England's Perfect Hero (3 page)

"And what the hell does that matter?" he muttered aloud, automatically glancing toward the open door as he spoke.
Stop it
. He was home, in
England
. In
London
. No one was going to withhold food and water or beat him bloody for daring to speak. No one had done that for three years. He was free; he was safe.

"Stop it," he said, forcing his gaze to remain on the book, refusing to acknowledge that he was glad it was still light outside, or that he desperately wanted to disappear into his own room and lock the door. "Stop it. Stop—"

"Have I chosen what?"

He flinched, whipping his head up and around to face the doorway again. Just as quickly he lurched to his feet, before his mind even registered that he was going to do so. "Miss Barrett."

He'd always thought her hair brown, until she walked forward into the late afternoon sunlight pouring across the floor. Red highlights glinted through the swooping riot of curls piled atop her head. A curling strand had escaped to caress a high-boned cheek. Her skin looked smooth and soft as cream.

"I'm sorry," she said, her fair skin darkening to rose as she blushed. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Several seconds passed before Robert realized both that he was staring again and that she expected him to respond. "I should have heard you coming."

Soft hazel eyes studied him, while he waited for the inevitable comment on the weather. Usually this far into a conversation—if he stayed for this long—he saw discomfort, or contempt, or fear, or worst of all, pity. Lucinda Guinevere Barrett, though, gave a small smile.

"For the past week the general's been reading a study on the tactics of American Indians—the Iroquois, specifically. He greatly admires their stealth, so I've been practicing sneaking up on him. Apparently I'm better at it than I realized."

General Augustus Barrett—another of the reasons Robert rarely attended social events. With an effort, he wrenched his mind away from the abrupt haze of blazing muskets and smoke and screaming, back to the tall, slender woman who still stood in the doorway and had the misfortune to be Barrett's daughter.
Say something
. "Your student," he blurted, then clenched his teeth together just too late to stop his idiocy from escaping into the air.

She blinked. "Beg pardon?"

Clarify
, he shouted at himself.
For God's sake, you know how to put a sentence together
. "I meant, have you chosen your student yet?"

Her fine blush paled. "How—what—how did you know about that?"

Lucinda's aghast expression actually left him feeling a little more at ease. It was a look he'd become familiar with over the past three years—though usually it also signaled the moment he'd said something rude and direct and then turned on his heel and vanished. This afternoon she blocked the doorway, and he seemed to be staying. Part of him actually wanted to stay, so long as she remained. Robert shrugged. "I pay attention. Georgiana chose Tristan, and your friend Miss Ruddick decided on St. Aubyn—which worried you and my sister-in-law."

"We… we weren't that obvious, were we?"

He liked that she didn't try to deny their scheme. "No. You weren't."

"You…" She cleared her throat. "You haven't said anything about this to anyone else, have you?"

Robert felt his mouth curve upward in a motion that felt stiff and not quite natural. "I generally don't say anything to anyone, Miss Barrett."

Her expression softened into another smile that must have far surpassed his in elegance and attractiveness. "Thank you. It would be… embarrassing for all of us if the gossips were to find out that we've been making lists and taking on students."

Lists. He hadn't known about lists. Robert wondered what hers said. With the ease of long practice he hid a frown. She probably required a good conversationalist—or at least someone who could put two sentences end to end. "Your secret is safe." He waited a beat. "But have you?"

"Have I?" she repeated, then ducked her head in obvious chagrin. "Oh. Chosen a student, you mean. Yes, I have."

He hesitated again. Did he sound as inept, as distant and desperate as he felt, trying to carry on a civil conversation? This used to be so easy. "May I ask who it is?"

Even as he was congratulating himself on being polite and proper and grammatically correct, Lucinda's face shuttered and she backed away a step.
Damnation
. After three years back in
England
he should have realized that he had no idea how to behave in a civilized manner, any more than he had an inclination to do so. Usually. Until this afternoon—when Lucinda Barrett had sought him out to continue a conversation.

"I'm sorr—"

"Lord Geoffrey Newcombe," she said, over his apology.

"You want to marry Geoffrey Newcombe?" he returned, surprised at her choice. "Why, in God's name?"

She flushed again, not quite as prettily. "We decided on lessons in order to teach a man to be a gentleman. The idea is to see whether I can convince or persuade him to conform to the items on my list. That's all."

"So the ultimate outcome isn't supposed to be marri—"

"No! I hope you don't think I would ever attempt to trick someone into marrying me."

"I have no need to stoop to such a low level, sir. And I do not appreciate the implication." Turning on her heel, she stalked out. A moment later her feet clomped down the stairs. Evidently she wasn't trying to be stealthy any longer.

Robert stood where he was for a moment, then squatted to retrieve the book he hadn't even realized he'd dropped. Bloody hell. Obviously he wasn't any more ready to make a return to Society than he'd been three years ago. And until five minutes ago, except for a few fleeting daydreams which had involved the woman he'd just insulted, he wouldn't have cared.

Robert reopened his book, gazing sightlessly at the page. He'd felt almost… human when Lucinda had smiled. It was a sensation he could grow used to. Sitting back, he lifted his gaze to the window. Logically, if he ever expected her to smile in his presence again, he needed to apologize. And soon, when it would still make a difference.

Lucinda arrived at the Wellcrist soiree in the company of her father. A year and a half ago, General Barrett would have pronounced the festivities a bore and elected to go instead to a club with some of his political friends. A year and a half ago, however, his daughter had had other people with whom to attend the Season's events.

Then, she and Georgiana and Evelyn had been practically inseparable—the Three Sisters, as a great many members of the
ton
had called them. Now, though, fond as they all remained of one another, Georgie and Evie had found love—and with that, obligations elsewhere. The general had realized that almost before Lucinda had, and like any good military strategist, he'd altered his tactics to fit the new situation. He obviously worried about her; she knew that, simply by his presence tonight. And the fact that he was worried, worried her.

Hence Lord Geoffrey Newcombe.

The lessons gave her an excuse, if only in her own mind, a justification for approaching Geoffrey. Even so, she knew full well why she'd chosen him. The general wanted to see her happy and well cared for, and she wanted to remain in the position of both easing his mind and of being able to look after him. That had been her self-appointed duty to an increasing degree—interrupted only when he went off to war—since she'd been five.

After careful consideration, she'd decided that marriage to the Duke of Fenley's fourth and youngest son was a nearly perfect solution. She liked him, her father liked him, and her dowry together with his stipend would see them settled quite comfortably. In addition, he didn't seem to be weighted down with any particularly bad habits or gambling debts. Safe and steady, amiable and uncomplicated—and not likely to add another burden to her busy life or to resent her duties to or affection for her father.

"Ah, there's Admiral Hunt with that upstart Carroway," the general said, a marshal gleam coming into his steel gray eyes. "Time to go sink the Navy."

Bradshaw Carroway had managed to make it back to
London
early, not that his resourcefulness surprised her. In fact, if not for his naval career, the charming lieutenant might have made it to the top of her candidates' list. Marrying a Navy man, though, would give her father an apoplexy. "Be nice to the admiral, Papa," she warned, only half joking. "No brawls."

"Of course not. Verbal abuse only, my dear." He hesitated. "Unless you'd rather—"

She waved him off, not waiting for him to offer to stand about with her all evening. "Go."

Delivering a swift kiss to her cheek, he strode away to confront his oldest friend and greatest rival. Poor Lieutenant Bradshaw Carroway was about to be caught in the crossfire. Smiling, Lucinda looked toward the refreshment table, and her grin deepened. She started forward to greet Evelyn, only to slow when Lord St. Aubyn appeared beside his bride, two glasses of
Madeira
in his hands. Lucinda sighed. Three had used to be company. Now, though—

"Miss Barrett," a male voice said from behind her.

With a start she turned around, looking into the round, smiling face of her most determined suitor. "Mister Henning," she returned, nodding. Abruptly she couldn't decide which was worse—being the third member of a happy pair, or being the second member in an unwilling pair.

"Please call me Francis. No need for formality between us, eh?" He glanced at the dance card in her hand before she could conceal it. "Ah, I see you still have a waltz free. Splendid. Will you do me the honor? My grandmama's in attendance—you'll have to come by and say hello. The old gal dotes on me, you know, and seeing me with a chit as lovely as you, well, she's bound to be pleased."

The last thing Lucinda wanted to do tonight was be roped into conversation with tyrannical Agnes Henning, but she nodded anyway. "Let me sort myself out, and I'll certainly come by and say hello," she returned, favoring Francis with a dazzling smile and then slipping away before he could remind her about the waltz.

"That was close," a deep, less familiar voice said at her shoulder.

Mm
. The evening abruptly began to look up. "Lord Geoffrey," she said, curtsying, and pleased by the faint tremor that ran down her spine.

Much-admired eyes of dazzling emerald swept down the front of her low-cut maroon gown and back up again to her face. "Lucinda Barrett. Allow me to compliment you on that brilliant bit of strategy against Henning. Here I was about to rescue you from him, and all on your own you managed to avoid putting him on your dance card."

She blushed, wishing that for his own sake Henning had picked a less conspicuous place to accost her. She certainly hadn't wanted to embarrass him. "Oh, I didn't—"

"Which means, if I'm not mistaken, that you have a waltz left open. May I?" Reaching out, he lifted the card and pencil from her hand and wrote in his name. "That's our goal for tonight," he continued, nodding at the group of young men surrounding debutante Elizabeth Fairchild, "to keep Henning off the dance floor. The man's a danger to everything on two legs."

"Well, Mr. Henning may step on a toe or two," she returned, hiding a frown as she noticed Georgie smiling at her from the far side of the room, "but he's hardly the only—"

"One buffoon at a time, Lucinda. Once he learns his lesson, we'll move on to the next." Lord Geoffrey bowed over her hand, a lock of golden hair obscuring one twinkling eye. "Until the waltz."

As he left, the rest of his friends mobbed her, until she managed to save only one spot for poor Francis Henning. Little as she enjoyed dancing with Mr. Henning, she disliked the idea of someone being blackballed from the festivities even more—especially with his grandmother here from
Yorkshire
.

She glanced at Lord Geoffrey's broad shoulders as he maneuvered his way onto yet another young lady's dance card. Hm. Poor behavior from the man she'd chosen to teach a lesson. At least now she could cite a legitimate reason for deciding on him.

"Luce," Georgiana said, dragging her husband, Lord Dare, up beside her. "A good beginning, yes?" she whispered, kissing Lucinda on the cheek.

"Hush."

"Very well." The viscountess straightened. "I saw the general over talking with Admiral Hunt. Do we need to intervene?"

"Nonsense," Dare interjected. "Shaw looks petrified. A little terror will be good for my dear brother."

Lucinda chuckled. "Papa promised no bloodshed." She looked more closely at Georgiana, taking in her friend's rosy cheeks and the pronounced roundness of her hips. "And I thought you were going to stay in tonight," she chastised. "It's far too cold outside."

"That's what I told her," Dare returned, lifting his wife's hand to kiss her fingers. "She insists on spending every possible moment dancing with me."

"My poor, deluded Tristan," Georgiana said with an amused smile, drawing her hand around his arm. "I'm here for the desserts."

His expression warmed. "Desserts, eh? As a matter of fact, I know of a very tasty…" He trailed off as he glanced past his wife's shoulder. "What in the world is
he
doing here?"

Lucinda turned to follow his surprised, serious expression. Just inside the ballroom doorway, clothed in fashionable dark gray and with a cold, haunted look on his lean face, stood Robert Carroway.

"My goodness," Georgiana whispered. "Do you think something's wrong at home?"

"I'll find out."

Before Dare could move, though, Robert saw them and disappeared back into the crowd with such ease that it startled Lucinda. Even as she wondered why the middle Carroway brother would bother to make an appearance only to vanish again without a word, he slipped between Lord Northrum and Lady Bryce and was there beside them.

"Bit?" Dare said in a low voice, obviously not as surprised by his brother's stealth as Lucinda was. "Is everything all right?"

Robert nodded. "I was invited, you know." "I know that," his brother retorted. "But—" "Bit!" Bradshaw shoved through the sea of guests. "Snap my anchor—what the devil are you doing here?" " 'Snap my anchor?'" Dare repeated, more humor touching his voice. "My, aren't you nautical."

"I wanted a word with Miss Barrett," Robert interrupted.

Lucinda took in Dare's lifted eyebrow and the blatantly surprised expressions on Bradshaw and Georgiana's faces. At the same time, the bleak desperation in Robert's gaze made her answer. "Of course, Mr. Carroway."

"Bit, if you—"

"Later," he said shortly, gesturing for Lucinda to join him.

"No wonder people say you're a phantom," she offered. "That was quite impressive, stealthwise."

He didn't answer, nor did he offer his arm, but the omission didn't bother her. Being near him unsettled her quite enough. Touching him would probably scorch her skin.

Gazes from a number of their more curious peers followed them until Robert slowed and shot a glare over his shoulder. Abruptly, then, they found themselves alone at the base of the main staircase. He faced her, looking at her for a long moment, dark blue eyes glinting beneath the faded chandelier light. "I came to apologize," he said finally. "For yesterday."

Her first impulse, to tell him an apology wasn't necessary and that she'd scarcely given their brief conversation a second thought, never passed her lips. It had lingered with him, obviously, or he would never have come to find her. "Thank you," she said slowly. "You were direct, but given how much you know about our lesson challenge, your conclusion was completely logical."

"I was rude."

She couldn't help her slight smile at this tall, magnificent, unsettling man insisting upon deprecating himself before her. "You caught me off guard, as any good soldier would do."

His body gave a slight shudder. "I am
not
a good soldier." With a curt nod he finally glanced again at the muttering crowd in the doorway. "Good evening."

"I have a quadrille left on my dance card," she said to his back as he turned away, "if you'd care to join me."

He stopped. "Give it to Henning," he murmured over his shoulder. "They're blackballing him."

"I know, and I was going to. I just thought you might want…" Before she could finish speaking he was gone, out of sight again, though for all she knew he might be standing directly behind her. Lucinda glanced over her shoulder. No one. "Hm."

When she'd had her
London
debut six years ago, twenty-one-year-old Robert Carroway had danced a quadrille with her. She wondered if he remembered.

He'd only been an occasional visitor to
London
that Season, when he'd come down from school at
Cambridge
. She remembered him as a fine dancer, a devastatingly handsome, popular young man with a great deal of wit and a promising future. Then, however, he'd joined the army to go to war against Bonaparte.

"
Luanda
?" Georgiana said, reaching her side. "Is everything well?"

"Yes, perfectly." She shook herself. "He thought he'd offended me yesterday, and wanted to apologize."

"Had he? Offended you, I mean."

"Heavens, no. Just a difference of opinion."

" 'Opinion,' " Georgiana repeated.

Lucinda took her arm, smiling. "Yes. And now I would like a glass of
Madeira
. I've conversed with Robert Carroway twice in one week, and we should make as much a mystery of it as possible." She chuckled, steeling herself for the noise and crowd of the ballroom, when she really just wanted a few quiet moments. "Maybe it will even make Lord Geoffrey jealous."

"Speaking of," her friend muttered, gesturing with her chin.

The golden Adonis emerged from the crowd and separated her from Georgie. "Our waltz is beginning," he said, all charm and good humor.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I hadn't realized."

"Understandable, considering."

His arm slid around her waist, and she hid her slight smile. She'd only been joking with Georgiana about making anyone jealous—though Robert Carroway
was
a sight to please any woman's eyes. "Considering what?"

"Well, first the mute's appearance, and then the fact that he spoke—and to you," he clarified, bending his fingers around hers as they swung into the dance. "I half thought he'd died, and Dare had buried him in the cellar or something."

"That's nonsense," she said, annoyed until she realized his insensitivity—shared by most of the
ton
as it was—merely provided her with a further example of his need for her lessons. "He's simply a wounded soldier."