England's Perfect Hero (14 page)

Her hand aching, Lucinda gratefully set aside her pen and blew on the top page of notes to dry the ink. Lord Geoffrey and the general sipped brandy, their conversation devolving into a discussion of the merits or lack thereof of various British officers with whom they'd served.

"Major Scoggins?" Geoffrey said, chuckling. "Isn't he the one who had to be tied into his saddle every morning?"

"Yes, that's him. I was never certain whether those measures were necessary because of his poor horsemanship or because of his tendency toward drink." The general glanced at the small clock on his desk. "Damnation. Will you stay for dinner, Geoffrey?"

"I would love to, but unfortunately I have a prior engagement." He set aside his snifter. "In fact, I must take my leave."

Augustus Barrett rose to shake the younger man's hand. "Thank you again for your help."

"No need, Augustus. Any opportunity for me to boast about my heroics is welcome." He gaze slid once again to Lucinda. "And the audience is most definitely appreciated."

"And appreciative. I'll see you out, my lord."

"Geoffrey, please."

He motioned for her to precede him, and she led the way down the hall to the foyer. All afternoon he'd seemed
to
make a point of including her in the conversation. Twice he'd even risen to stand at her shoulder and watch her take notes.

"Thank you again for being so generous," she said, stopping beside the butler at the front door. "I've never seen the general so enthusiastic about his writing project."

"I'm happy to help." He took her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles. "Perhaps I might see you without a pen and paper in hand." Pretty green eyes lifted to hers. "I believe you enjoy going riding?"

So Robert had been correct; either he'd been watching for them, or Geoffrey's cronies had informed him of her activities. Or both. "I do enjoy it."

"I would be honored if you would join me for a jaunt in Hyde Park, then. Tomorrow morning, perhaps?"

Goodness
. "I have a luncheon, but—"

"Ten o'clock?"

"Very well."

He smiled, squeezing her fingers gently and then releasing her. "I'll be by for you then. Until tomorrow."

"Good evening, Lord—good evening, Geoffrey."

"Lucinda."

She watched him claim his horse and trot down the drive, then returned to her father's office. He was already flipping through her notes, adding his own in some of the margins.

"I've been thinking," he said, not looking up. "Would it be imposing on Geoffrey to ask him to go over all of my journals with me? He does have a way of sparking my memory of certain events and conversations."

Lucinda sat down opposite him. "He's asked me to go riding with him tomorrow morning."

The general set the papers back on the desk. "Did you accept?"

"Yes. So if you're prolonging his involvement with your book for my sake, you may cease and desist."

Steel gray eyes, making an attempt to be stern and unyielding, met hers. "Are you accusing me of cultivating a friendship with Lord Geoffrey Newcombe in order to encourage him to pursue you?"

She returned his gaze, undaunted. "You are the master strategist, my dear."

He laughed. "You're the one who suggested I contact him."

"So I am," she said, refusing to be tricked into admitting anything.

"Ah. Well, I suppose he is genuinely useful. His recollections at least confirm my own."

"Then use him how you will, General."

"Thank you." His smile faded, and he sat forward, leaning both elbows on his stacks of notes and journals. "You also went riding with Robert Carroway."

Lucinda nodded, ruthlessly suppressing the thought of Robert's feather-light, soul-stunning kiss. "And you don't need to encourage him or his war memories for my sake, either."

"I won't." He patted her hand. "I know you've grown up around military officers and their stories. But for God's sake, Lucinda, there's no reason in the world for you to settle on someone like Robert Carroway. Not with all the better choices you have."

She pulled her hand free. "I went riding with him, Papa. He's the brother-in-law of my dearest friend, and it's sometimes… difficult for him to talk to people. He's not a beau, and he certainly doesn't regale me with war stories, fascinating or otherwise. And I would never settle, under any circumstances."

Sighing, the general pushed to his feet. "Perform your act of charity, then. I just hope for his sake that you've made your lack of interest clear."

"Of course I have."

For a long moment after her father left the office, Lucinda remained seated in the guest chair. The kiss Lord Geoffrey had placed on her knuckles had been flirtatious and frivolous, and was under no circumstance to be taken seriously. Robert Carroway, however, played by a different set of rules. Or rather, he didn't play at all.

She touched her lips again, then slapped her hands back into her lap. For heaven's sake, it had been a kiss by only the barest of margins. Lucinda scowled. Brief or not, it told her that she needed to end the agreement between them before things became even more complicated. She'd already realized that chanty had nothing to do with her pleasure at seeing Robert. But she could never consider the wounded, broken soldier as a suitor, much less a potential spouse. Her father would never accept him, and even more than that, any further relationship with Robert would complicate her life a hundredfold. A thousandfold.

All she wanted was a nice, considerate, uncomplicated husband who would help her in the care of her father as he grew older, and who wouldn't resent the attention she gave the general.
Tranquility
. Was that too much to ask?

"Blast." If she was after tranquility, she probably shouldn't be thinking about either Robert or his kisses.

After some scavenging, Robert found three music boxes—two in the attic, and the third in the aunties' morning room. He hefted them in his arms and headed for the breakfast room.

"Good morning." Georgiana greeted him, looking up from her plate.

"Good morning."

As he looked around the breakfast room, Robert scowled. He'd been looking for Georgiana, so her presence was fine, but Tristan was also there eating. Hm. He could probably use a little extra assistance, but not from his damned brother.

"What've you got there?" his brother asked.

"Nothing." He shifted the cumbersome boxes. "Are you finished eating?"

Immediately Tristan pushed away his plate. "Yes. What do you need?"

"I need you to leave," Robert answered.

"Leave?"

"Yes."

Georgiana chuckled. "I have some correspondence, anyway."

"No, not you," Robert amended, feeling the unaccustomed urge to smile. "Just Tristan."

"Just me."

The viscountess patted her husband's arm. "So sorry, Dare. Give me a kiss, and go away."

"So that's how it is, is it?" Tristan said mildly, standing. "The patriarch of the family banished without ceremony."

"Good-bye," Georgiana said, chortling.

"Well, I can tell when I'm not wanted." He looked at the two footmen standing by the window. "You can't stay if I'm being forced to leave. Out." Kissing Georgie on the cheek, Tristan nabbed an orange from the sideboard and slipped out the door behind the servants.

"So what can
I
do for you, Bit?" Georgie asked.

Now came the hard part. Blowing out his breath, Robert set the music boxes on the table. "I need to know if I can… dance, without looking like a complete looby." When the viscountess didn't scream or double over with laughter, he flipped open the music boxes, one after the other. "I found a waltz and two country dances. Do you—"

"I think we should move this to the morning room," she interrupted. "None of your other brothers have eaten yet, and we don't want them barging in on us." She lifted a music box, leaving two for him, and marched out the door.

Tristan lurked in the hallway and pretended to inspect a vase of purple irises as they passed him. Robert had already begun to think this was a bad idea, but he tried to ignore the ice creeping along his skull. Apparently waking in the morning after a good night's sleep spent dreaming of nothing more troubling than a horseback ride was enough to make him insane.

He just needed to know whether he could still do it, he told himself. Determining whether he had the skills and ability to dance didn't mean he'd decided to perform in public or not.

"What are you doing?" Edward asked, emerging from the west-wing hallway.

"Cleaning," Georgiana said. "Go have some breakfast."

They made it to the pink crinoline-draped refuge of the aunties without running into any other Carroways. Robert set his music boxes in the windowsill and faced his sister-in-law.

"I should tell you," he said, clenching his jaw, "I don't know if I can—"

"No excuses," Georgiana cut in briskly. "Shall we begin with a waltz?" Before he could answer, she flipped up a music-box lid. She lifted her arms into position and waited.

Georgiana was safe
, he reminded himself, moving forward. The closest thing he had to a sister. She understood at least part of what troubled him, and he'd trusted her enough to tell her a little. Surely he could dance with her.

Swallowing, he took Georgiana's hand in his, and placed his other palm on her waist. Smiling her encouragement, she laid her free hand on his shoulder.

She felt warm and alive and feminine, and revulsion—not at her, but at himself—flooded through him. With a strangled growl he pulled away from her, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles went white.

"Bit?"

"Apologies," he managed, backing for the door. "This was a mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake," Georgiana said firmly. "I'll be here, any time you want to practice."

This time it hit him hard, the panic nearly doubling him over before he even reached his bedchamber. He stumbled into his sanctuary and slammed the door closed.

Sweet Lucifer
. What had he been thinking? That he could go back to who he used to be, that he could dance and laugh and find a woman attractive as if nothing had ever happened? He had no right to any of it. For God's sake, he was supposed to be dead. And the dead knew nothing but darkness.

He hunched down in the corner, rocking back and forth.
Stop it, stop it, stop it
.

"What in the devil did you do to him?" Tristan snapped, striding back and forth in front of Bit's door.

"I didn't do anything," Georgiana returned, keeping her own voice quieter than her husband's. "He tried something, and it was more than he was ready for. That's all."

"But—"

"Keep your voice down, Tristan. He doesn't need to know we're debating him, for heaven's sake."

"But he was getting better," Tristan hissed.

"He
is
getting better—I think." She sighed. "It's been nearly two weeks since he had an attack this… violent."

"That doesn't help him." Dare paced in silence for a moment. "I know what they do when women are in hysterics."

"Tristan? Tristan! He's not a woman, and he's not hysterical."

Robert shoved himself upright, stumbling to the door to listen, and trying to control his shaking enough that he could grip the door handle. It didn't make him feel any less like vomiting, but he didn't want to be discovered curled up on the floor.

Think of something else
, he bellowed at himself. It had worked before. A distraction. Some other thought besides the reality that it wasn't just the seven months of deprivation and pain and terror that haunted him. Nor was it the fact that he'd been shot five times. It was what had come when he'd given up—when he'd broken.

And it was that he couldn't tell anyone about any of it. The way they looked at him now was bad enough. If they found out what had truly happened…