England's Perfect Hero (16 page)

That pleasant feeling lasted for nearly thirty seconds, until he realized that he couldn't expect simply to walk up to Lucinda, waltz with her, and escape. No, to help her with lesson number two, to maintain a reason to remain in her company, he was going to have to lead by example—and in this instance that would mean dancing with other ladies,
for every dance of the evening
.

He sank into the deep windowsill. There was simply no way he could do that. Robert let out a curse, pounding a fist against the wooden frame. He sat there for several minutes, hating himself and whatever was wrong with him, when he remembered precisely what Lucinda had said. Her lesson was meant to help the girls who remained by the refreshment table or in the corner—the ones with no dowry, the ones without looks or charm or wit or grace to recommend them. The ones without hope.

A lady with a choice between sitting out yet another dance or partnering with him would surely at least hesitate before she refused. And if anyone could understand someone without hope or prospects, it was him. And hopefully in dancing with someone like that, they wouldn't expect much from him, and he would retain a slight chance of remaining unnoticed by everyone but Lucinda—and Geoffrey Newcombe, of course, who'd be a fool not to keep an eye on an unexpected, if unlikely, rival.

A rival. Him
. It was unimaginable, except that he
could
imagine it. Luanda Barrett. He liked her, enjoyed her company, but it was more than that. He craved her, craved her serenity, and her independence, her sense of self—she felt like hope to a man who hadn't known any for a very long time.

For that reason, he knew he should stay away from her, if only for her sake. He couldn't help that he wanted to glimpse heaven, but to try to bring an angel into his world… One or both of them would catch fire and burn to cinders.

No, she thought of them as friends, and so friends they would be—even if it killed him. That part should be easy. He'd been dead for years.

"Is it me," General Barrett said, "or is every resident of Mayfair in attendance tonight?"

"I don't think it's you," Lucinda answered, holding onto his arm. "Heavens. Is that a juggler?"

The sight didn't surprise her all that much; Lady Montrose had been trying for the past four years to have someone declare one of her parties the event of the Season. Thus far, she hadn't succeeded.

"I see Geoffrey's made a point of arriving on time," her father pointed out.

"In all fairness, he's not the only one, Papa," she returned. "You did just note that all of Mayf—"

"You know what I meant, girl. I won't be monopolizing him this evening, so that task will be up to you."

"I'm not going to monopolize anyone." Her wandering gaze found an acquaintance across the room, and she smiled. "Ah, look. It seems Mrs. Miller has returned from her painting tour of Venice."

"Lillian? Where?"

Lucinda nudged him in the widow's direction and released her grip on his arm. "Remember, you promised me a waltz," she said.

"I'll hold it safe for you, but I will give up my spot if necessary."

The fact that her father was willing to leave her side said a great deal about what he thought of her prospects with Lord Geoffrey. She smiled as the Season's Adonis reached her.

"Good evening, Geoffrey."

He kissed her knuckles. "Lucinda." His gaze swept the length of her. "You look lovely."

"Thank you." The deep blue silk gown with silver trim was a particular favorite of hers, and it was nice to know that he appreciated it.

"And you've saved two spaces on your dance card for me?"

"Other than my father, you're the first gentleman to ask for a spot."

Geoffrey took her card and pencil, marking his name by the waltz and quadrille of his choice. "It's a shame there aren't enough men here to keep Francis Henning off the dance floor tonight," he commented. "Are you certain you'll only allow me two dances?"

For a moment she was annoyed that he and his friends were still blackballing poor Francis, until she decided that perhaps he was just baiting her. Additionally, he was correct about one thing: The ladies far outnumbered the gentlemen tonight, and quite a few girls would be left by the wall.

"Two dances," she repeated, smiling to soften her refusal. "But don't despair; I doubt you'll lack for partners."

"None of them will compare with you."

He excused himself to go greet her father, and in what seemed like less than a minute the remainder of her dances had been claimed. Finally, through the crush of people, she glimpsed the tall forms of Lord St. Aubyn and Lord Dare, and she made her way in that direction.

"Luce, isn't this mad?" Evie exclaimed, hugging her. "And I told you that blue would look divine on you."

"Yes, you were right. I admit it," she replied, turning to greet Georgie.

Evie, though, snagged her arm. "Not yet," she whispered. "Dare's trying to talk her into leaving. He's afraid the room will be too stifling with all these people."

"He's probably right."

As she watched, Georgiana placed a finger over her husband's mouth and then replaced it with a kiss. "I promise, as soon as I feel the least bit uncomfortable I'll tell you, and we'll leave."

"You promise?"

Saint, meanwhile, leaned down and whispered something in Evie's ear, which made her blush wildly. Before she could answer, he'd strolled off to find a footman with some punch.

"What did he say?" Lucinda murmured.

"He was just… never mind," her friend answered, clearing her throat. "But come say hello to Georgie. You'll never guess who else is in attendance tonight."

But Lucinda had already looked across the room, and she knew. "Robert Carroway."

He stood gazing at her, his unruly dark hair down to his collar and hanging across one blue eye. His black jacket and trousers called attention to the lean hardness of his frame, while his crimson waistcoat stood out as bright and surprising as blood. He looked like a wolf again, hungry and definitely on the prowl.

She expected him to approach, but instead he inclined his head and then vanished back into the crowd.
Well
. According to Georgiana, he viewed her as his savior of sorts. The least he could do was say hello and come close enough so she could see the expression in his eyes and wonder if he thought of kissing her again.

"Who's your partner for the first dance?" Georgiana asked, joining them.

"Lord Geoffrey."

"I see."

"It seems like good strategy to me," Lucinda said, ignoring Georgie's smug tone. "The first dance and the last waltz."

"Absolutely," Georgiana agreed. "But I've seen your lesson list, my dear. I think we can safely say that Lord Geoffrey has acquitted himself admirably on lesson number one."

"Ooh, I have a question," Evie put in, stepping closer and lowering her voice as Geoffrey approached. "If he offers for you before we're satisfied on all four lesson points, do we allow you to accept him anyway?"

"You tease now," Lucinda said, grinning, "but I don't remember you being nearly so sure of yourself when you began instructing St. Aubyn."

"Enough about me, Luce. It's your turn, my dear."

The orchestra signaled that they were about to begin the first dance of the evening. At the same moment, Geoffrey arrived beside her. "Lady St. Aubyn, Lady Dare, I'm afraid I must claim Lucinda."

"Of course," Georgie said, nodding.

Evie was less reserved. "Have fun," she called, blowing Lucinda a kiss.

"Your friendship with them is quite remarkable," Geoffrey said, guiding her to their place in line. "I almost feel as if I'm courting them and both their families in addition to you and your father."

Lucinda started to answer, then as the music began to play, she realized precisely what he'd said. He wasn't after her heart any more than she was after his. Interesting. They were both being mercenary. That certainly made things easier, even if deep down where she could pretend it didn't affect her, the realization hurt just a little.

She yanked her mind back to current events as the dance's meanderings brought them back together again. "I admit, the general does seem taken with you—or your memory, at least."

Geoffrey chuckled. "I'm pleased to be of ser… Well, I'll be damned."

Turning to look in the direction he gazed, Lucinda felt speechless herself. Miss Margaret Heywater had joined the dance. Cursed with the abominable combination of a nonexistent dowry and a tendency toward squinting and simpering, at this moment with the high color in her cheeks and flounce of her secondhand gown, she actually looked attractive. And Lucinda knew without a doubt that that miracle was due to the man on Miss Margaret's right, who held her fingers and smiled at her and stepped and turned with a rusty elegance that made Lucinda abruptly want to weep.

More people had begun to notice, and the resulting lift of her chin gave Miss Margaret an even more elegant line. Robert, on the other hand, gave no sign at all if he realized that half the guests in attendance were watching him.

When Lucinda nearly crashed into Lord Charles Daymore, she blinked, catching his hand just in time to avoid throwing the entire dance into chaos. The lines of men and women twisted around one another, touching and releasing hands and moving on to the next.

As she reached Robert she realized she was holding her breath. "Hello," she said, as their fingers met.

He nodded, blue eyes meeting hers. "Lesson two," he murmured, and then was gone again.

All the partners rejoined, and she caught Geoffrey looking over his shoulder at Robert and Miss Margaret. "That cripple never dances with anyone," he muttered. "What does he know about Margaret Heywater that I don't?"

"Please don't call him that. And perhaps he's just being nice."

"Half her dance card's bound to be empty, anyway, so it shouldn't be too difficult to find out."

Lucinda hid a sudden smile. Robert had managed a miracle again. Once Geoffrey danced with Margaret, every single gentleman in attendance would want to know what the fuss was about.

Abruptly Geoffrey gripped her hand again, more tightly than before. "I don't mean to say that another female could take my attention from you," he amended.

"Of course not," she returned, wondering at his declaration. Had he expected her to be jealous? Was she supposed to feel jealous?

"You truly don't have any idea why he's dancing with her?"

"No," she lied. "None at all."

"But you claim to be his friend."

"I didn't ask him, any more than he asked why I'm dancing with you," she said, beginning to feel annoyed. "I think the key would be for you to ask her to dance, and find out for yourself."

He looked over at her from beyond their joined hands, then smiled. "My apologies again, Lucinda. I am dancing with you, and you shall remain the focus of my thoughts."

She smiled back to show that she wasn't offended. "You have two dances with me. The remainder of the evening is your own."

As soon as the dance ended, and as she'd suspected, half a dozen men, Geoffrey among them, approached Margaret. Robert, though, had disappeared again. He'd certainly done his good deed. One young lady who would have spent the evening as a non-participant would now have a partner for every dance. And a few of the young men who typically would have been standing around talking about horses or wagering would find themselves doing something useful.

"Madeira?" Saint asked, appearing at her shoulder.

"Yes, thank you." She accepted the glass he offered and took a grateful swallow. "Where's Evie?"

"Testing my patience with Bradshaw," the marquis answered, gesturing to the couple taking their places for a quadrille.

She looked for her own partner, but Charles Weldon was still part of the cluster surrounding Miss Margaret. "Are you dancing this evening?" she asked Saint.

"Only with Evelyn, unless you require a partner, of course."

"I believe I have a full quota, but thank you."

She—and the rest of London—had been aware of St. Aubyn for years. That devilish reputation of his had been well warranted, but the change in him since he'd met Evelyn had been remarkable. Still, though Lucinda had come to appreciate his dry wit and intelligence, she was never entirely certain what he might say—or do.

"I'm curious about something," he said, his gaze still steady on Bradshaw and Evie.

"About what?"

"Your family and the Carroways are close, but what was it that happened between your father and Robert?"

She faced him, an uncomfortable something thumping in her gut. Surely her father had never mentioned his misgivings about Robert to anyone—especially not to anyone within their circle of friends. "I don't know what you mean."

Saint shrugged. "Maybe I'm misreading Robert." He favored her with a dark grin. "I do tend to look for trouble."

Saint had never misread anything that she'd ever noticed. Of course her father didn't think much of Robert, but she'd had no idea it might be mutual. Lucinda frowned. "What do you think you know, Saint?"

His smile deepened. "I think your partner is waiting for you," he said, then took her arm, leaning closer. "I don't mind having my own curiosity satisfied," he murmured, "but I don't share."

"Humph. That's convenient." Charles lurked behind her, and she spun around to take his arm. "Lead the way to the quadrille, if you please."

The dance had barely begun when she spotted Robert again, this time in the company of Hyacinth Styles. A pleasant girl, but excruciatingly shy, her presence on the dance floor was nearly as surprising as Robert's. The couple ended up in a group halfway across the room, which served somewhat to annoy Lucinda—mostly because it meant she had to admit to herself that she badly wanted to talk to Mr. Carroway.

Evie and especially Bradshaw kept looking in his direction as well, though privately Lucinda thought Shaw would be better served keeping a close eye on Evie's husband. She glanced at Saint, standing with Tristan and Georgiana. He wouldn't have mentioned a problem between Robert and the general unless he knew for certain one existed.