England's Perfect Hero (9 page)

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Saint nodded. "Fair enough. All the same, I wouldn't mind eventually hearing why. I generally trust my first impressions of people, and both of you seem to have ended up on my very small good side. I'd like to know if I've erred."

"You have," Robert returned. "With both of us."

"How interesting. You don't mind if I continue observing, then."

Robert wanted to tell him to bugger off, but he knew enough about the marquis not to want him as an enemy. "Suit yourself," he said instead.

"I always do." Saint signaled one of the footmen stationed around the room. "And in the meantime I think I'll make a change in the dinner seating arrangements. I believe Evie put you next to Augustus."

Bloody hell
. He'd managed to make it there by concentrating on how he could assist Lucinda; dinner seating hadn't occurred to him. For Christ's sake, he almost never stayed anywhere long enough for dinner. "Thank you, then."

"You served on the
Dreadnought
?" Lord Geoffrey asked Bradshaw.

"I did," Shaw returned. "We saw more than a dozen engagements during the war."

"Ha." General Barrett looked up from instructing Edward. "A dozen engagements? How many of those were against French scows trying to run a blockade?"

Shaw only grinned. "A few."

"Enough for Shaw to be made captain," Edward said loyally.

"Congratulations, Carroway," Lord Geoffrey put in. "Perhaps I should have considered making my fortune in the Navy."

"Nonsense, lad. Much more opportunity for advancement in the Army."

"Bit met Wellington once," Edward offered, as he concentrated on lining up his next shot.

Gray eyes turned in Robert's direction. "I'm certain he did," the general conceded. "His Grace always made a point of calling on his wounded officers."

"It was before that. They shared a bottle of whiskey."

Geoffrey lifted an eyebrow, "Do tell. Why not regale us with the tale, Carroway?"

Robert returned his gaze levelly. "No."

Tristan and Bradshaw stepped forward at the same time. "It's your shot again, Runt," the viscount said, moving casually between Robert and Lord Geoffrey.

"I'd like to point out that I've been losing intentionally," Saint put in, shifting, whether by coincidence or not, to block Robert's view of General Barrett, "which makes me quite the generous host, does it not?"

The Halboro butler marched into the room. After giving a slight nod to St. Aubyn, he threw back the door. "Dinner is served."

As the relocation to the drawing room to join the ladies began, Edward found Robert. "Who am I supposed to escort?" he whispered.

Robert did a quick calculation. With three females present, Newcombe would be the last man to escort a guest of the opposite gender—and that would be Lucinda Barrett. "You may escort me," he said in a low voice.

"Good," the boy returned. "I'm glad you came, or I'd have to escort myself."

Well, at least one of them was happy he was there. As they joined Shaw in back of the pairs strolling into the dining room, though, he had to modify that thought. Georgie made a point of smiling at him, while Tristan and Bradshaw both gave him a look while pretending not to do so.

All right, so all the Carroways were happy he'd managed to last till dinner. And maybe he owed it to them to last through the evening. He sent a glance at Lucinda, who was studying Lord Geoffrey's profile. If he'd been Geoffrey, he wouldn't have wasted time in the billiards room. Any thought of comparing himself with Fenley's son vanished, however, as he realized where St. Aubyn had decided to seat him.

"Miss Barrett," he said, taking the chair beside her.

She looked so elegant, and at the same time perfectly at ease. It was an emotion he could remember, if never hope to duplicate. He wondered if, despite her willingness to exchange words with him, she wished she hadn't run across him that afternoon in the spare bedchamber. At the same time, her breathing had stilled when he touched her cheek. He knew that, because it had felt as though his heart had stopped beating. Was it a sign, then, that he wasn't completely dead and decayed inside? Or did it mean he was simply becoming obsessed with Lucinda Barrett?

Who was he helping, then: her, or himself? Whoever it was, he needed to elevate himself from mute shadow to rival. He'd begun the process, but one touch, soft and breathless though it had been, was not enough.

"It occurred to me," he said quietly, waiting until boisterous conversation had begun around them, "that I might be of more assistance if I knew what appeared on your list."

"My… No!" she hissed nearly soundlessly.

You can do this
, he shouted at himself, then forced a small smile. "If you don't want to tell me, I could guess."

Lucinda took a rather large gulp of Madeira. "Mister Carroway—Robert—I appreciate your offer, but I really do not need your help. The rose cuttings were a gift, nothing more."

He must sound as desperate as he felt. "What if I told you," he murmured, "that Geoffrey considers himself a hero, and that it is his opinion that has convinced everyone else?"

She looked sideways at him, then slid her gaze toward Geoffrey, who was deep in conversation with the general beside him.
Ah, ha
. No wonder Evelyn was sending infuriated looks at her husband. She'd meant for Geoffrey to sit beside Lucinda, and Saint had made new arrangements, putting the mute beside Miss Barrett. Robert apparently owed Saint a favor, then.

"Lord Geoffrey is assisting my father in re-creating missing portions of his field journals," she said. "So you see, I thank you again, but I have things quite well in hand."

"Very well. Tell me one item on your list, and I'll stop pestering you."

"I will not—" She closed her soft lips. At least he imagined they would be soft. "One item."

"Just one."

"Very well." Lucinda settled her napkin in her lap. "I will tell you one thing if you will tell me one thing."

Cold clenched into his chest. What if she asked something that he couldn't answer? What if he locked down into silence again, where he couldn't speak at all? It had taken him a year to crawl out of that hole—and he wasn't going back, not for anything, not for anyone.

"Do we have a deal, or not?" she prompted.

Stop it
, he said to himself. His favorite mantra. She'd made a very simple challenge, one she expected him either to accept or to refuse. One she might make of any normal human. "Deal," he managed, his low voice hoarse.

"D… Really?"

For a moment, his expression softened into a fleeting smile. Lucinda could see it deepening into his eyes. In response, for the barest of beats, her breath caught. Good heavens. If he wasn't such a wreck, he would be irresistible.

"You didn't expect me to agree," he said.

She caught Lord Geoffrey looking at the two of them. This was silly. Playing with Robert was only going to delay her plans for Geoffrey, and might very well put them in jeopardy. Still, somewhere deep inside, Robert Carroway intrigued her. "No, I didn't." With a breath, Lucinda called to mind her list of lessons. "All right. This is the first lesson, more or less: 'When conversing with a lady, pay attention to her. Don't act as though you're just biding your time until someone more interesting comes along.'"

Robert gazed at her. "That's it?"

Heat rose in her cheeks. "It's only the first lesson, and
I
think it's important. Not just for me, but for any lady. And now you have to tell me something."

"What might that be?"

She could hear the tension beneath his words, and immediately altered what she'd been about to ask. Her curiosity about what troubled him could wait. She had no intention of hurting him. "Since you have roses now," she said, "where would I find the words 'Now 'tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted/Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden'?"

Robert blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"You heard me."

For a long moment he gazed at her, while she wondered whether he would—or could—answer. It wasn't the best-known phrase in most circles. Then a slow smile touched his mouth. "It's from
Henry VI, Part Two
. By Shakespeare. But he wasn't talking about plants."

"I know that, but it seemed appropriate." Relieved, and oddly pleased both that she'd surprised him and that he'd known the origin of one of her favorite quotes, she returned his smile. "You do read more than
Frankenstein
."

"I read everyth—"

"Luce? Lucinda, listen." Evie motioned at her. "Lord Geoffrey is telling us about the night he crossed the Tormes River in Spain."

"Yes, listen to the fun," Robert murmured, closing off again and lowering his head to his dinner.

"That's mean," she returned in the same tone. "There's nothing wrong with being a hero."

"Heroes don't tell their own stories," he breathed back. "But I'll make certain he pays attention to you."

For a few moments she only half paid attention to Geoffrey's tale. She'd selected him in part because the choice had seemed amiable and painless. The goal remained precisely that, but with Robert Carroway's involvement, the hunt had become something else entirely. Lucinda took another swallow of Madeira, feeling the heat radiating off the tall, hard man beside her. One thing the lesson-giving
had
become was very, very interesting.