The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (8 page)

Bloody bluestocking
, he mentally corrected himself, picking a volume randomly from the shelf and pulling it down. He opened it and leafed through the pages absentmindedly. The last six months had been difficult, with rarely a free moment. There’d been his father’s death to deal with, then his move to Carrington House, and adjusting to the demands of his title. And of course his work with the Corinthians as well. All good reasons for Dash having failed to realize what a loss his father’s books would be to him.

Then Miss Barnes had innocently posed a question. “How on earth will you be able to part with them?” she’d asked.

And now here Dash was, sentimentally fondling books as if doing so would somehow ease the pain of missing the old man. His father wasn’t in the books. But they were a part of him, just as his heart and liver, lungs and brain had been.

“Bloody, bloody bluestocking,” Dash muttered, his curse becoming an inquiry as he gazed down the end of the aisle to where the room ended and an alcove began. Its brocade curtains were pulled tight and a small object sat on the floor to the left of where the two fabric panels met. As Dash drew closer he realized it was a woman’s shoe. Suddenly, a slender foot appeared beneath the left
curtain. It pointed and then arched, as though the owner were relieving a touch of stiffness.

“You really do wear blue stockings,” Dash exclaimed, ridiculously delighted by the discovery.

A squawk of dismay sounded from behind the brocade and the foot disappeared.

Dash waited for the woman to part the curtains.

And waited.

“I know you’re there,” he called out.

“I know that you know that …” Miss Barnes replied, a heavy sigh stealing the remainder of her words. “Really, my lord. Could we not both pretend otherwise?”

God, he’d embarrassed her. He’d awoken annoyed with the woman and now? Well, now he had to make things right. Blast, but living with women in the house was burdensome.

Dash closed the distance to the alcove. He reached out and brushed the brocade curtain three times.

“What on earth are you doing?” Miss Barnes asked quizzically, the curtain still firmly in place.

“May I come in?”

Dash heard an “oh” of understanding, then the swish of skirts before the curtain was slowly pulled back.

And there she was. Miss Barnes sat with her back propped against the wall of the alcove, her legs tucked beneath her and a book lying open on her lap.

“Good morning, Miss Barnes.” Dash eyed her before taking a seat at the opposite end of the cushioned bench. “You’re up quite early.”

Miss Barnes gave him a nervous smile. “I’m from the country, Lord Carrington. We are accustomed to such things.”

She smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. “And you? I was led to believe native Londoners never rose to meet the morning sun.”

“True enough,” Dash replied, his earlier vexation
with Miss Barnes dissipating. “Though you should know I’ve spent a fair amount of time in the country myself.”

Miss Barnes leaned forward and closed her book, propping it against the window. “Is that so? What part?”

“Sussex. As a child I spent every summer there with my father,” Dash replied, finding himself inexplicably angling forward as well. “It was idyllic, Miss Barnes. Bright, sunny days that seemed to go on forever. Starry midnight jaunts about the grounds. My friends and I, well, I suppose we were nothing more than young wild animals,” he finished, an odd sense of embarrassment settling in his chest.

“It sounds utterly perfect,” she replied, understanding in her voice. “And very much like my childhood in Dorset, though I know you’ll find it hard to believe.”

“But you’re a woman,” Dash countered without thinking. The realization that it was exceedingly easy to appear witless in front of Miss Barnes was not lost on him.

Her shoulders relaxed and an effortless smile lit her face, all nervousness gone. “Yes, my lord. But my mother died in childbirth. And after my fourth nanny resigned over a frog’s mysterious appearance in her soup, my father left me to my own devices.”

Dash slapped his knee in approval. “Miss Barnes, you are a
surprise
!”

She tensed and suddenly scooted back until she leaned once more against the wall, folding both arms across her bodice. “I don’t know about that, my lord. But tell me, when were you last in Sussex?”

Dash stared at her, nonplussed at the abrupt return to wary reserve and desperate to discern what he’d done wrong. “Not for fifteen years.”

“Why would you take so long to return?” she continued,
her face revealing no hint as to what he’d done to offend her. Her voice was cool; her expression held only polite interest.

“A family tragedy, Miss Barnes. A dear friend’s mother was killed,” Dash began, still distracted by the loss of her earlier friendly warmth and unaware of what he revealed. “Too many memories in Sussex.”

Miss Barnes’s stiff politeness evaporated. She unfolded her arms and reached out as though she thought to take his hands, and her eyes filled with concern. “I am sorry, my lord. I should not have pried.”

Dash leaned in farther, desperately wanting to take her hands in his, but reason forcing him not to.

God, what was he doing?
This wasn’t like him. Not at all.

He abruptly stood, pushing the brocade panels wider to fully reveal the world once more.

The sound of the brass curtain rings sliding against the rod startled Miss Barnes and she straightened.

“No need to apologize, Miss Barnes,” Dash reassured her, his words clipped. “What is in the past is just that—the past.”

She reclaimed her book and opened it, laying one palm flat against the smooth pages. “Of course, my lord. Good day.”

Dash realized that having stood, he should move, preferably soon. “And good day to you, too, Miss Barnes,” he replied, turning from the alcove and retracing his steps out of the library.

The encounter with Lord Carrington in the alcove had left Elena with the oddest sensation, as though something of significance had happened. What that “something” was, she hadn’t been able to identify. She’d eaten her breakfast, drank more tea than any one person
should, and still the situation had continued to mystify her.

She’d decided she needed fresh air and a bit of exercise to clear her mind and set out with her maid for a walk.

“Londoners truly call this a park, then?” Rowena asked disbelievingly, holding up one hand and counting off one finger at a time. “Miss, I can count the trees standing—might need my toes to do it, but still.”

Elena bit her lip to keep from laughing at her friend’s exaggerated country accent and turned to take in Bloomsbury Square. Rowena was right—the quaint, tidy square of green couldn’t hold a candle to Dorset’s lush fields and wide, welcoming lanes. But it did afford Elena the opportunity to get away from Carrington House and think—even if doing so meant walking the entire park five times around.

“How do city people stretch their legs, then?” Rowena asked, hurrying to keep up with Elena.

“Well, perhaps
they
don’t feel the need to do so,” Elena answered, though she couldn’t imagine such a thing. Without a good walk, Elena wouldn’t be able to make sense of her multitude of tangled thoughts.

Such as when Lord Carrington had called her a “surprise” in the alcove. The word had startled her from the comfortable intimacy their childhood revelations had created and forced her to remember just who she was and why she was there.

Elena was a woman who hated surprises. She was in the viscount’s home to see to his father’s books. And that was all.

Then why was she still bewildered by the interlude?

“Or perhaps they don’t worry quite as much as you.”

Elena slumped momentarily against her friend, sighing when Rowena looped an arm about her waist and squeezed gently. She couldn’t share her feelings regarding the viscount, not yet. But she couldn’t lie. Luckily,
there were a multitude of concerns on her mind. “Well, it involves Lady Mowbray. And anything having to do with a marchioness is quite worry-worthy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Is that even proper English, Miss? ‘Worry-worthy?’ It
must
be awful. Tell me, what has you so upset?”

Elena slowed her steps, the sound of Rowena’s voice soothing her jangled nerves. “She’s insisted that I attend a number of social events while we’re in town.”

“Heavens, that
is
the end of the world,” Rowena teased, nudging Elena with her elbow. “You’re not fresh from the schoolroom, Miss. You’re older. And wiser.”

Elena returned the favor and looped an arm through hers. “Older, anyway.”

“What does the mistress of Harcourt House have to fear from these London swells? Don’t forget who you are and how far you’ve come. Not now,” her friend pleaded, resting her head on Elena’s shoulder for a brief moment. “I believe in you.”

“You are the dearest girl. Have I told you that?” Elena replied, her confidence bolstered by Rowena’s words.

“Not today, no,” Rowena answered distractedly, looking ahead as a gentleman approached.

Elena eyed the man critically as he drew closer. He was fashionably dressed in buff breeches and a deep blue waistcoat, his Hessian boots polished expertly and his snowy white cravat perfectly tied. A thin, white scar marred an otherwise ideal face. He was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever laid eyes on. And yet, there was something in his swagger, or perhaps his overly expressive eyes, that made Elena uneasy.

He fastened his gaze on Rowena and his lips curled into a predatory smile. Elena pulled her friend protectively closer and quickened their pace.

“Miss,” Rowena begged, trying to put some distance
between them. “I can hardly walk without stepping on your skirts.”

Elena patted her hand. “Never mind my skirts, Rowena.”

The man was nearly upon them now. “Goodness,” Rowena sighed, clearly having forgotten all about Elena’s skirts.

“No, no! Not ‘goodness,’ Rowena,” Elena admonished, the unsettling feeling inspired by the man only growing as he purposefully stepped directly in their path and bowed.

“Ladies.” He smiled brilliantly. “A beautiful day, is it not?”

“Goodness,” Elena muttered disgustedly.

Rowena squeezed Elena’s arm and giggled.

“It is indeed, your …” Elena paused, as though searching for the correct address. “Well, I hardly know what to call you—which is why I find proper introductions to be infinitely useful in such situations, don’t you?”

Somehow, the man managed an even bolder grin, eliciting a second giggle from Rowena. “You are correct, madam. But wouldn’t you agree there are times when one simply cannot wait on propriety?” he countered, winking at Rowena.

“No, I would not,” Elena replied succinctly, not even bothering to curtsy before dragging Rowena around the man and down the path.

Rowena looked over her shoulder and giggled again. “He’s still staring after us, Miss,” she said breathlessly.

“Let him stare,” Elena said, her voice quivering from the encounter. “But a lady? Never.”

Rowena obediently turned her head and focused on the path. “He was quite handsome, wasn’t he?”

“Rowena, you must understand that men, no matter how handsome or charming, are dangerous—in one way or another.”

The girl frowned. “Even Viscount Carrington? Because, to be perfectly honest, Miss, he doesn’t seem smart enough to cause anyone trouble.”

“Yes, especially Viscount Carrington—he’s too dim to realize just how dangerous he is. And that makes him doubly dangerous,” Elena replied earnestly.

She steered Rowena toward a bench and sat, relaxing at the feel of the sun on her skin.

“Well,” Rowena began, settling in next to her. “If there’s one thing I mean to look out for, it’s men who are—”

“Dangerous,” they said in unison, with the full and proper seriousness that the statement deserved. And then they collapsed against each other and laughed until their sides ached from the effort.

Dash had fled for an auction at Tattersalls after encountering Miss Barnes in the library alcove. Once there, he’d helped Langdon choose a chestnut Thoroughbred and purchased a bay gelding for himself. The friends had then found their way to the club, where Dash had been ever since.