Tall, Duke, and Dangerous (Hazards of Dukes #2) - Megan Frampton Page 0,14

Nash in all of his elegantly dressed fury, his fists clenched, a menacing expression on his face.

“Nash, it’s fine,” she said, holding her hand out in a vain attempt to stop him. “I have it handled.”

And then Nash did what Nash always did.

The ballroom was filled with what Nash supposed were beautiful women, many of whom seemed intrigued by the Dangerous Duke, but Nash couldn’t seem to stop watching her. He kept his eye on her as he danced with the smiling blond woman—a Lady Felicity, as it happened—and rebuffed the lady’s attempt to lure him onto the terrace.

He was well aware of terrace shenanigans, even though he’d never partaken himself.

He watched her as she danced with a variety of partners, noting her smile, seeing how much she seemed to enjoy herself. He was surprised to find he was mildly irked that she had so many partners—he had only asked her because he’d assumed she didn’t know anybody, and yet here she was, dancing and smiling with people he didn’t think he had ever seen before.

Humph.

Had she enjoyed herself as much when she was dancing with him?

Was it the music, the rhythm of the dance, or the partner that made her so happy?

And why didn’t he know? Why didn’t he know more about her? Of course he knew her, it felt as though he’d always known her, but what did he know about her?

He scowled as he thought about it. He knew she loved Sebastian. They had that in common, even though neither Nash nor Sebastian would ever say things like love to one another.

He knew she was always cheery, even when she was being berated by her stepmother, Sebastian’s mother. He’d been at the house several times when the late duchess—good riddance to bad rubbish, he thought sourly—had summoned Ana Maria to be dressed down in front of everybody.

And Ana Maria had taken it, keeping that same slight, accommodating smile on her face as her stepmother told her just what she thought about her stepdaughter.

If it had been Nash, he would have resorted to violence long ago.

Then again, that was who Nash was. It was not who Ana Maria was.

Other than that? He knew nothing about her.

Except that she apparently liked dancing and music and gentleman partners.

It was frustrating that he didn’t know.

It was even more frustrating when he saw her being guided to the refreshment table by some cur who seemed far more pleased with himself than Nash would have liked. And the most frustrating when he saw that same cur, probably some lord’s son who had no ideas of his own, lead her through a door into a room where he couldn’t see her any longer.

He narrowed his gaze, searching the crowd to find Thaddeus. Her chaperone should have been watching her as well. Not leaving it up to Nash, who didn’t know her at all.

But Thaddeus was at the far side of the room, his hand clamped on some military man’s shoulder, speaking intently to the man, his gaze unwavering from the other man’s face.

Damn it, Thad.

Nash took a deep breath and began to walk toward the room she’d gone into, ignoring his grandmother’s sharp call to him, ignoring the people who seemed to want to address him, then wisely backed away when he snarled in reply.

He heard a crash inside, and his pace quickened, reaching the door in just a few more moments. He hesitated for a second—what if she didn’t welcome the intrusion? After all, he didn’t truly know her, he didn’t know what she might want in this situation—but decided it was better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission, particularly where this lady was concerned.

He turned the knob, only—nothing. It was locked.

And he heard her voice, commanding and dismissive, and he leaned his shoulder against the wooden door and pushed, hearing something splinter and break as it opened.

It took seconds for him to assess the situation—her, advancing on the man with a poker, the man’s expression belligerent as he grasped the pointy end of the poker and tried to remove it from his chest.

She glanced up to meet his gaze. She didn’t look terrified, as he would have expected; she looked annoyed. As though the man had stepped on her foot, or disparaged her choice of gown. Not as though she were trapped alone in a room with him where her only choice was to resort to fireplace tools, of all things.

He advanced, the anger feeling righteous, one of those moments