Page 15 of When Dashing Met Danger

“Let’s be clear, Miss Dashing. I’ll handle this matter.” The seductive timbre of his voice was ruined by his words. “You are not to become involved.”

Lucia stared at the window. “Why should I be surprised that you take his side? Apparently arrogant men do all think alike.” She shot him a brief glance, then wished she hadn’t when she saw the scowl on his face. But she squashed her anger, determined not to play into his misinformed notion of females. “I’m well aware that men like you and my father consider women little more than ornaments without any sense. I’ve found that the best way to contradict that belief is by proving them wrong, so I intend to provide you the information concerning my brother in a calm, rational manner.” With a toss of her head, she rose and went to her father’s desk. Once seated behind it, she felt dwarfed by its considerable size, but she tried to imagine she looked more dignified than she felt.

Pulling out a sheet of her father’s personal stationery, she began to detail the information Selbourne wanted. She kept her eyes on paper and pen, trying to ignore the heat Selbourne’s gaze continued to generate in her belly. And toes. And thighs. And . . .

She pressed the pen harder into the paper. That her father thought her a hysterical, overly bold female was no surprise. But that one of his motives in marrying her to Dandridge was to keep her under control hurt. She knew she had a temper and had more than once unleashed it at the wrong time, but she had never caused any sort of scandal or blemished the Dashing family name or the Brigham title. Her father needn’t worry that she’d ruin his chance at the position of Paymaster of the Forces. She would toe the line.

But now her brother had disappeared to God-knew-where, and her father treated it as a minor indiscretion—a misunderstanding. If she’d so much as fluttered her fan the wrong way, her father would have scolded her for a week. But not John. Not Francesca. Her siblings could do no wrong. She felt less than charitable toward her brother at the moment, but she would not allow that to prevent her from helping to find him. She loved John, and she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t do everything she could to find him. And let her father or Selbourne just try to stand in her way.

She finished writing, tapped her temple thoughtfully, added one more name, then, sanding the paper to dry the ink, handed it across the desk to Selbourne.

“I’m sure a capable man like you doesn’t need my assistance,” she said, tossing a wayward curl over her shoulder. “But Mrs. Seaton is giving a ball tonight, and while it will not be all the crack, most of my brother’s friends will be in attendance.”

There. She’d done her duty and then some. Assuming an imperial manner, she stood, marched around the desk, and brushed by Selbourne, nose three inches in the air. Just as she made it to the door, her exit perfect, the featherlike touch of his hand on her arm stopped her. She didn’t turn, but the feel of his warm lips moving against her earlobe paralyzed her.

“I’d never consider you merely an ornament, sweetheart.”

The temperature of Lucia’s blood rose instantly. A bead of perspiration trickled from the base of her neck to the center of her back, and she shivered, imagining his touch would feel as tantalizing.

“You’re much too passionate for that title,” he whispered. “In fact, I worry for any ornaments in your presence. With that temper, you’re likely to smash them.”

She spun around, the heat of arousal replaced by the fire of fury. If only she had something more lethal than her shawl to hit him with. “If I had an ornament in my hand right now, you, sir, can be confident I would know what to do with it!”

Lucia shook off his hand and threw open the door, but his laughter taunted her as she stomped upstairs. Ornament! Ornament indeed. She’d show him how much of an ornament she was.

Chapter Six

Once in her room, Lucia flopped onto her bed, feeling the sharp sting of tears just behind her eyelids. She buried her head in the pillow, heaved a loud sigh, and waited for the flood.

And waited.

Oh, why couldn’t she be like other girls and cry or faint over every trifle? Much easier to be weak and pampered than strong and scolded. Resigned, she turned her head and rested her cheek on the soft pink pillowcase. Pink walls, pink curtains, and a dressing table draped in pink silk stared back at her. If Selbourne didn’t make her cry, her bedroom just might.

She hated pink.

Her mother loved it.

Lucia had repeatedly asked to have the room re-decorated. She’d suggested a quiet mint green, then a primrose yellow, next a muted lilac. All to no avail— until this Season. Her mother had informed her upon leaving Tanglewilde for London that, as a surprise, she’d had Lucia’s room redecorated. The short trip from Hampshire to Town had been an eternity.

When they’d arrived, she’d rushed upstairs, flung open the door to her room, and found it exactly the same. She’d stared, speechless.

Her mother came up behind her and said, “Well, dolce, what do you think?”

“It’s pink,” was all she could think to say.

“No, cara.” Her mother patted her shoulder indulgently. “The color is called dusky rose. Que bello!”

“Bello,” Lucia muttered.

“Si´, bello. Roseo!”

Now, in her misery, the tonsil-colored walls stared back at her. She shut her eyes, contemplating just how many thousands of shades of rose her mother could find to torment her. Lord! Her walls were the least of her worries. Lately it seemed nothing in her life went right. First Dandridge. Now John . . .

There was a light knock at the door, and she sat up as Francesca entered, holding Gatto, the family cat.

“No tears?”

“Not for lack of trying. What are you still doing here? I thought you and Winterbourne had gone.”

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