, as though she didn’t wish the others to overhear for fear of offending them. “I thought it would be a pleasure to have a fine dog as a companion.”
    A tiny flash of light caught her eye: sunlight bouncing glare from spectacles. He was listening. Miles Redmond was. The angle of his shoulders had scarcely changed, but his spectacles had given him away. And the back of his head seemed peculiarly alert.
    Lord Milthorpe was talking. “…oh! But she’s a bonnie bitch spaniel—Eleanor, her name is. Named her for Eleanor of Aquitaine. The sire has gotten three fine litters on her, and I’ve two pups left of it. Both little bitches.”
    He directed this to Cynthia’s earlobe. He still seemed to be acclimating to her startling loveliness only in fits and starts.
    Which was just as well, as her mind had suddenly filled with disconcertingly vivid images of Lord Milthorpe’s spaniel “getting litters on” Eleanor of Aquitaine the spaniel. Her features had been entirely unprepared for it, and she froze.
    A throat cleared again.
    She’d recovered by the time Milthorpe looked at her again. “Puppies are delightful! I congratulate you, sir. How fortunate you are.”
    He beamed at her. One of his front teeth was entirely gray, like a little headstone in the churchyard. She tried not to stare at it. At least he had a full complement of teeth.
    His eyes retreated to the relative safety of her earlobe again.
    “I should be…I should be pleased to give you a pup from Eleanor’s litter, Miss Brightly.”
    “Oh, would you do that?” she breathed, then leaned the minutest amount toward him. She paused, reached a hand out as if to touch his arm, and pulled it back abruptly, because this caused him to go as motionless as a rabbit before a lunging wolf. His eyes flitted to her cleavage again then fled back to her face. “If you did—if you did—I should be pleased to name it for you. I could name it Lord Milthorpe.”
    There was a pronounced cough over near the window. Cynthia cast a glance in the direction in time to see Miles Redmond put a fist discreetly to his mouth.
    She knew it! The bloody man had stifled a laugh .
    And hell’s teeth, she suddenly needed to stifle one of her own.
    She kept her rapt attention on Milthorpe. Talk of dogs had him feeling comfortable, and her cleavage had made him cheerful, and now he was brave enough to look her full in the eyes. What a large face he has, she thought. As large and English as Gibraltar, and nearly as rectangular as his body.
    He could not truthfully be described as homely. Nor was he handsome. He had kind eyes.
    And twenty thousand pounds a year.
    “Perhaps you’d consider naming a dog Monty, instead, Miss Brightly.” He’d lowered his voice for this bold and hopeful jest. “Monty is my given name.”
    Good for Lord Milthorpe, she couldn’t help but think warmly. He was clearly out of