Shana Galen (5 page)

The gray eyes were the same. Under those dark slanted brows, his gaze was piercing, impossibly clear, giving her the impression he was looking right through her. But every time she felt a shudder of nervousness at his intensity, they seemed to warm in invitation. She clasped her hands together tightly. No wonder Selbourne had all the ladies in love with him. He could turn a simple glance into a seduction.

Finally he moved, crossing to sit in the armchair beside her. He seemed tired and—as usual—displeased. What was it about him that so attracted her? Oh, why couldn’t she have these feelings for Reginald? Why Selbourne—a rake and a scoundrel?

She hefted her chin a notch. She would just have to overcome her adverse response to Reginald. Forget all about the arrogant Selbourne. These things could be accomplished.

“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 feather like 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.

O
nce 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 redecorated. 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.

“
Sí
,
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.”

“Ethan left, but I thought you might need a friend.”

“Oh, Francesca!” Lucia leaped to her knees. “Do you really think something happened to poor John?”

“I don’t know.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Ethan says not to worry, that it’s all just a misunderstanding.” She placed the cat gently on the armchair and sat on the bed beside Lucia. “He says young men need to sow their oats or some such nonsense, but what do you think, Lucia? You know John better than anyone. The two of you are peas in a pod.”

Lucia sat back on her heels. “Not lately. Oh, Cesca, we haven’t talked—
really
talked—in so long. I
thought it was just John’s way of dealing with my engagement—our separation.” She bit her lip, holding back her own tears now. “But now I wonder if it wasn’t something more.” The last came out in a whisper, and Francesca took her hand. Lucia squeezed back, grateful for the offer of comfort. But she knew she would never be at peace until she was certain her brother and closest friend was well.

She and John had been inseparable as children, Lucia acquiring most of her bad habits from her brother. Their close bond hadn’t diminished with age or even when John went away to school. More often than not, they finished each other’s sentences and spent long hours in conversation. Lucia realized now that she couldn’t remember the last time they’d had one of their soul-searching talks or exchanged confidences.

“All our worrying isn’t going to help John,” Francesca said. “And I feel better knowing that Alex is looking into it. If there
has
been some mishap, Selbourne will find it out and make it right.”

Lucia snorted. “You’re giving Selbourne more credit than he deserves.”

“I know him better than you, dear. He’s a capable man.”

“Still,” Lucia said, tapping a finger against her chin. “We can’t leave this matter entirely in his hands.”

Francesca raised a brow. “We can’t?”

“Of course not!” Lucia frowned at her. “He doesn’t even have a good plan—”

“Oh, no, Lucia!” Francesca grasped both of Lucia’s hands and gave her a stern look. “You heard what Daddy said. You’re not to get involved. These schemes you concoct never work.”

Lucia shook free, indignant. “Schemes? I’m not scheming! I just thought that Dandridge and I might make an appearance at the Seatons’ ball tonight. While we’re there, I’ll make a few inquiries as to whether William Seaton has seen or heard from John recently.”

The whole affair would be absurdly simple. Almost too easy. She’d pull Seaton aside and tease information from him. He’d think she was flirting, nothing more. In fact, if she could arrange things so that he promised her a dance, they’d be together for almost half an hour. That would be more than enough time to flirt her way into any knowledge he had of John’s whereabouts.

Francesca shook her head at her. “This sounds suspiciously like a scheme, Lucia. In light of past experiences, I insist you reconsider.”

Lucia glanced out of her pink-draped window. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know you, Lucia, so wipe the innocent expression off your face.”

Lucia opened her mouth to protest, but Francesca silenced her with a wave of her hand. “Let me see, there was the time you and John decided that Mamma would be pleased if you dyed poor Il Cane pink for Daddy’s very important political dinner party. Poor Daddy almost had a seizure when the dog came racing into the dining room, pink and dripping wet, then shook himself dry, water flying all over those stuffy lords from Parliament.”

“You needn’t remind me. Il Cane was pink for a month, and John and I had a lecture from Father every time he saw the dog, which was far too frequently. But that was a long time ago,” she assured Francesca. “And it’s nothing like this plan.”

Francesca arched a brow. “Oh, really? What about last month when you were caring for little Sarah and Colin?”

Lucia dropped her jaw. Even Hamlet hadn’t had to suffer so many slings and arrows. “They wouldn’t go to bed, Francesca! What was I supposed to do?”

“Well, whatever you do, I can assure you that a three- and four-year-old will not be coaxed into bed after stories of ghosts and monsters. They still talk about the monster under the bed that will eat them up if they don’t go right to sleep.”

“I admit that was a miscalculation on my part—”

“Miscalculation!” Francesca threw her arms wide. “Last year at the masque when you thought the Prince of Wales was John and you tore off his disguise screaming ‘Aha!’ in the middle of the Duke of Essex’s ballroom—
that
was a miscalculation. You’re lucky Prinny found it amusing. Oh, and that scheme at Almack’s—”

Lucia’s head was pounding. “All right. All right. I’ve made a mess of things in the past, but I assure you I won’t make a muddle of the affair at the Seatons’. It’s too simple to go wrong. Simplicity: that’s the beauty of the plan, Francesca.” Lucia felt a familiar prickle of excitement creep through her limbs, making the little hairs on her arms stand up. She
knew
her idea would work. It had to.

Francesca eyed her dubiously, but Lucia wasn’t going to let her sister’s dire predictions alter her decision.

Suddenly Francesca sat up. “Mamma will never agree to this. You’re to attend the Duke of York’s ball tonight.” She sighed in relief.

Lucia pursed her lips. She’d forgotten about the duke’s ball. But it needn’t be a problem if—

“I’ll go to the duke’s ball after a stop at the
Seatons’,” she said. “Mamma need never know if you offer her a place in your carriage. Dandridge can escort me tonight, and there will be such a crush that if Mamma doesn’t see me until later in the evening she’ll think nothing of it.”

Francesca appeared unimpressed. “Dandridge won’t agree. The Seatons aren’t fashionable. Dandridge won’t give up the duke for Mrs. Seaton.”

“Yes, he will. I can be persuasive when the occasion calls for it. And though he’ll never admit it, I’m sure Reginald will be eager to make amends for his behavior last night.”

“That’s another thing I want to discuss with you.” Francesca placed a hand on Lucia’s shoulder. “Are you really going to go through with this marriage to Dandridge? It’s not too late to cry off.”

Lucia could hardly believe what she was hearing—call off the wedding? Be labeled a jilt? Disappoint her father and mother? Never. As Francesca had just pointed out, she’d made a muddle of things in the past. No wonder her father didn’t have faith in her. But she was going to show him that she’d changed—matured into a responsible, respectable woman. And marrying Reginald was the final proof.

“Not too late?” she choked. “We’re engaged. If I cry off there will be a horrible scandal. Father will be mortified, and our family will be the latest
on-dit
. It might ruin Father’s chances for advancement.”

“He survived it when I broke my engagement to Roxbury.”

“You’re different, Francesca,” Lucia said.
You’re perfect
.

“Nonsense. Daddy wouldn’t want you to marry someone you didn’t love or at least esteem.” She paused, her gaze searching Lucia’s face. “
Do
you love Dandridge?”

Lucia tried not to cringe. Love Dandridge? Of course not. But she couldn’t
say
she didn’t love him. She compromised. “Not everyone wishes to marry for love,” she answered. “Not everyone is lucky enough to fall in love, like you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Francesca said with a smile. “I saw the way you were looking at Selbourne earlier. He was watching you, too. I’ve never seen you look at Dandridge that way.”

Lucia stiffened. Was her attraction to Selbourne really so obvious? Worse, was her dislike for Reginald so evident?

She’d always known her parents wanted a union between the Brigham and the Dandridge titles, but they’d been generous in giving her an entire Season to fall in love with some other eligible bachelor. When she had not, despite several marriage proposals from suitable men, discussions with Lord Dandridge and his dowager mother began in earnest.

Lucia was also aware that her father cultivated an alliance with the young viscount to gain the clout needed to realize his ambitions in Parliament. Eager to please him, Lucia had been more than willing to adhere to her father’s wishes, but when she’d first met Reginald she’d faltered.

He wasn’t unattractive, exactly. Lucia, if pressed, would admit that he had good…teeth. But he was also short and fat-faced, with a middle she thought would soon follow. Still, there was nothing wrong with him. He was polite, respectable, not clever but reasonably intelligent. He was like every other man, and she knew after only a few moments that she would never—
could
never—love him.

But then she had been waiting for what seemed an eternity to fall in love—to experience that earth-shattering feeling of soul connecting with like-soul,
as Francesca and Ethan had. She searched the ballrooms and drawing rooms of upper-class London with a thoroughness that bordered on obsession, but there were simply no men who drew her.

She had
wanted
to fall in love. Wanted it desperately. But deep down she knew it would never happen. Not with any of the men of her family’s acquaintance.

She wasn’t going to tell Francesca this. Did it really matter when Reginald had so much affection for her? His eyes had lit like torches upon seeing her, and he’d grinned broadly at his good fortune. His smile faltered a little when she rose, and he realized they were the same height, Lucia being tall for a woman and Reginald being short for a man, but his grin returned. And if her height bothered him, as she suspected it did because he preferred to speak to her when she was sitting and he could stand, he never mentioned it.

But he was from a respectable family, had a good title, and had a future in politics. And love wasn’t really that important. She could certainly be practical, on occasion, and Reginald’s attributes were not to be overlooked.

At least that’s what her father said.

Keeping all this firmly in mind, Lucia said, “You’re a poor matchmaker, Francesca. Should I give up a marriage offer from Reginald in hopes of soliciting a carte blanche from Selbourne or some other rake? I hardly think that would be an acceptable substitute.” She tossed a curl over her shoulder.

“Don’t toss your head at me, Lucia. I’m liable to mistake you for one of my horses. Besides,” Francesca went on, “Alex wouldn’t treat you like that.”

“This whole conversation is ridiculous,” Lucia
said with an impatient wave. “There’s nothing between Selbourne and me. I certainly don’t love him. I don’t even
like
the man.”

“It didn’t look that way to me.”

“Francesca!”

Francesca raised her eyebrows, and Lucia was forced to admit, “Oh, all right! I admit I’m attracted to him, but that doesn’t
mean
anything. His looks don’t compensate for his horrid manners. I may not love Reginald, but I can’t spend my whole life waiting to fall in love. I’ll probably never fall in love. So why not marry Reginald? He’s as good as any other man. Better because our marriage will please Father.”

Francesca stared at her, and Lucia wished for the thousandth time she’d held her tongue. “Is that what this is all about?” Francesca asked. “Pleasing Daddy?”

Lucia was silent for a minute, staring at her gown and threading the material through her fingers. “I do want to please Father,” she said, looking up. “I’m not the firstborn like you or the only son like John. I don’t have your sweetness and good nature. Oh, I know I’m supposed to be ‘the beauty of the family,’ but that hasn’t compensated for all my faults, which everyone seems to enjoy pointing out at every opportunity.” She blinked back tears again. Lord, she’d been weepier in the past hour than she’d been in twenty years of life.

“Lucia, you’re too hard on yourself,” Francesca began.

“I wish I were,” she answered, finally in control of her emotions. “But I say what I think before I even stop to consider if I should. I’m impulsive and temperamental—all tolerable qualities in a son, but a daughter? Father doesn’t know what to make of me.”