Free Baroness by Susan May Warren Page A

betray her traitorous, thundering heart.
    A pianist at a white baby grand peeled out some jazzy, fresh tune from the cabaret behind him, and from the open doors to the terrace, the smells of the night twined through potted ferns.
    Rosie slipped her arm through Tripp’s elbow and stoutly ignored him. But every cell in her body alerted her to his presence as they passed by him, her skin tingling as he said softly, “Hello, Red.”
    She brilliantly refused to look at him, her gloved hand pinching Tripp’s arm.
    â€œRed?” Ah, that’s what she wanted to hear, the hue of confusion.
    She glanced over her shoulder. “Hello, Dash. You’re sporting a bit of sunshine. I take it the races agreed with you?”
    â€œI lost every single one.”
    â€œShame. Next time you’ll have to bring along a bit more luck.”
    Pembrook rose from a round table in the corner and they threaded through the room, eyes upon them. Dash reached around Tripp to pull out the fabric-covered chair for her. She ignored him and settled into the seat Tripp offered.
    Dash sat on the other side, ruffled.
    And right then, she prayed that Pierre might not see the telegram Rosie had left for him to send to her mother, suggesting Jinx might return home and rein in her wayward niece. Because, as Dash fiddled with his fork and ordered a shot of vermouth, she knew she could win him back. Only this time, she’d keep enough of her heart not to be wounded by his other temptations.
    Two days of fury and not a little self-examination had told her she’d brought this on herself. She’d let Frankie best her.
    Blanche had filled her in on the particulars. How Frankie met them at the station—surprise!—and wheedled her way into Dash’s attention. How she bet against him, teasing him, and then won. How it bruised Dash’s ego.
    How he’d fawned over her, as if begging for redemption all day.
    It occurred to Rosie then that perhaps instead of fearing Frankie, she might learn from her.
    The minute Dash had returned to Paris, he’d motored back to her doorstep, pressing the bell until she thought she’d have to call the gendarmes. Finally, Pierre managed to send him away, but Dash had sent flowers both days, and tonight, a vellum card inviting her to dinner.
    She’d acquiesced, but she intended to make him reach for it. Too much encouragement clearly spoiled a man.
    She’d attired herself in something daring and chic—a short white dress of lace with a peek-a-boo neckline with just enough revelation to encourage a second look, her stockings rolled just below the knee, black T-strap shoes, and a feather boa around her shoulders—hoping to remind him of everything he might have forgotten while gazing into Frankie’s regal smile.
    She’d taken her time, lined her eyes, rouged her cheeks, powdered her entire body with a new fragrance, and painted a shocking, tantalizing shade of red upon her lips.
    Inspiration, indeed.
    Now that she had her bearings, the last thing she needed was her mother returning home to destroy everything. Please, Pierre, ignore the missive.
    She wanted Dash firmly in her pocket and begging for her hand in marriage by the time her mother returned. After all, how could her mother deny her daughter true love after all she herself had suffered?
    And, even if Dash might not be Rosie’s true love, he seemed enough for now.
    As the garcon attended them, she let the games begin. Dash suggested the Fois de Gras, and she chose the roast duck. He ordered her a brandy smash, she drank Tripp’s gin and tonic. Dash asked her to dance, twice, and only on the third request did she extend her hand.
    â€œYou’re making me crazy,” he said into her ear, and she played with the hair at the nape of his neck.
    Tripp drove her home, pecked her on the cheek. She dove into the house and to the hallway side table where she’d left her instructions for