England's Perfect Hero (17 page)

What was it? And why hadn't she realized it before? Of course, for years Georgiana's feud with Tristan had limited her own exposure to the Carroways, but they'd all been united now for over a year. And still, until recently her father had never even mentioned Robert's name—not in her presence, anyway.

"Lucinda, do you plan to go to Vauxhall on Saturday?" Charles asked as they circled each other. His desperately cheery tone reminded her that she'd scarcely said a word to him. He smiled as she looked up at him. "I've heard that the Regent himself intends to make an appearance."

"I'll be attending with a group of friends," she answered.

He gave her a hopeful smile. "Yes?"

"Yes," she returned, searching for a diplomatic way to tell him that he wasn't invited. "It's a shame that we were only able to rent one small box," she commented. "If we'd known about Prinny, we would have tried to find something larger, so we could accommodate everyone."

"Of course."

Now that Charles had mentioned Vauxhall, she couldn't help wondering whether Robert would attend or not. Lucinda sighed. She needed to be more concerned about whether Lord Geoffrey would be joining them or not. Tristan was supposed to invite him; she would have to check with Georgiana.

As the dance ended, Charles escorted her back to Lord and Lady Dare. Once they were alone, Georgie put an arm around her. "How much did you tell Bit about the items on your list?" she whispered.

"I might have mentioned to him that it's embarrassing to be a female left on the sidelines during a dance when gentlemen are on hand," she hedged.

"I see."

Lucinda frowned. Now Georgie would be angry with her, or worse yet, accuse her of somehow leading Robert on. But she hadn't done anything wrong, for goodness' sake. And if anyone knew that her interest lay with Lord Geoffrey, it was Robert. "He asked me to tell him," she whispered back. "He knows that I've selected Geoff—"

Georgiana kissed her on the cheek. "He's here, and he's dancing," she said, her voice catching. "Whatever's inspired him, I'm not about to complain."

A hand touched Lucinda's shoulder, and to her surprise Tristan leaned down to kiss her other cheek. "I don't know what the devil's going on, but Georgie seems to think you're partly responsible."

She cleared her throat. "I think Robert wanted this, and that maybe I provided an excuse for him to act. But good heavens, thank Robert. Or yourselves. Not me."

The rest of the evening passed in a swirl of silk gowns and evening jackets. Robert Carroway danced every dance—and none of them with her. As the night progressed, she thought the lines of his shoulders grew tighter and his face grimmer, but he stayed. And because of his efforts, a host of young ladies who might not have been asked on the floor at all instead found names on their dance cards and even an invitation or two for picnics later in the week.

She saw nearly as little of Geoffrey as she did of Robert. Even during the numerous refreshment breaks, he'd been busy writing his name on the dance cards of ladies with whom he'd probably never even spoken before. For a moment she wondered whether his absence was part of the plan as well, but that was just a little too much to expect, even from someone with Robert's powers of insight.

The last dance of the evening was the waltz, and Geoffrey finally approached her again. "Shall we?" he asked, holding out his hand.

She took it, walking with him to the dance floor. "You've been busy this evening," she said, trying not to laugh as he sent her an exasperated look.

"At least someone's noticed. And look. There he goes again." He gestured toward one side of the room as Robert escorted Miss Jane Melroy onto the floor. "The cripple seems determined to ask every ugly chit in London to dance." He snorted. "Maybe that's all he can manage, these days."

Lucinda pulled her hand free. Perhaps a simple "act like a gentleman" hadn't appeared on her list, but he knew quite well that she and Robert were friends. She'd told him often enough. "Excuse me, Geoffrey," she said, backing away, "but my father is quite tired. I need to see him home."

His smile dropped. "I've offended you. I apologize, Lucinda."

"I asked you not to call him that. I'm not the one you've insulted, Geoffrey."

He reached out, gripping her arm. "I'll see you at Vauxhall, yes?"

"I'll be in attendance." Lucinda blew out her breath. This was
not
how she'd wanted the evening to end, but neither was she going to tolerate one friend verbally abusing another. "Good evening."

"Lucinda," he protested, still holding her sleeve.

She pulled her arm free. "I'm certain you were trying to be amusing, but I don't appreciate humor at the expense of other people. So good evening."

The general seemed to sense that something was amiss, because he left his group of cronies to join her. "What is it, my dear?"

"I'm making a point. Are you ready to leave?"

"Anything to provide an exclamation to your point," he replied.

Lucinda took his arm. "Thank you."

"We aren't giving up on Geoffrey, are we?" he muttered, guiding her through the crowd toward the ballroom doors.

"No. But we are encouraging him to be more considerate of those less perfect than himself."

"He doesn't look pleased."

"Good."

As they passed through the double doors she couldn't resist taking one last look over her shoulder. Geoffrey stalked toward the opposite door, anger in the straight, stiff line of his back. Closer by, though, Robert gazed at her over the head of his partner. After a moment, he gave her a slight smile.

Lucinda frowned as she and her father climbed into their coach. Perhaps Robert really could read minds. If so, she was in a great deal of trouble.

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood. And then collapsed to the floor.

"Damn it!"

His knee throbbed, refusing to take his weight as he pulled himself up the bedpost. Well, that figured. He'd been so worried that the black panic would find him in the middle of the ballroom that he hadn't taken the time to consider what four hours of dancing would do to his game leg.

Still cursing, he hopped to his wardrobe and grabbed a pair of trousers, dropping into the chair at his dressing table to pull them on. This would have been one of the times when having a valet would have come in handy.

That, however, simply wasn't possible. Robert looked up, facing himself in the mirror. The mop of disheveled hair and a night's growth of beard didn't concern him; he was used to seeing that. Generally, when he faced his reflection, though, he'd already pulled on a shirt.

Now, bare-chested, his gaze automatically went to the damage they—he—had done. The small round scar just beneath his left shoulder, matched by another high on his back where the ball had passed through. Another, larger scar puckered above his left hip, with a white blotch almost directly opposite, where the Spanish surgeon had dug for an endless twenty minutes looking for the lead ball. He still carried it inside him, somewhere.

Another white streak of a scar marked his right arm where the first shot had grazed him. The last had been the one to his left knee, the shot that had brought him down.

Robert leaned toward his chest of drawers and managed to grab a clean shirt with his fingertips. Shifting away from the mirror, he yanked the fine white fabric over his head. There. Gone now, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

After he'd shaved and washed and finished dressing, he made a dive for his boots and ended on the floor beside the bed again. He'd discarded his walking cane two years ago, a gesture that this morning he was beginning to regret.

Just as he was beginning to wonder how he was going to make it downstairs for breakfast, someone knocked on his door.

"Come in."

Edward pushed open the door, looking toward the window where Robert usually sat, reading. A brief frown touched his young face, until he spotted his brother sprawled on the floor with one boot on.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed. What are you doing?"

"I came to find you. You're sitting on the floor."

Robert finished pulling on his boots. "Am I? I must have missed the bed. Who's here this morning?"

"Everyone. And—"

"Good. Fetch Shaw or Andrew for me, will you?" They'd ask fewer questions than Tristan.

The Runt blew out his breath. "First, may I tell you something?"

Leaning back against the bed, Robert folded his arms. "Yes."

"You have a caller downstairs. That's what I came to tell you."

His heart missed a beat. "Who is it?"

"Lucinda. She's talking with Georgie right now, and she said there's no hurry, but—"

Robert scrambled for the bedpost and hauled himself upright again. The dread over who he might be forced to converse with was gone, but the anticipation coursing just beneath his skin didn't feel much better. "Thank you for telling me," he said, noting that Edward was staring at him now, open-mouthed. "Please find Shaw or Andrew for me."

"Is your leg broken again?"

"No, it's just tired. And I'm trying not to be rude and make Lucinda wait. So will you please find me a taller brother, Runt?"

Instead of leaving, Edward marched up to him. "I'll help you."

Wonderful
. "I'll squash you, and then we'll both need help."

Squinting one eye, Edward assessed him again. "Yes, I suppose you probably would squash me," he finally conceded. "All right. Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back." He charged out the door.

"And please be—"

"Shaw! Andrew! Bit hurt his leg! He needs help!"

"—discreet," Robert finished, sighing, and amused despite himself.

Before he'd counted to five, footsteps charged up the stairs for the third floor. Robert grimaced. The last thing he wanted to do was alarm his family again. He'd put them through enough hell when he'd come back from Europe.

"Bit, what—" Shaw stopped in the doorway. Out of breath and his expression going from concerned to baffled, he took in the sight of his brother leaning, one leg slightly bent, against the oak bedpost.

"I'm f—"

"What happened?" Tristan and Andrew asked at the same moment, plowing into Bradshaw from behind. The butler and three footmen crowded into the hallway on their tails.

An alarming thought occurred to Robert. "Please tell me Georgie's not running up here."

"No, I made her stay downstairs with Lucinda. What the devil happened?"

"Nothing." Robert paused at their skeptical looks. "Truly. I—my knee stiffened up overnight, and I asked the Runt to send me some assistance to get me downstairs. Edward just… overreacted a little."

Shaw made a face. "The Runt and I are going to have a little chat about the proper circumstances under which it's allowable to give people apoplexies," he grumbled, turning to Dare. "Do you have this?"

"Yes."

"Good. Let's go, boys." He made his way back through the crowd.

"You heard him," Tristan said. "Dawkins, Henry, everyone, downstairs."

"Yes, my lord." The butler herded the footmen and gathering maids out of the hallway.

"Are you in pain?" the viscount continued, entering the room with Andrew behind him.

"No," Robert lied. Hell, he was always in pain these days. He'd gotten used to it, for the most part.

Tristan looked at him for a moment. "We'll get you downstairs, and then I'm sending for a physician to take a look at your knee. You shouldn't have pushed yourself so har—"

"No," Robert interrupted, shuddering. "No physicians."

"Bit—"

"No." He'd had enough of that drivel to last a lifetime; the sympathetic clucking and the ham-fisted poking and prodding. He preferred his torture straight—not accompanied by patronizing protestations that it was for his own good.

Tristan blew out his breath. "No physicians," he agreed, "unless it gets worse."

Robert didn't reply to that. They would only argue, and he would win, because Tristan wouldn't risk upsetting him. And at the moment, he would much rather go downstairs. "Just give me a hand, will you?"

With Andrew bracing him under his right shoulder and Tristan under his left, he managed a moderately dignified limp down the stairs and into the breakfast room. Shaw had evidently informed everyone that he wasn't in mortal peril, and from the subdued look on Edward's face, the Runt had been lectured about the dangers of sounding false alarms.

He shrugged free of his brothers as soon as he reached an empty chair to lean against. Once he'd satisfied himself that no one remained unduly alarmed on his behalf, he turned his attention to Lucinda. He'd wanted to look at her from the moment he'd entered the room, but he knew he wouldn't be able to disguise how pleased he was to see her. They were just friends, after all.

Hazel eyes, though, swept down to his bent leg and up to his face again.
Yes, we can't have anyone forgetting that Robert Carroway's a cripple, now, can we
? he thought.
The madman decided to go dancing, and now he can't walk
. Well, now that she'd been reminded, no doubt she would make some excuse and leave.

Lucinda smiled. "I was going to ask if you would care to go walking with me," she said, "to show me how your roses are progressing. Now, perhaps, we should forget the walking and you can just describe them to me."

Robert swallowed. God, she'd worn yellow muslin. She looked like sunshine. "Aunt Milly's walking cane should be in her bedchamber," he said. "Would you fetch it for me, Runt?"

Edward seemed happy to escape. "I'll be right back."

"Robert," Tristan hissed in his ear, "you need to res—"

"I had a question for you, anyway, Miss Barrett," he interrupted, "about one of the cuttings."

"Oh, good," Lucinda replied, her warm smile deepening. "I do like to pretend to be an authority about things."

Edward reappeared in a few moments with the cane. Robert took it, cautiously testing his weight on it. It was too short, and his knee hurt like the devil, but he could stand it. He could stand nearly anything.

"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing for Lucinda to lead the way.

By some miracle he made it out the front door and down the shallow steps. Despite his efforts the strain must have shown on his face, because abruptly Lucinda took his free arm.

"I can manage," he grunted, shuddering at the contact. "I don't need help."

Hazel eyes lifted to meet his, and his mouth went dry. "I'm not helping you," she stated. "I'm forcing you to behave like a gentleman and escort me."

That said, she wrapped her left hand around his arm as well. Beneath short, puffy sleeves, her arms were bare to her wrists, with thin lace gloves as fashionable as they were impractical covering her fingers. The warmth of her seeped through his sleeve, heating his own skin. "Is that another of your lessons?" he forced out, thankful that his voice sounded normal.

"No, it's just a general rule."

Thanks to her feigned lack of assistance, he navigated the carriage drive fairly easily, and they reached his small garden beside the stables without his falling on his face.

"They look very healthy," she said approvingly.

"I used flounder."

"Ah. Only the best for the roses. I even see the beginnings of new leaf growth. You see? There and there."

Robert kept his gaze on her face, aware that either the library curtains were suffering an apoplexy or his entire family was spying on them. "You didn't come here to evaluate my leaf growth."

"No, I didn't," she returned without hesitation. "I came to thank you for last night. However I might have tried to implement that particular lesson, I could never have been that successful. It was wonderful. You were wonderful."

He shrugged. "It worked because of you. If Geoffrey hadn't thought you might have had some interest in me, he wouldn't have noticed anything I did. No one would have."

Some interest in Robert
. More like a schoolgirl's infatuation—which wasn't helpful at all. Lucinda kept her gaze on the roses, and wondered whether he was truly that unaware of what a mesmerizing sight he'd been. She and Geoffrey hadn't been the only ones watching him last evening. With that dark, disheveled hair and those intense blue eyes, he was a poet's vision. And the quiet mystery that seemed to surround him only made him more attractive. And not just to her. She'd heard enough females muttering to be certain on that front.

"However you managed it," she said, "thank you. Those girls looked so happy. I know it couldn't have been easy for y—"

"I'm fine," he interrupted.

It sounded like something he said a great deal, an automatic response to anyone expressing their concern over him. Lucinda frowned. "No, you're not," she stated. "You hurt your leg for my lesson."

He didn't move, but all the same she could feel him pulling away. "It's just my knee. It gets a little stiff when I'm on it for a while. You and Geoffrey argued."

Lucinda blinked. Of course he would have noticed. He noticed everything. "He made a… disparaging comment about some of the young ladies dancing last evening. I didn't appreciate it." She paused. If Robert could jump into any subject he chose, she could do the same. "You were shot in that knee, weren't you?"

A muscle in his cheek jumped. "Yes. And Geoffrey's comments weren't just about the ladies, were they? He said something about me."

"He… might have." She drew a breath. "I didn't appreciate that, either."