England's Perfect Hero

by Suzanne Enoch

  She really didn’t think either request would be much of a problem, but she nodded anyway. “I’ll be cautious.”

  “Thank you. You’ll help an old man rest easier.”

  Lucinda grinned, tucking her hands around his arm. “Which old man would that be? You’ll have to introduce me.”

  The Carroway family rarely breakfasted together. They all had their own schedules, meetings, planned excursions, and in Edward’s case, lessons. Robert had none of those things, and a definite appreciation of solitude. At half past nine, when he entered the breakfast room, it didn’t surprise him that he was alone but for a pair of footmen. He’d planned it that way.

  He liked mornings; the rising of the sun had come to seem like a daily miracle. A freshly ironed copy of The London Times lay beside the place setting at the head of the table waiting for Tristan, but he ignored it. He didn’t care what happened in the rest of the world—or in London. At the sideboard he shoveled ham and toast onto his plate, then sat at the far end of the table. He sliced a piece of ham and brought it to his mouth just as the butler stepped into the breakfast room.

  “Master Robert, you have a caller,” Dawkins said, looking uncomfortable. None of the servants liked to talk to him, though most of the time he made sure they didn’t have a reason to do so.

  Ignoring the thud of his heart, Robert finished his bite. “I’m not here.”

  The butler nodded. “Very good, sir.”

  As Dawkins left, Robert went back to eating. No one called on him any longer; it must have been a miscommunication, someone looking for Shaw. The butler would straighten it out.

  Dawkins leaned into the breakfast room again. “Sir, Miss Barrett wishes to know whether she should leave the box here, or return with it later.”

  Miss Barrett? “What box?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Shall I inq—”

  Robert pushed to his feet. “I’ll see to it.”

  Lucinda Barrett stood in the foyer, a small wooden crate at her feet. He lifted his gaze from it to her, taking in the fashionable yellow bonnet over her auburn hair and a green and yellow gown to match. Unless he was very much mistaken, the expression in her hazel eyes was amused.

  Robert shook himself. Invited or not, she was the guest, so he was supposed to say something first. “What are you doing here?”

  She flipped him a pair of heavy work gloves, which he caught by reflex. “Pick that up,” she said, gesturing at the box, “and follow me.”

  He almost did it, catching himself just as he started to stoop. “No,” he returned, straightening.

  Miss Barrett folded her arms across her pert bosom. “Were you, or were you not, rude to me yesterday?”

  “Your point being?”

  “I’m getting my revenge on you.” With an easy, confident smile, she toed the box. “So come along. It’s just a few feet, and I promise there’s nothing in there that’ll bite.” Her brow furrowed. “Not as long as you’re careful, that is.”

  Dawkins had returned to the hallway, the two breakfast room footmen at his heels. At least one maid lurked up on the balcony, eavesdropping, while he could hear Edward upstairs arguing with his tutor about Madagascar, of all things. Shrugging, he tossed the gloves onto the lid and then bent down and hefted the box.

  Lucinda pulled open the front door before Dawkins could reach it. Rather than motioning for Robert to precede her, she marched down the front steps and turned right along the drive.

  Well, this was odd, but at least it got him away from the curious eyes inside. Robert followed while she traipsed toward the stable, lifting her skirts above the damp grass as she left the carriage drive.

  “This looks good,” she said, stopping to turn a circle at the near side of the stable. “Plenty of sun, but with shelter from the worst of the weather.” She faced him again, pulling on her own heavy pair of gloves. “Well, put it down.”

  Robert stood where he was, eyeing her. Once he saw her with the gardening gloves, everything began to make sense. For a brief moment he contemplated hunting down Georgiana and favoring her with a few choice words. Whatever she’d told Lucinda, though, Miss Barrett was the one who’d agreed to it.

  Carefully he put the box down and took a step back. “Good luck with your endeavors,” he said, “but next time use a footman to cart your luggage. Good morning.”

  “Mister Carroway,” she said to his back, “generally when someone gives someone else a gift of some rather rare and valuable rose cuttings, they are thanked for their efforts.”

  He stopped. “I didn’t ask you for anything.”

  “Hence my use of the word ‘gift.’ There are also several books on rose cultivation in there. So you don’t kill anything out of ignorance, I thought I might give you a brief introduction and some general instructions.”

  Robert strode back to her. “I don’t want your roses, your instruction, or your damned charity,” he snarled.

  She blinked, and he realized he’d more than likely frightened her. Well, good. He didn’t much like surprises, either.

  “You came to see me yesterday,” she said slowly, her gaze holding his. “When I saw Georgie this morning and she mentioned roses, I thought perhaps you’d meant to ask me for some clippings. So I don’t consider this charity. I consider it my affirmative answer to a question you hadn’t quite asked.”

  God, what was she thinking, to be willing to put up with such idiocy from him? And when he walked away, he would have no reason or cause ever to visit or talk with her again—about anything.

  At the same time, her “gift,” as she chose to call it, left him on very marshy ground. He needed a better tactical position if he ever wanted her to see him as anything other than a cripple. Just the fact that that concerned him was startling. “I actually thought I would suggest a trade,” he lied, rushing his mind through several possible scenarios.

  “ ‘A trade,’ ” she repeated, skepticism skimming across her face. “What sort of trade?”

  Robert took a deep breath. This was what he’d meant to say yesterday. He’d blamed his leaving on hearing her father approach, but even as he’d escaped he’d known General Barrett was only an excuse. He hadn’t spoken because he hadn’t been certain he could carry through with what he wanted to propose.

  Now or never, he told himself. If he meant to limp back into Society, he couldn’t do it with his family as a crutch. No one would believe it, including himself. But Lucinda—she gave him something to focus on other than dread. And she still seemed to labor under the misconception that he was human.

  “I thought if you would help me begin a rose garden,” he said, encouraged that his voice sounded steady, “I would help you with Lord Geoffrey Newcombe.”

  “Lord Geoff…How would you help me with him?”

  Damn. Now he needed an actual plan. “Whether you mean to teach him a lesson or…something more, in my company any of your meetings would seem more coincidental.”

  “I—”

  “You know Georgie and Lady St. Aubyn can’t be of as much help now that they’re married. As a single gentleman, I also have insight into Geoffrey which you might find gives you a certain advantage.”

  Miss Barrett tilted her head, regarding him. “So you would avail me of your advice, and where necessary be my escort on drives or excursions, when my true purpose would be to encounter Lord Geoffrey.”

  “Yes.” Until it killed him, anyway.

  Slowly Lucinda walked to the crate and lifted the second pair of gloves off the lid. “Let’s get started then,” she said, handing them back to him, “shall we?”

  Tristan couldn’t find his wife. She’d gone out early on a brief errand, and he knew she’d returned, but she wasn’t in their bedchamber, or her upstairs sitting room, or the aunties’ frilly morning room, or the breakfast room.

  Damnation. She was nearly eight months pregnant, and if she didn’t begin to take things a little more slowly he was going to drag her off to Dare Park in Devon whether she wanted to go or not.
“Georgiana!”

  “Shh,” came from the library. “In here. And be quiet, for goodness’ sake.”

  More than a little curious, the viscount entered the library. His wife stood against the wall by a half-open window, peering through the glass.

  “What the devil are y—”

  She clapped a hand over his mouth. “Look,” she whispered.

  Following her gaze, Tristan looked down toward the stable—and froze.

  Lucinda Barrett stood in the middle of an unruly clump of grass, an open book in her hands. Opposite her, gesturing with a scraggle of leaves and thorns in one hand as he spoke, stood Robert. As Tristan watched, Bit paced a limping square approximately fifteen feet per side and then returned to Lucinda.

  “What is going on?” Tristan murmured, unable to take his eyes off his brother.

  “Roses,” Georgie answered in the same low voice. “I asked Lucinda to bring over some cuttings.”

  “But he’s talking to her.”

  Georgiana slipped her hands around his arm, leaning against his shoulder. “Yes, he is.”

  Tristan continued to watch. Bit kept his distance from Lucinda, but he was definitely interacting with her. And he’d sought her out at the Wellcrist soiree. “Georgie, does he—I mean, how—” He stopped, taking a breath. “Does Lucinda like him?”

  “Lucinda likes everyone,” she murmured back, her hands tightening around his arm in obvious tension, “and everyone likes her.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t think so, Tristan. I can’t say more, but I believe she has set her sights on someone. And no, it’s not Bit.”

  Of course it wasn’t. Bloody hell. “We have to go down there and stop this little meeting, then.”

  “No.” Georgie shook him. “Leave them alone. If you interfere, Bit will resent it. They’re just talking. And you don’t know anything about it. You are completely ignorant. Do you understand?”

  Tristan sighed. With every fiber of his being he wanted to protect his brother—wanted to do…something to see that he was all right, but obviously he was already better than three years too late for that. At the same time, he knew that Georgiana was absolutely correct, as she usually was. “For now, I don’t know anything about it,” he agreed, turning to kiss her on one soft cheek. “And neither do you. But I reserve the right to be enlightened at a moment’s notice.”

  “Hopefully we’ll both be able to remain blissfully ignorant.”

  He tugged her away from the window, pulling her into his arms. “I was blissfully ignorant, until five minutes ago. And I have a very bad feeling about this, love.”

  “I know. But he wouldn’t be down there if he didn’t want to be. And if he wants to be there, then maybe that means he wants to try to come back to us.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  As Robert listened to Miss Barrett instructing him about what kind of fish made the best rose fertilizer, he glanced again at the upstairs library window. Both Georgie and Tristan would have made terrible spies. He knew Georgiana had arranged for Lucinda to visit this morning, but he hoped her eavesdropping didn’t mean she intended to try managing him. That was not going to happen.

  If he’d been himself, the Robert before the war, he would have thought Georgiana was matchmaking. Back then he would have pursued Lucinda, though in truth it would have been her looks that attracted him. Now she’d set her sights on someone else. And now it was her serenity, her peace, that drew him like a warm breeze on a cold day. And even though he enjoyed being around her, he resisted her, because he was supremely aware that he wasn’t the old Robert any longer; he was Bit, a piece of what he’d once been.

  Of course even now it would have been foolish to deny that he found her beautiful, almost medieval with her dark hair and eyes and her pale, smooth-as-cream skin. Her hair smelled pleasantly of roses, and he could imagine her bathing in a pool of red silken petals. But he hadn’t been with a woman in four years, for God’s sake, and this one happened to be Georgiana’s closest friend, not to mention the only non-family female to whom he’d said more than a sentence in what felt like decades. He scowled. So he’d become a monk in his own private monastery; at least his religion said he could look.

  “Mister Carroway,” Lucinda said, jolting him back from his worship, “I said, too much fish will ruin the soil.”

  “I understand.”

  He turned the stumpy twig of a white félicité parmentier in his hands. According to Lucinda, he wasn’t to be surprised if as many as half of the cuttings she’d provided didn’t take. The thorny things, bare of soil and roots, didn’t look alive to begin with. Were they? Were they awake, or asleep? Would they feel something, or nothing, if they died? If he killed them?

  “I don’t think this is a wise idea,” he said, hastily returning the cutting to the crate.

  She eyed him. “Why is that?”

  “I don’t have time to go fishmongering or plowing,” he said, backing away, concentrating on breathing. He hated it when the panic snuck up and hit him because of a damned stray thought.

  Miss Barrett drew a breath. “Very well. The general doesn’t like gardening, either.”

  His jaw tightened at the mention of her father. “It’s not that I dislike—”

  “I suppose that means our entire agreement is void.” Setting the book on the ground, she pulled off her gloves. “Oh, well. No harm done, I suppose.”

  Robert watched as she walked back toward the front of the house. “What about your cuttings?”

  She waved a hand in the direction of the crate. “I don’t have room to plant a whole new rose garden. Just throw them away.”

  For a long moment he stood looking after her while she climbed into her waiting coach and vanished back into the street. That had been odd. The plants were obviously her pride and joy, and she’d said some of them were rare. Did she truly not care what he did with them? Or had she read his thoughts when he wasn’t even certain what was bothering him?

  With a sigh he tugged the crate into the shade of the stable and headed back to the house to change into some old clothes more fit for gardening than the ones he currently wore.

  By the time he’d cleared off the grass and turned the soil, he was beginning to remember that he’d missed all but two bites of breakfast and that luncheon had already passed, as well. Reluctantly he returned the shovel to the stable.

  This late in the day he’d never find the quantity of fresh fish he required, so that meant a trip down to the docks along the Thames first thing in the morning. Lucinda had said the cuttings would survive out of the ground for a day or two in cool weather, so he secured the lid on the crate, collected the books she’d left, and returned to the house.

  He’d been right about one thing: soil and plants didn’t require conversation. In fact, silence actually seemed to suit them better. He couldn’t, however, say the same about his family.

  Normally whichever family members were home sought him out several times during the day, asking whether he was feeling well or whether he wanted to go riding or strolling or driving. After spending most of the day outside he’d seen no one but a few grooms, which of course meant that all of the Carroways knew what he’d been doing and didn’t want to risk interfering.

  As long as they didn’t ask him to explain it, as long as they pretended nothing had changed and that he wasn’t trying to pull himself out of the bottomless well where he’d been dwelling since his return to England, he was fine with the subterfuge.

  The difficult part would be deciding whether he wanted to admit to Lucinda that he’d decided to try to grow the roses. Because once she knew, he would be obligated to carry out his part of their little agreement—and that would be the real test of whether he could be human again or not. He only wished he knew the answer to the question before he set out to prove it. And he wished he could convince himself that knowing what Lucinda thought of him didn’t matter.

  Chapter 5

  Increase of knowledge only di
scovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was.

  —The Monster, Frankenstein

  Lucinda charged into Barrett House and rushed upstairs to change into a gown more suitable for receiving visitors. The general had said that Lord Geoffrey would be calling after luncheon, but she’d lingered longer than she meant to at Carroway House and had no time for anything more than the peach her maid ran down to the kitchen to fetch for her.

  She’d left things as well as she could with Robert Carroway, and she refused to feel guilty about abandoning him. It was up to him anyway, she told herself, to decide whether he wanted the garden or not. Nor was she so thick-skulled that she didn’t realize this was more than a simple planting project for him.

  Precisely what it was, she didn’t know for certain, but after spending more time in his company, after seeing the haunted depths behind those startling azure eyes, she hoped her gift would help. Lucinda caught herself staring sightlessly at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, and shook herself out of her unaccustomed reverie.

  Just as Helena finished fastening on her necklace for her, she heard the front door downstairs open, and the low, melodious sound of Lord Geoffrey’s voice as he responded to Ballow’s greeting. Her heartbeat quickened. He was here. It was time for the lessons to begin.

  She intentionally dallied upstairs for another few moments, fluffing curls and deciding on her strategy. She would have liked more time for plotting, but the encounter with Robert had taken all of her wits and attention. Interesting, that. She would have thought that conversing with someone who seldom spoke in return would have been less…involving. Except that he had spoken to her—and with her.

  A scratch came at her door. “Miss Barrett?” the butler said as Helena pulled open the door, “your father requests that you join him in his office.”