What Price Love?

17

It was a strange night, mild, but the wind had turned waspish, unpredictable and unsettled, whipping past in gusts one minute, dying away to nothing the next. Clouds had rolled in, heavy enough to trap the day’s warmth beneath them; slipping away from the house, Pris didn’t need more than a light shawl.

With the moon well screened, the night closed darkly about her. She found it comforting. The route to the summer house was engraved in her mind; she walked quickly along, keen-incipiently desperate-to reach her destination.

“Damn Rus.” She muttered the words without heat; she didn’t truly begrudge her twin his jubilation, but he’d chatted and laughed over the tea tray until she’d thought she’d scream-or even more revealingly plead a headache. She never suffered from headaches; such a claim would instantly have focused all attention on her. So she’d been forced to wait patiently until Rus had run out of words on which Adelaide and Eugenia could hang and everyone had at long last retired before she could attend to her own urgent need.

The need to see Dillon again.

The need to be with him again, alone in the night. To be in his arms, to feel them close around her, to feel again-live again-for what might very well be the last time.

She hurried on, her feet silent on the grass as she ducked into the shrubbery. It wasn’t as well tended as a shrubbery ought to be, yet wasn’t impossibly neglected, not overgrown so much as escaping from the confines gardeners had sought to impose-she’d always felt at home in its less than stringently correct surrounds.

Thanks to Rus, she was late, later than she’d ever been. She could only hope Dillon had waited, only pray that he hadn’t thought she’d forgotten, or simply decided not to come to him…

Why wasn’t she running?

Grabbing up her skirts, she did just that. Weaving past branches, leaping over steps, surefooted she raced down the narrow paths lined by thick bushes, screened by high hedges. Her heart raced, too, not in panic but in desperation-yes, definitely desperation. An emotion she didn’t appreciate feeling, yet accepted she did. Accepted that she had this one night, this one time, and that would likely be all.

Ever.

Quite when that truth had slid into her mind and taken up residence she didn’t know, but it was there now. After Dillon, instead of Dillon-she couldn’t imagine any man taking his place. She ran on, faster, more frantically, needing to grasp this last night, this last moment-to have it shine, and then enshrine it in her heart.

She pelted into the central grassed court-and ran straight into a wall. A warm wall of muscle and bone.

Dillon caught her, steadied her. Instantly alert, he looked over her head, scanning the path along which she’d come. “What is it?”

Finding nothing, he looked down at her. His hands remained locked about her upper arms, holding her upright, protectively close. “Why are you running? What from?”

She couldn’t tell him why, but…she moistened her dry lips. “Not from. To.” She stared into his face, drinking in the dramatic beauty, visible even in the poor light. “You.”

Reaching up, she cradled his face; stretching up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his.

Told him why with her lips, with her tongue, with her mouth. Told him why with her body as he gathered her in, as his arms slid around her and locked her to him.

Above them, the wind gusted, then abruptly rose to a wail, a wild, elemental power unleashed. It raced through the branches and rattled them, whipped up to the sky and set the clouds roiling.

In the grassed court, her hands framing Dillon’s face, Pris heard it, sensed it, felt it. She drew the power in, let it fill her, flow through her. Let it take her own wildness and fashion it anew, into something finer. Something shining and glorious. Something infinitely precious.

It was she who drew away to sink to the ground, to the lush grass, a sweet-scented bed as it crushed beneath her.

His hand locked about hers, Dillon looked down at her, through the darkness trying to read her eyes. “The summer house…” When she shook her head, he drew in a ragged breath, his chest rising and falling. “Your room, then.”

“No.” Reaching up, she caught his other hand; exerting a steady pull, she drew him down. “Here. Now.”

Under heaven.

He came down on his knees, let her draw him into a kiss, another heated exchange that set their pulses racing. The next time he drew back it wasn’t to argue; his face etched with passion, his expression one of stark desire, he shrugged out of his coat, spread it behind her, then followed her down as she lay back upon it.

Dillon sank into her arms, let her welcome him, let her hold him and trap him-let her dictate. Her, only her. Only with her-for her-would he do this, cede control and let her lead. Only she made him feel like this-that nothing was more important in his life than having her, appeasing her, worshipping and possessing her, doing everything in his power to keep her forever his.

So he gave her what she wanted, let his wildness free, let it mate with hers and drive them. Let the sparks flare, let the flames ignite, then roar-let the conflagration take them and consume them.

She wanted to rush, to race, to greedily grasp and devour; he held her back, forced her to slow-forced her to know, to feel, to appreciate every iota of worshipful strength he had it in him to lavish on her, every last scintilla of passion he tithed to her, every last gasp of surrender he laid at her dainty feet.

How would she know if he didn’t tell her?-and for this, he had no words. So he showed her instead.

Showed her, as the wind raged overhead but left them untouched, cocooned in the long grass, protected by the shrubbery, to what depths passion could descend, to what heights it could reach-to what bliss it could lead.

Clothes…he shed them, his, and hers, until she lay naked beneath him, until their bodies met, brushed, touched, and caressed without restriction. His hands, his mouth, his lips and tongue played upon her beauty, possessed her, claimed her anew. She was his, became his in even more wondrous ways as about them the night deepened and cooled, while in the drifting, shifting shadows of the grassed court they burned with incandescent fire.

With heat, with longing, with a bone-deep raging need.

She cried out as with lips and tongue he sent her reeling over the edge, over the precipice of sensual abandon into the abyss of exploded sensation. Cried again as he drove her further, sobbed as he spread her thighs and settled between, gasped when he lifted her long legs, wound them about his hips, then drove into her.

Again, and again.

Pris writhed beneath him, clutched tight and sobbed, let her body beg and caress and drive him on. Drive him to take more, to seize and possess to the limit of his nature, to the depths of his passionate soul, to give all she wanted, to surrender and be hers-to be all she needed in this, their last moment out of time.

Reaching beneath her, he tipped her hips to his, and thrust deeper, harder, more brutally explicit as he claimed her, exactly as she wanted, exactly as she wished.

She arched, desperate to match the undulations of her body to the plundering rhythm of his, to appease and be fulfilled, to gather all that was her due, and reach her sensual limit, too.

To find where that was, and go beyond, with him.

He bent his head and his lips found the furled peak of her breast. The wind caught her scream and whipped it away, greedily gathered every sob and moan, every sound of her surrender, and hoarded them. Gloated over them as beneath him, breathless with ecstasy, she shattered again, but he still wasn’t content, wasn’t finished with her.

Wasn’t yet ready to cede and be vanquished.

But it was his turn now.

His turn as he rose above her in the dark night, a primal figure, some primitive god, arms braced, holding himself above her, looking down on her, passion deeply etched in the hard lines of his face as he watched her body rise to each powerful thrust, as with total abandon she took him deep within her, as he lost himself in her.

She couldn’t see his eyes, but could feel their fire, knew when he closed them, knew when the power caught him, when it whirled through her, through him, and without mercy fused them.

Under that sensual, physical assault she shattered anew; this time, with a guttural groan, he went with her. Joined with her as their bodies danced, as their senses spun and coalesced, as their hearts thundered, attuned, their souls aware, in concert.

They simply let go, both of them. Even though they were blind, as one, they simply knew-simply reveled in the wild winds that buffeted them, in the unremittingly untamed release that swept through them, that caught them, buoyed them, lifted them free of passion’s fire, propelled them high.

Then let them fall.

Let them feel.

Every heartbeat as they fell back to earth.

Back to the sharp scent of crushed grass, to the mingled musky scents of their sated bodies, to the softness, the hardness, the warmth, and the wetness. The heat that still held them, cradled them, soothed them. The night that enveloped them in comforting dark as their lips met, and held.

And the moment lingered.

Caught at the cusp between reality and the ephemeral.

Filled with the indescribable joy of being one.

As one.

Him and her. Wild, reckless, and true.

Dillon’s head was still spinning when, hours later, he swung up onto Solomon’s back and turned the black gelding for Hillgate End.

She’d blindsided him. Again.

She’d wanted and needed with a passion as dark and as turbulent as his own; he hadn’t been able to deny her-hadn’t even been able to slow her down enough to learn what he’d gone there to discover-what she was thinking.

God knew, when she was like that, thinking was the last thing on either of their minds. He wasn’t even sure his brain was functioning properly now.

Him, them, their future-her thoughts on those points were what he’d intended to probe. Preferably subtly, but if that hadn’t worked, he’d been prepared to simply ask-to say the words, no matter how vulnerable that left him. He had to know.

Then again…eyes narrowing he stared sightlessly into the night, and wondered if, perhaps, she’d already told him. Perhaps, like him, she found words inadequate. They were, after all, very alike.

Whether it was that similarity that made him so sure she was the one, or what followed from that, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that she understood him, the real him, better than anyone else ever had. Anyone. Not his mother, not his father, not even Flick understood him as she did. Because she was largely the same.

Because the demons she possessed-the wild and reckless passions inside her-were of the same type, the same caliber.

Her comprehension not just allowed but encouraged him to be…all that he could be. To not hold back, not suppress his passions and keep them in check, their exercise a danger to be guarded against, but to allow them free rein, to let them flow and give him strength and insight, trusting that he, the rest of him, was strong enough, sane enough to guide and harness them.

With her, he was one. One being, one whole person. When she was with him, he was so completely himself, such an integrated whole-no reservations, no part of him guarded and held back-it sometimes came as a shock. She gave him a strength that without her he couldn’t wield-his own nature.

And while he needed and wanted her, if to night was any guide, she needed and wanted him, too. Perhaps all they had to do was to take the next step? To trust enough in what was already between them and go forward?

The clop of Solomon’s hooves as they reached the road brought him back to his surroundings. The gelding headed down the last stretch to the manor, to the warmth of his stall. Dillon thought of his bed, cold and empty, and grimaced. The conclusion was clear enough.

What he should do was, therefore, clear enough. As for the when…

Flick always threw a major ball for all the luminaries of the sport of kings who were in Newmarket for the week. As usual, her ball would be held tomorrow night, after the last day of the meeting, and, of course, Lady Fowles and her house hold would be present.

With Rus rescued and restored, with the substitution scam unraveled and no more, tomorrow night seemed tailor-made for his purpose.

Turning Solomon in at the gates of Hillgate End, Dillon made a firm vow. Tomorrow night, he’d ask Pris to marry him.

Everybody at Flick’s ball seemed intent on plea sure, on enjoying the moment knowing all was right in their world. Pris couldn’t share their enthusiasm. To her, the end seemed nigh, looming nearer with every passing minute.

But she hadn’t forgotten her manners. Smiling delightedly, she followed Eugenia into the ballroom built out from one side of the Cynsters’ house, and gaily greeted Demon and Flick.

Flick pressed her hand, then surveyed her guests-a glittering crowd that would have done credit to any tonnish London ballroom. “I know Dillon’s here somewhere, but I’d advise you to avoid as many of the racing fraternity as you can. They become a trifle tedious when discussing their obsession.”

Pris laughed. “I’ll bear that in mind.” She moved on in Eugenia’s wake, with Rus and Adelaide behind her.

They’d spent the afternoon making plans. They’d told her father they would spend time in London; now Rus was free and his immediate future settled, Eugenia had declared that to London they should go, even if for only a few weeks. The autumn session of Parliament was under way, and the so-called Little Season, the social round occasioned by the return to London of many of the ton, likewise in full swing. A few weeks in London would give them plenty to report, and many would see them.

Rus had surprised them by insisting he would accompany them. He’d been adamant, certain Demon and Flick would agree that his place was with them during their stay in the capital; his new job could wait. As Demon had dropped by to have a word with Rus and had unequivocally agreed, Rus was now a part of their London jaunt.

Pris didn’t know whether to be relieved or perturbed. Having Rus about would keep Eugenia’s and Adelaide’s attention from her, but there was little she could do to hide her less-than-joyous state from her twin.

And as she most definitely could not explain why she felt as she did-as if an enthralling challenge that had fulfilled her in ways she’d never imagined could be was over-then having Rus watching her, concerned, was yet another cross to bear. Especially when he was so happy himself.

She hated putting a damper on his spirits, yet come tomorrow, she had a strong suspicion she was going to feel as if she were in mourning.

For to night, however, she was determined to keep her smile bright, to seize as much of Dillon’s company as she might, although doubtless he’d be a focus of interest for the many notables from the racing world attending. What ever time he could give her, she’d take, and be glad. It would be the last time she would see him; they’d decided to leave for London in the morning, and his duties at the ball would surely claim him until the small hours.

Somewhere, sometime to night, she would have to find a moment in which to say good-bye.

The crowds parted before them, revealing a chaise on which the General sat, chatting to two gentlemen standing before him. Behind the chaise, his hand resting on the carved back, Dillon stood talking with Lord Sheldrake.

Smiling brightly became easier the instant Dillon’s eyes met hers, the instant his spontaneous expression of unbounded plea sure registered. The warmth in his eyes, the curve of his lips-the way his focus had shifted so definitely that Lord Sheldrake broke off and turned to see who approached-all buoyed her.

Everyone exchanged greetings. Eugenia sat beside the General, who welcomed her warmly. He drew her into the conversation with the other two gentlemen, aldermen of the town. Rus and Adelaide stood at the end of the chaise, Rus pointing out other guests, Adelaide engrossed.

Dillon excused himself to Sheldrake, who, smiling, bowed to Pris, then wandered into the crowd. Rounding the chaise to join her, Dillon reached for her hand. His gaze lowered as he took in her emerald-and-ivory-striped silk gown with its revealing heart-shaped neckline, then he raised his eyes to hers, and arched a brow. “No shawl to night?”

She smiled. “I didn’t deem it necessary.”

Dillon wasn’t sure he agreed. Setting her hand on his arm, he could only hope the crowd prevented too many men from ogling the charms eloquently displayed by the snugly fitting bodice and the filmy, clinging skirts. The intense emerald hue echoed the color of her glorious eyes while the ivory highlighted the creamy richness of her skin.

Her black hair, as usual fashioned in a teasing, flirting confection of curls, capped the whole in dramatic fashion, drawing his eyes at least, again and again, to the vulnerable, intensely feminine curve of her nape.

Just glancing at that evocative line, letting his eyes linger for an instant, was enough to have him evaluating the logistics of getting her alone, of indulging their shared passion again…

As if sensing his thoughts, she glanced up and met his gaze, her eyes slightly wide, widening even farther as she briefly searched his.

Recalling his intent-having it return to him in full force-he didn’t hide his desire, the fact she evoked it simply by being beside him, but let her see, let her feel, let her understand.

She blinked, and glanced away. “Ah…”

Smoothly, he said, “Flick only allows waltzes at these affairs-or rather, Demon refuses to countenance anything else. Lady Helmsley’s beckoning. Let’s chat with her while the musicians get ready.”

Lady Helmsley was delighted to have the chance to congratulate him and to talk with Pris again. Then the musicians started up and they left her ladyship for the dance floor. Drawing Pris into his arms, Dillon put his mind to capturing and holding her attention, and succeeded well enough to have her blinking dazedly at the end of the measure.

Then she focused on his face, read his commitment-to her, to her plea sure. A puzzled frown formed in the depths of her emerald eyes; smile deepening, he led her to speak with Lady Fortescue, a friend of his mother’s who’d come up for the racing. From her, they progressed to Mrs. Pemberton, and Lady Carmichael.

Sweeping a lady off her feet-never before had he devoted himself to the task with such unwavering zeal. He was determined that when he asked her to marry him, Pris wouldn’t even pause to think. If he had his choice, she wouldn’t be capable of thinking, but sadly he couldn’t-didn’t dare-risk kissing her first. If he did, he might well not be thinking either, and that wouldn’t do. After the last days, especially after last night, he wanted their strange courtship ended, brought to its inevitable conclusion, to night.

So he kept her by his side, boldly laid claim to her evening, and brazenly displayed her as his for all to see.

They waltzed twice. He permitted Rus, Demon, and Lord Canterbury to waltz with her, too, but no one else. There was a limit to his forbearance-a limit to what his nature would allow, at least with respect to her.

It felt strange yet right to be in thrall in such a way, that with her, he was the victim of his own possessive passion, that it dictated and drove him, and no amount of debonair sophistication was enough to blunt its bite.

For years he’d witnessed the effects of that affliction on Demon; although he might have wished otherwise, he could hardly claim surprise that now it had infected him, too. He knew whence it sprang.

And with that, he had no argument. Indeed, with that, he was fully in accord.

He waited until after supper; the interlude when guests were wandering back to the ballroom was the perfect moment to slip away. Guiding Pris to the side of the ballroom, he glanced around at the reassembling throng, then turned to her.

Pris met his eyes; she assumed his attentiveness was because he, too, acknowledged to night as their last contact. She’d enjoyed spending the evening beside him, a last taste of some of the pleasures to which he’d introduced her, but her nerves had progressively stretched and grown taut, knowing this moment must come. Facing the prospect resolutely, summoning a smile and firmly fixing it on her lips, she instructed herself to bid him farewell, and wish him a happy future.

She lifted her chin, and he murmured, his dark eyes steady on hers, “I want to talk to you alone. The family parlor will be empty.”

He’d said “talk”; searching his eyes, she sensed he meant that. And what she wanted to say would assuredly be easier said in private. “Yes. All right.”

Glancing at the crowd, she gave him her hand.

Behind him, a distinguished gentleman stepped free of the throng; peering around Dillon, he saw her, and beamed.

Her jaw dropped. She froze.

Dillon saw, turned.

She gripped his fingers tighter, stopping him as he instinctively moved to shield her. “Ah…” Her eyes couldn’t get any wider. She gulped. Forced what must have been a travesty of a smile to her face. “Papa! How…?”

She didn’t know what to say. A fact her father, thankfully, comprehended. With a wry, somewhat rueful smile, he stepped forward and drew her into a huge hug, the sort of hug she hadn’t had from him in years.

Blinking rapidly, she hurriedly returned the embrace-and suddenly felt like she was fifteen years old again. “Er…Rus. Have you seen him?”

“Yes.” Releasing her, her father drew back. His smile was warm; it filled his eyes-something else she hadn’t seen in years. “And yes, I’ve heard all about your adventures here. I’ve met the Cynsters and General Caxton and Lord Sheldrake, too, and spoken with your brother, and Eugenia.”

He paused, studying her, as if searching for evidence that she was well. “I’ve been looking for you, and…” Turning, he looked at Dillon-looked properly, shrewd eyes striking straight through the handsome mask. Used to her and Rus, her father wasn’t distracted by a classically perfect face.

“You must be Dillon Caxton.” Her father held out his hand. “I’m Kentland.”

Dillon inclined his head, clasped and shook the proffered hand.

Her father glanced at her, his smile-a proud one-still curving his lips. “For my sins, the father of Lady Priscilla and her brother.”

Dillon didn’t blink. Releasing her father’s hand, he slowly turned his head and looked at her.

She couldn’t read his eyes, much less his expression, now perfectly, politely impassive. To his credit, he didn’t parrot “Lady Priscilla?” although she was certain the words echoed in his brain.

Oblivious of any undercurrents, her father went on, “I understand I have you to thank for Russell breaking free of his recent predicament.”

Dillon blinked, and turned back to her father. After an infinitesimal pause, he said, “He did well to learn what he did, and to escape in time. After that, it was more a case of our best interests following a parallel course. Our success has benefited us all, including the racing industry as a whole, as I’m sure Lord Sheldrake will have told you. Believe me, I’m very grateful your son acted on what he’d learned, rather than just lying low. And, of course”-eyes emotionless, he glanced at her-“it was thanks to your daughter, through her agency, that we met.”

“Indeed.” Her father beamed. He met her eyes again, held her gaze for a moment, then more quietly said, “It took you leaving to bring me to my senses. I had a long talk with Albert. Rus and I…well, we’ll work out some arrangement.” He glanced at the company, many of them of the haut ton. “I now see I was overly hasty in forming my opinion of Rus’s chosen path.”

Turning back to her, he smiled, then glanced at Dillon. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. My daughter and I will have plenty of time to catch up later. I daresay you wish to dance…?”

The musicians had just started up again. Dillon smiled-a smile she read as a warning-inclined his head to her sire, and reached for her hand. “Thank you, sir.” He looked at her, and arched a brow. Opening his mouth, he caught himself, then evenly enunciated, “Lady Priscilla?”

She smiled a touch weakly, bobbed a curtsy in acceptance, fleetingly touched her father’s arm, then allowed Dillon to draw her away. Her father and his amazing appearance weren’t the reasons her heart was thumping. When, reaching the floor, Dillon swept her into the dance, straight into a powerfully controlled turn, she sensed just how high his temper had flown, how hard he was riding it, reining it in.

Before she could say anything-even think what to say or do, where to start-he asked, his voice hard, his consonants sharply clipped, “I’m not currently au fait with the Irish peerage.” His gaze remained fixed on the dancers he was steering them through. “Assist me, if you would. Kentland. Would that be the Earl of Kentland?”

“Yes.” Pris struggled to draw breath into suddenly tight lungs. “Of Dalloway Hall, County Kilkenny.”

“Dalloway?” His jaw clenched; a muscle jumped along the stony line. Dark eyes filled with roiling anger swung down and locked on hers. “Is that your surname-your real surname, then?”

A huge weight pressed down on her chest. She couldn’t speak, simply nodded.

A second passed, then his chest swelled as he drew in a breath that seemed every bit as tight as hers.

“Always nice to know the name of the lady I’ve been-”

Pris shut her eyes, wished she could shut her ears, but she still heard the word he used. She knew what it meant, knew what men meant when they used it.

He swung her into a viciously tight turn, one that brought her body up hard against his. She fought to stifle a gasp. A second later, he softly swore.

She opened her eyes, but she couldn’t meet his. Yet if he continued to waltz with her so intensely, people would notice.

He must have realized; he swore softly again. Then without a hitch, he whirled her to the edge of the floor, released her, seized her hand, and dragged her out of the room.

Before she could ask where he was taking her, he snapped, “The parlor, remember?”

She swallowed, trying to ease her heart down into its proper place. Desperately she tried to marshal her wits, but…she’d never expected this. She’d all but forgotten he knew her as Miss Priscilla Dalling-that although he knew her in every sense that counted, she hadn’t corrected that long-ago lie.

Hauling her down a distant corridor, taking her far from the ballroom, he threw open a door, stormed in, whisked her through, then, releasing her, slammed the door shut.

Pris swung to face him. This was definitely not how she’d intended to say good-bye.

But what she saw in his eyes, intent and fixed on her, erased every thought from her head.

“Lady Priscilla Dalloway-have I finally got that right?”

He took a step-a distinctly menacing step-toward her; she promptly took a step back. She nodded.

“An earl’s daughter.”

“Yes.” It hadn’t been a question, but, lifting her chin, she answered anyway; hearing her own voice rather than just his roaring, growling one helped.

He continued to advance as she retreated. The word that leapt to her mind was panther-or was it a jaguar she meant? Whichever was more lethal, that’s the one she meant.

That was what he reminded her of as he stalked her across the room, his dark eyes burning with an unholy fury-a temper she fully understood, but had absolutely no clue how to assuage.

“I…” She bit her lip; the words that came to her tongue were so pitiful.

“Forgot who you were?”

His tone pricked her on the raw. She halted, tipped her chin higher as he drew nearer, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, as it happens. In a manner of speaking, I did.”

Her temper swelled; she welcomed it, let it fill her. Let it give her the strength to meet him eye to eye. “When we first met, there was no reason you needed to know my real name, and Dalling-it’s a name Rus and I use when there’s reason to keep the family name apart from whatever’s going on. Naturally, I used it when we first met. Afterward…”

His smile held no humor. “Do let’s get to afterward.”

Leaning forward, she returned that smile with interest. “Afterward, it didn’t matter. Yes, I forgot about it-because my name is not who I am. It’s just a name, and me by any name is the same person! So yes, I forgot-and so forgot to correct what you knew. So I apologize for the shock you just had to endure, but as for anything else…”

Her voice had risen, gaining in strength. Flinging out her arms, she held his gaze, her own now scorching. “This is me. Pris. Whether it’s Dalling or Dalloway, whether there’s a lady in front of it, what the devil difference does it make?

“Why on earth should my being an earl’s daughter make any difference to us? To what happened, or where we are now? It certainly doesn’t change what’s to come.”

Dillon looked into her face, all blazing eyes and unwavering certainty-and realized she’d just told him all he wanted to know. Her name, her title, didn’t matter; she would marry him anyway. Good. Because he was definitely marrying her, and the sooner the better.

There was no reason he couldn’t offer for an earl’s daughter. His family was one of the oldest in the haut ton, connected to several of the principal families. His estate might be described as tidy, but his private fortune was immense, and his status as one of the select few elected to govern the sport of kings, a status their recent triumph had only elevated, ensured that Lord Kentland would have no reason to refuse his suit.

“Marry me.”

She blinked. Then, lips parting, she stared at him, her emerald eyes growing wide, then even wider. “Wh-what? What did you say?”

His jaw clenched; he spoke through gritted teeth. “I said: marry me. You heard me perfectly well.”

She drew back. Looked at him as if he were the strangest specimen of manhood she’d yet encountered, but then, as he watched, suspicion, then wariness, flooded her eyes. She drew a breath; her voice wobbled as she asked, “Why?”

“Why?” A host of answers flooded his incredulous brain. Because if she didn’t, soon, he’d go insane? Because he needed her in his life and she needed him? Because it was obvious? Because they’d been intimate and she might be carrying his child…the thought made him weak-kneed.

Very definitely weak-brained. “Because I want you to.”

Before she could demand “why?” to that, too, he leaned closer, bringing his face level with hers. “And you want to, too.”

He was one hundred percent sure of that.

To his astonishment, she paled. Her lips set, as did her expression. “No, I don’t.” She bit the words off.

It was his turn to stare. Equally disbelieving. Equally astounded.

Before he could say anything-before he could argue and press-Pris held up a restraining hand. Temper and sorrow, hurt and anger were a powerful mix, roiling and boiling and rising inside her. “Let’s see if I have this right.”

From the sudden hardening of his expression, she knew her eyes had flashed, that soaring emotion had again set them alight. She pointed toward the ballroom. “Ten minutes ago, a pleasant evening-our last evening together-was drawing to a civilized close. We were about to part amicably and, with fond farewells and Godspeeds, go our separate ways.” She folded her arms; chin high, she kept her eyes on his. “But then you learned I’m an earl’s daughter-that the young lady you’ve been dallying intimately with is a nobleman’s daughter-and you suddenly perceive that we need to marry.”

She gave him only an instant to absorb that summation before stating unequivocally, “No. I don’t agree! I will never agree to marry because society deems it necessary.”

There was so much anger surging beneath her words they wavered, but it was the sorrow swirling through her that shook her to her core. She dragged in a breath and went on, clinging to her temper, drawing on its strength. “I knew what I was doing from the first-I never imagined marriage was any part of our arrangement, because it wasn’t, as you and I both know. What we had was an affair, a succession of mutually agreed interludes. There was a reason for the first. And the second, if you recall. The rest came about because we both wished them to.”

His face had turned stony, a set of hard angles and unforgiving planes in which his eyes burned. “Do you seriously imagine-”

“What I know is that you didn’t seduce me-I seduced you.” She gave him back glare for glare. “Do you seriously imagine I did that so that now you would feel obliged to marry me? That I did what I did-dallied intimately with you-in order to trap you into offering for my hand?”

Hurt fury laced her voice as she gave her temper free rein. Better that than any of the other emotions coursing through her.

Confused exasperation disrupted the intensity of his dark gaze. “I never said…” He frowned, scowled. “That wasn’t how it was.”

“Yes, it was!” Her voice had grown shrill; she was close to crying with the frustration and futility of it all-the sad irony of fate. Until he’d said the words, raised the specter, she’d been able to ignore it, pretend it didn’t exist-convince herself that she didn’t want to marry him, that dalliance and experience were all she’d ever wanted. That they were enough.

But now he’d said the fateful words-for all the wrong reasons. For the worst of wrong reasons. And in doing so he’d raised the prospect and she could no longer hide from the truth. Marrying him, being his wife, was the dream she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge, the one she’d pretended she hadn’t had.

There was no way to turn back the clock, to start again as if they were simply gentleman and lady, to ignore the reality of what had passed between them over recent weeks.

No way for them to marry without knowing that it was not love but social dictates that had brought them to it.

And that was something she would never accept.

Especially not with him. Better than anyone, she knew it was impossible to trap a wild soul without harming it.

She held his gaze, clung to her composure, tilted her chin. “Regardless, I have absolutely no interest in forcing you to marry me. Indeed, I’m no longer sure I have any interest in marrying at all.”

He stared at her, still scowling, then exhaled through his teeth. Lifting one hand, he raked it through his hair.

She seized the moment; she couldn’t bear to stand there and argue, not when it felt like every word, every phrase, was another stone hitting her heart. “I wish you every success in your future endeavors.” Ducking around him, she rushed to the door. “And I hope-” Pausing with her hand on the knob, she looked back.

He’d spun around and now stared at her, an absolutely stunned, totally incredulous look on his face.

She stared back for an instant, drinking in her last sight of his dramatic male beauty, then hauled in a quick breath. “I hope you have a fulfilling life.”

Without me.

His expression changed; she didn’t wait to see to what. Opening the door, she rushed out; shutting it behind her, she picked up her skirts and ran toward the ballroom.

Behind her, she heard a bellow, then he opened the door-called “Pris! Damn it-come back!”-but then she turned a corner, and heard no more.

In the doorway to the parlor, Dillon stared down the corridor, but she didn’t reappear. For a long moment, he just stood there. It was the-what? third time?-she’d left him feeling like she’d taken a plank to his head.

Turning back into the room, he shut the door. Frowning, he crossed to the well-padded sofa and slumped down on it. And tried to sort out his feelings.

That she didn’t want him feeling forced to marry her was all well and good, but that she’d never at any time thought of marrying him…

He wasn’t sure what to do with that-couldn’t see how it fitted with what he’d thought was going on, with what he’d thought had grown between them. Until she’d said that, he would have sworn that she was…as emotionally enmeshed with him as he was with her.

Yet when he’d tried to correct her view that marriage hadn’t been any part of their arrangement, she’d been adamant. Clearly, it hadn’t been in her mind, even if it had, from the first, been in his. And she’d just as clearly been planning to bid him a fond farewell-affectionate, perhaps, but she’d made it clear her heart wasn’t involved. Hadn’t been touched.

Unlike his.

He was suddenly very aware of that organ constricting. Leaning his head against the sofa back, he looked up at the ceiling, and swore.

And heard a rustle behind him, and a familiar little “Humph!”

Swinging around, up on one knee, he peered over the back of the sofa. And goggled. “Prue!”

She looked up at him; not one whit discomposed, she wrinkled her nose, and got to her feet.

“What the devil are you doing there?”

Calmly smoothing down her robe, she cinched it tight. “My bedchamber is above the ballroom. Mama and Papa said if it got too loud, I could come down here and read or sleep.”

Sinking back onto the sofa, Dillon realized all the lamps had been lit.

“I was reading.” A book in her hand, Prue climbed into one of the armchairs by the fire. “Then I heard someone coming, so I hid.”

Rapidly reviewing all she must have heard, Dillon narrowed his eyes at her. “You hid so you could eavesdrop.”

She looked superior. “I thought it might be instructive.” Her blue eyes-bluer than her father’s, sharper than her mother’s-fixed on his face. “It was. That will probably be the poorest attempt at a proposal I’ll ever hear.” She frowned. “At least, I hope it will be.”

He spoke through his teeth in his most menacing voice, “You will forget everything you heard.”

She sniffed. “All that gammon about you offering for her hand because you’d found out she was an earl’s daughter. I can’t see what else you expected. She was quite restrained, I thought, at least for her. She has a fabulous temper, hasn’t she?”

Dillon ground his teeth. He remembered the emotions lighting Pris’s eyes-temper, yes, but also something else, something that had bothered him, distracted him, and slowed him down. “That wasn’t why I proposed.”

The words had slipped out, a statement of fact, more to himself than anyone else. Realizing he’d spoken aloud, he glanced up and found Prue watching him, a pitying light in her eyes.

“It’s what she thinks that matters, and she thinks you offered because you feel obliged to. She asked why, and you let her think that, more fool you.”

“It wasn’t only that.”

“No, indeed. One minute you’re roaring at her-you did realize you were roaring, didn’t you? Then you don’t ask, but tell her-order her-to marry you. Huh! In her shoes, I would have sent you to the right about, too.”

Dillon stared at Prue, at her direct, scathingly unimpressed expression, for a full minute, then, jaw setting, he hauled himself to his feet and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Hand on the door knob, he looked back to see Prue opening her book. She looked at him inquiringly. He met her gaze, and smiled dangerously. “I’m going to find her, drag her off somewhere where there will be no one listening, and explain the truth to her in simple language impossible to misconstrue.”

Hauling open the door, he went out and shut it with a definite click.