What Price Love?

18

The following afternoon, a mix of frustration, exasperation, and uncertainty riding him, Dillon turned his blacks into the Carisbrook house drive, not at all sure what he would face when he finally ran Pris to earth, or what he would do when he did.

Last night he’d returned to the ballroom only to discover her nowhere in sight. He’d eventually found Humphries, Demon’s butler, and learned that Lord Kentland’s party had left some ten minutes before, Lady Priscilla having been taken unwell.

In his mind he’d heard one of Prue’s unimpressed snorts, but Pris running away had left him uneasy. If she’d been defiantly angry, she would have stayed and flirted with every gentleman willing to fall victim to her charms; there’d been enough of those present to have made her point.

Instead…if she’d pleaded illness and run, she must have been upset.

That was what had distracted him in the parlor-the hurt he’d glimpsed in her eyes. She distracted him in any case, but her being hurt in any way what ever was the ultimate in distraction. His mind seemed instantly to realign, to focus on finding what had upset her and eradicating it. Even if it was him.

According to Prue, Pris believed he’d offered for her only from a sense of moral obligation. Tooling his curricle on, he frowned. Regardless of her view of things, moral obligation did play a part-or would have if he hadn’t already intended to marry her.

He was what he was; honor was a part of his character, not something he could deny, could pretend didn’t matter. He might also be reckless and wild, but that didn’t preclude him behaving honorably. Nevertheless, in this instance, honor and moral obligation were entirely by the by; they weren’t why he wanted to marry her.

A long night of thinking-easy enough when tossing and turning alone in his bed-had forced him to concede that he’d made a mistake, a major one, in even for an instant allowing Pris to think that moral obligation had played any role what ever in prompting his proposal. In even for a heartbeat contemplating using that to hide his real reason.

He’d been a fool for all of ten seconds-far less than a minute-and look where it had landed him.

Prue, he was certain, would, with withering scorn, point out the implication.

Which was why he was looking for Pris, prepared and determined to make a clean breast of it regardless of his sensibilities. He’d tried to think of words, to rehearse useful phases; horrified by what his mind had suggested, he’d stopped, and given up.

Sufficient unto the moment the evil thereof, the words he might be forced to utter. Dwelling on them ahead of time wasn’t helpful.

Especially as, lurking around his heart, was a cold and murky cloud of uncertainty. What if he’d been wrong? What if, regardless of all he’d thought they’d shared, she truly viewed him as nothing more than her first fling? As her first lover only, not her last?

The cold cloud intensified; he pushed the thought away. The house neared; he checked his team, then guided them into the stable yard.

Patrick came out of the stable. He nodded and walked to where Dillon halted the curricle. “Morning, sir. If you’re looking for Lady Pris, I’m afraid you’re too late. They left after an early lunch.”

He managed to keep his expression impassive, to not let any of the shock he felt show. “I see.” After a blank moment, he had no choice but to ask, “Left for where?” Ireland?

“Why, up to London.” Moving to the restive horses’ heads, Patrick glanced at him. “I thought Mrs. Cynster would have told you.”

Dillon blinked. What did Flick have to do with this? “I…haven’t caught up with my cousin after the ball.”

But he would. She’d kissed his cheek and sent him off last night-and had said not a word about Pris and her family fleeing to the capital.

“Aye, well, they were going to stay at Grillons, but Mrs. Cynster said she was just itching for an excuse to go up to town.” Patrick was admiring the horses, stroking their long noses. “She invited the whole party-Lord Kentland, Lady Fowles, Miss Adelaide, Lady Priscilla, and Lord Russell-to stay at her house in town. In Half Moon Street, it is.”

Dillon nodded. He usually stayed there when he went to London.

Patrick nodded at the house. “I’m just seeing things packed up here, then I’ll be following. Lady Pris was keen to get off as soon as they could.”

Dillon met Patrick’s eyes, wondered how much he’d guessed. “I see.”

“Seemed a trifle under the weather, she did, but hell-bent on getting on the road and away.”

Dillon inwardly frowned. She was running, still. A question he hadn’t asked himself before swam into his mind. If she was running, she was upset. But why was she upset?

He could comprehend anger; she’d thought he’d thought she’d schemed to force him to offer for her, and was understandably incensed. She’d seen the notion as a slur on her integrity; although he hadn’t thought any such thing, he could appreciate her point. But what was behind her…he didn’t have the words to describe her emotions; he could sense them, but the turmoil inside her-pain, hurt, regret-what else?-it all came under the heading of “upset.”

What was going on inside her head?

What, when it came down to it, did she truly want? Him? Or not?

Not in the way she’d believed he’d meant, that much he knew, but did she truly not want him what ever his motives?

His frown materialized. His head had started to ache. Jaw clenching, he met Patrick’s eyes and caught a hint of grim sympathy.

“It is so damn complicated,” he ground out, gathering the blacks’ reins, “trying to think like a woman!”

“Amen!” Patrick’s grin flashed as he stepped back and saluted. “I’ve never yet managed it myself.”

With a curt nod, Dillon whipped up the blacks and headed back to Hillgate End.

One sleepless night, one brooding, restless god-awful day when he could think of nothing, concentrate on nothing, convinced him he couldn’t simply sit and wait-and even less could he let Pris go. Let her slip out of his life without trying his damnedest to get her back in it.

He wasn’t even sure he could live without her-whether his life, whether he, had any meaningful future without her; his mind seemed already to have arranged his entire future life around her, with her at its center-if she wasn’t there, where she belonged, everything would fall apart.

How that had happened, why he was convinced it was so, he didn’t know-he only knew that was how he felt.

In his heart. In his soul. Where she and only she had ever touched.

He had to get her back; he had to get her married to him. What he needed to work out was how to achieve that.

It was the middle of the autumn racing season, but the major Newmarket meeting was behind them, and the substitution scam was no more. For the rest of the season, matters ought to run smoothly, enough for him to leave the reins in someone else’s hands, at least for a week or so.

He waited until that evening, when he and his father were sitting quietly in the study. Eyes on the port in the glass he was twirling, he said, “Despite it being the middle of the season, I’m thinking of spending a few weeks in London.”

He looked up to see his father’s eyes twinkling.

“That’s hardly a surprise, m’boy. Of course you must go up to town. We’d all be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He blinked. His father went on as if everything had already been arranged. “I’ll take over for you here. Indeed, I’m looking forward to getting back to things for a while, knowing it won’t be for long. Demon will lend a hand if necessary. I know all the clerks-we’ll hold the fort while you go after Pris.”

Dillon frowned. “How did you know?”

The General’s smile turned wry. “Flick dropped a word in my ear at the ball, then looked in yesterday on her way to town. She said when you finally bestirred yourself and followed, to tell you Horatia would have a room ready and be expecting you.”

Everything had already been arranged…he stared at his father. “Did Flick say anything else?”

The General consulted his memory, then shook his head. “Nothing material.”

“How about immaterial?”

At that, his father chuckled. “The truth is, everyone who knows you both thinks you deserve each other. More, that you’re right for each other, and that no one better is likely to exist for either of you. Consequently, the collective view is that you should hie yourself to London and convince Pris to marry you as soon as may be. Quite aside from there being no sense in wasting time, there’s the other side of the coin to consider.”

He was lost. “What other side, and of which coin?”

His father met his gaze, his eyes shrewd and wise. “The side that will make Pris a target for every rake and fortune hunter in town. It won’t be just her appearance, nor just her temperament, but also the simple fact of you not being there.”

An iron-cold chill touched Dillon’s heart; he could see all too well the tableau his father was painting. “Right.” He drained his glass and set it aside. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Excellent.” The General smiled approvingly. “I was told to inform you that should you require any assistance what ever, you only need ask. The ladies will be most happy to assist you.”

By “the ladies,” he meant the Cynster ladies and their cohorts-a body of the most powerful females in the ton. Although warily grateful, Dillon was bemused. “Why?”

The twinkle returned to the General’s eyes. “As it’s been put to me, by marrying Pris you’ll earn the undying gratitude of all the ton’s hostesses as well as all the mamas-not just those with marriageable daughters, but also those with marriageable sons. Dashed inconvenient, the pair of you, it seems-you distract the young ladies, and Pris distracts the gentlemen, and everyone forgets who they’re supposed to be focusing on. The consensus is that the sooner you and she marry, and take yourselves off the marriage mart, the better it will be for the entire ton.”

Dillon stared. “Flick actually said that?”

The General smiled. “Actually, she said a great deal more, but that was the gist of it.”

Dillon was thankful to have been spared. One thing, however, was now clear. “I’d better drive up to London first thing.”

Oh-thank you, Lord Halliwell.” Pris accepted the glass of champagne she’d forgotten she’d sent Viscount Halliwell to fetch, and bestowed a grateful smile.

Patently basking in such mild approval, the viscount rejoined Lord Camberleigh and Mr. Barton, all vying for her interest, all doing their damnedest to engage it.

A futile endeavor, but it was impossible to explain that to them, or indeed, anyone; Pris had to smile and let them drone on.

About them, Lady Trenton’s ballroom was filled with the gay, the witty, the wealthy, and the influential, along with a large contingent of hopeful young ladies and gentlemen. The next few weeks were the last in the year in which society congregated in London; once Parliament rose in November, the ton would retire to their estates, and all matchmaking activity would become confined to the smaller, more select house parties that would fill in the months until March, when everyone would return to town again.

For those interested in making a match, these next weeks would be crucial in determining whether they would further their aims through the winter months or have to bide their time until spring.

In originally suggesting they visit London, Pris hadn’t realized how frenetic the search for suitable mates would be, much less how high on the list of eligibles she would feature. Now she knew, and was quietly aghast, but there was nothing she could do but smile. And pretend the gentlemen who flocked around had some chance of winning her hand.

Of course, they had even less chance of accomplishing that than they had of fixing her wandering attention. The man who succeeded in winning her hand would first have to win her heart-that was a vow she’d sworn years ago, when following her come-out she’d realized the reality of many matches in her circle. A temperate union, based on affection and trust at best, would never do for her; worse, such a marriage would potentially be dangerous, inviting trouble. Her emotions, her temperament, were too strong, too intense; she would never find peace in a passionless existence.

Such had been her thoughts before she’d met Dillon Caxton.

And lost her heart to him.

The gentlemen who pursued her could not win from her something she no longer possessed. Forcing a smile in response to Lord Camberleigh’s tale, she tried not to think of the yawning emptiness inside her.

It was her third night in the capital. Flick had prevailed on Pris’s father to accept her hospitality at her house in fashionable Half Moon Street. As soon as they’d assembled there, Flick had taken them under her wing and introduced them to her wider family, the other Cynster ladies, both of Flick’s generation and the one before. A more formidable collection of ladies Pris had never encountered; somewhat to her surprise, they’d welcomed her, Eugenia, and Adelaide warmly, and set about assisting them into the ton.

She’d allowed herself to be swept along, to be presented to this lady, that grande dame, with Eugenia to accept invitation after invitation and appear at three balls every night. She’d hoped the activity would ease the cold, dull ache where her heart used to be; she’d prayed the London gentlemen would distract her thoughts-in vain.

They were all so…weak. Pale. Insignificant. Lacking sufficient strength to impact on senses grown accustomed to the darkly dramatic, to the decisive, the dangerous, and the wild.

Yet she didn’t regret refusing Dillon’s suit-couldn’t regret rejecting an offer that hadn’t come from his heart. Her heart might have-all but unknown to her at the time-been ready and willing to accept his, but it hadn’t been his heart he’d offered her, only his hand, his name.

During all her time in Newmarket, through all they’d done, all they’d shared, her only regret, an abiding regret, was that she’d allowed the fiction that she’d given herself to him as an inducement to view the register to stand.

Aside from her name, that was the one other lie she hadn’t corrected for him. It was a big lie, a serious lie, but the situation between them meant she’d never be able to address it.

If she confessed she’d seduced him, had first taken him into her body purely because she’d wanted him, and had repeated the exercise because she’d craved the closeness, the connection, he’d see the truth, that she’d been in love with him from the first, and feel even more compelled to marry her.

So she wouldn’t tell him, and the lie would stand.

She told herself it didn’t matter, that in the wider scheme of things she’d accomplished all she’d set out from Ireland to do. Rus was safe and free, and the racing world was now his oyster, her father and he had reconciled, and her family was once again whole.

She should be grateful; her heart should be light.

The yawning emptiness within her grew colder and ached.

A squeak from a distant violin broke through her thoughts, made her blink and refocus on Mr. Barton, who’d been laboring through a description of the latest play at the Theatre Royal. The three gentlemen shot glances at one another. She dragged in a breath, dragooned her wits into action-anything to avoid an invitation to waltz. “What was your sister’s opinion of the play, sir?”

Mr. Barton put great store in his sister’s opinions; chest inflating, he was about to launch forth when something behind her caught his eye.

He blinked. Mouth open, his words dying on his tongue, he stared.

Pris glanced at the other two; they’d followed the direction of Barton’s fixed gaze and were now staring, apparently dumbstruck, too.

It would be rude, and too obvious, to swing around and look, yet it appeared that whatever-whoever-was occasioning the gentlemen’s consternation was approaching, drawing nearer.

Then she felt it-a ruffling of her senses, like a hand stroking the air a mere breath from her skin.

Felt the touch, the burning caress of his gaze on her nape, fully exposed by her gown and upswept hair.

She hauled in a breath, and swung around.

Her heart leapt. Her traitorous senses teetered, ready to swoon.

He was there. Right behind her, large as life. Darker and more sinfully handsome than she recalled.

One step, and she would be in his arms.

The battle not to take that step nearly slew her; she literally swayed.

He took her hand-she wasn’t aware she’d offered it-and bowed, an abbreviated gesture that shrieked of closeness, of something a great deal more than mere acquaintance.

His eyes had searched her face; now they fixed on hers. She couldn’t read his, dark and impenetrable, could read nothing in his rigidly impassive expression.

The feel of his fingers closing warm and strong about hers effortlessly locked every iota of her consciousness on him.

“What are you doing here?” The only question that mattered; the only question to which she needed an answer.

One dark brow arched. He held her gaze. “Can’t you guess?”

She frowned. “No.”

The violins interrupted with the prelude to a waltz. He looked up-over her head at the three gentlemen she’d completely forgotten. Recalling her manners, she shifted so her back was no longer to them, just in time to hear Dillon say, “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen?”

No real question. Camberleigh, Barton, and Halliwell all blinked.

Pris blinked, too-at the wealth of confident, arrogant assumption carried in his tone. Temper sparking, she swung to face him-only to find him, now at her side, winding her arm in his, settling her hand on his sleeve.

And leading her to the dance floor.

She tried to catch his eye, but he was looking ahead, steering her through the guests. She tried to halt. Smoothly, he changed his hold on her arm and stepped back-so he was half behind her, herding her with his body through the crowd.

The thought of stopping and letting him run into her sent shivers down her spine; she bundled it out of her mind. Physical resistance was clearly not an option.

“I haven’t agreed to waltz with you.” She hissed the words over her shoulder as they approached the dance floor.

For an instant, he didn’t reply, then his breath caressed her ear. “You haven’t refused…and you won’t.”

Her breath hitched; she fought to quell a reactive shiver-one of pure, anticipatory plea sure. Arguing was clearly not an option either. Not if she wished to hold on to her wits, and she had the distinct impression she was going to need them.

That was confirmed the instant he swept her into his arms and into the sea of swirling couples thronging the floor. It was the middle of the evening, the crowd at its height; they should have been anonymous amid the revolving horde.

Of course, they were anything but. Alone, each of them drew eyes; together, they could, and were, transfixing the entire crowd, even some of their fellow dancers.

Not that she had eyes, or ears, or wits for anyone else.

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable, his eyes the same. He was waltzing very correctly, not taking advantage of the dance as he might have to tantalize her senses and addle her brain.

Her senses were tantalized anyway, but at least her wits remained hers.

Keeping her expression outwardly serene, she let a frown infuse her eyes. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Which question is that?”

His tone-one of drawling male arrogance-seemed designed to prick her temper. Suspecting that might indeed be the case, she met his gaze steadily. “Why are you here?”

The answer came back, not in that irritating tone but in his usual deep voice, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I came for you.”

She stared into his eyes, fell into the beckoning darkness; the world was spinning-she wasn’t at all sure it was due only to the dance. “Why?”

“Because I haven’t finished with you-I want more from you.”

She felt the blood drain from her face, but forced herself to continue to meet his dark eyes. “No. What we had in Newmarket-it ended there. A clean break, a finite end. You shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have followed me.”

“But I did. I have.”

There was something-some edging of tone, some elusive light in his dark eyes-that set her senses on full alert.

He seemed to see it; smoothly, he gathered her in for a tight turn, bent his head, and whispered in her ear, “And I would suggest this is not a wise time or place to pretend you don’t want me.”

She turned her head. Their faces were close, their lips mere inches apart. She looked into his eyes, at this range nearly black, still unfathomable. “What are you doing?”

His lips curved lightly. Unbidden, her gaze dropped to them; she realized and hauled it back to his eyes.

“As you’ve been so assiduous in reminding me, it was you who first seduced me.” He held her gaze. “Now it’s my turn.”

Her lungs had stopped functioning; it was an effort to find breath enough to whisper back, “I don’t want to be seduced.”

One dark brow arched. Straightening as their revolutions took them down the room, he calmly stated, “I don’t believe you have a choice.”

Temper was such a useful emotion; she let it fill her, let it infuse her eyes, her glare, while keeping the rest of her expression serene. “I suspect you’ll discover you’re mistaken.”

His other brow rose to join the first; his disgustingly confident male arrogance was back. “Are you willing to put that to the test?”

No! Innate caution leapt to catch her tongue, to grab back the gauntlet her temper-and he-had very nearly goaded her into flinging at his feet.

“I believe,” she returned, in her haughtiest, iciest tone, “that I can live without that particular amusement.”

The final chords of the waltz sounded. He whirled her to a halt, smiled as he raised her hand to his lips. “We’ll see.”

Battling to ignore the warmth that spread from the contact, the lingering touch of his lips on her fingers, a subtle seduction in itself, she turned away, glanced around. “I should return to Eugenia.”

He looked over the heads. “She’s over there.”

Somewhat to her surprise, he led her straight to her aunt, seated on a chaise to one side of the room with Lady Horatia Cynster and the beautiful and intriguing Dowager Duchess of St. Ives. Pris set eyes on the three ladies with relief; in their company, she was sure to be safe.

Her first intimation that that might not be the case came when all three ladies saw Dillon by her side. Eugenia positively beamed; Lady Horatia and the Dowager welcomed him effusively. Standing beside him, Pris heard their teasing, lightly arch comments-and had to fight not to stare.

They were encouraging him!

She managed to keep her mouth from falling open. She caught enough of the assessing glances all three ladies sent her way, understood enough of the subtle prods couched in their repartee to realize that safety did not lie with them.

Glancing around, she saw Rus standing a little to one side, Adelaide, as ever, beside him. She’d saved her twin; now he could save her.

Sliding her hand from Dillon’s arm-registering that his attention immediately swung her way-she kept her sweet, innocuous smile in place and bobbed a curtsy to the three ladies. “I must speak with my brother.”

Two steps-and Dillon had excused himself and was on her heels. She’d expected nothing else, but his speed confirmed that the older ladies were on his side.

How had he managed to outflank her with them, gain their support, and all before she’d even known he was in town? What had he told them?

Her mind seized, but then her wits reengaged. He wouldn’t have told them all-all was too shocking; they wouldn’t have been so openly approving of him and his suit. He might have allowed them to guess how close he and she had grown without being specific…she inwardly grimaced. She knew enough of tonnish life to know that he might not even have had to do that.

On all counts, he and she would make an excellent match. And promoting excellent matches was the principal activity of the senior ladies of the ton.

Reaching her brother, she smiled, with a gesture indicated the prowling figure beside her. “Dillon’s arrived.”

Rus grinned at the devil and offered his hand. “Excellent.”

There was something, some element in the glance Dillon and her brother exchanged as they shook hands that jarred her nerves, that had her looking sharply from one to the other.

But no, she reassured herself. He couldn’t have corrupted her twin.

Two minutes was enough to assure her he had.

Adelaide, of course, beamed at Dillon, entirely content given she had Rus beside her. For his part, Rus had quickly realized that in this arena, he didn’t need to shield Adelaide, but she could, and would, shield him; he’d been quick to avail himself of her ser vices.

If Pris hadn’t had good reason to believe Rus’s interest, until now predictably fickle, was well on the way to becoming permanently engaged, she might have entertained some concern for Adelaide. As matters stood, the only one she was left feeling concerned about was herself. Astonishing though it was, even Rus and Adelaide seemed to believe that Dillon and she…

She would have to talk to Rus and explain the whole.

But before she could drag her brother aside, the damned musicians struck up. Rus turned to Adelaide, and with a certain glint in his eye, invited her to share a country dance with him.

Adelaide accepted, and with smiles they whisked off. Pris watched them go, a frown in her eyes. Her brother was…engrossed. Enthralled. Busy. Engaged in an enterprise she didn’t wish to interrupt, or disrupt.

She could, she was sure, regardless of how Dillon appeared to him, convince Rus that her best interests lay in avoiding him, but…did she really want to, just at this moment, focus her not-always-predictable twin on her less-than-happy state?

Dillon had remained beside her; she could feel his gaze on her face. He hadn’t asked her to dance, for which she was grateful. It was a Sir Roger de Coverly, involving lots of whirling in each other’s arms, and she knew beyond doubt that she’d be giddy-seriously giddy with her defenses in tatters-by the end of it. He would know that, too…she glanced suspiciously up at him.

He met her look blankly, and inclined his head down the room. “Your father’s over there.”

Her father? She couldn’t believe it, but had to find out. Regally accepting Dillon’s arm, she allowed him to steer her through the unrelenting crowd.

Lord Kentland turned from the gentlemen he’d been conversing with just as they came up. Seeing them, he beamed.

“Caxton!” He clasped Dillon’s hand, smiling delightedly as he shook it, then looked at Pris, his plea sure and pride in her-her appearance, her presence, everything about her-transparent.

Dillon hadn’t been sure how the earl would choose to play this scene. After a moment, Kentland glanced at him, a direct and challenging gleam in his eye. “Glad you’re here, my boy. Now you can watch over her.” He glanced around at the crowd, at the rakes, roués, and assorted wolves of the ton dotted among the ranks, all of whom had noticed Pris, then looked back at Dillon. “I’ve gray hairs enough.”

Dillon let his lips curve, but it wasn’t in a smile. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Kentland clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you will.”

He looked at his daughter; Dillon didn’t need to glance her way to know she was staring, all but openmouthed, incredulous and disbelieving, at her father. Stunned by his defection, or so she would view it.

Kentland, however, was made of stern stuff. Ignoring the incipient ire, and the Et tu, Brute? accusation flaring in her eyes, he smiled and nodded at her. “I’ll see you later. Enjoy your evening, my dear.” He looked up, and signaled to an acquaintance. “Yes, Horace, I’m coming.”

With a nod and a bow, the earl headed for the card room.

Dillon watched him go. From beside him came silence. Complete and utter silence.

As Pris no doubt now suspected, he’d had a busy day. After driving down from Newmarket, he’d left his bags and his horses in Berkeley Square, in Highthorpe’s, Horatia’s butler’s, care, and had gone posthaste to Half Moon Street. As he’d devoutly hoped, the ladies had been out at some luncheon, but Lord Kentland and his heir had been in. It was the earl with whom Dillon had requested an interview.

Adhering to the principle that the truth would serve him best, he’d given his lordship as much of it as was wise. While he hadn’t stated in so many words how close he and Pris had grown, the earl was man of the world enough to fill in the gaps-and as had quickly become clear, his lordship was well acquainted with his daughter’s character, with her wild, willful, and passionate ways.

That to the earl it was a relief to be able to hand his daughter into the care of someone who actually understood her had slowly dawned; by the time he’d left the study in which their discussion had taken place, Dillon had understood that the earl was counting on him to succeed in overcoming any and all resistance, to one way or another sweep his twenty-four-year-old headstrong daughter off her feet. The earl fully comprehended that his path to success might involve meetings of a nature of which society would not normally approve; assured of Dillon’s commitment and intent, his lordship had dismissed such risks as necessary to the cause.

Paternal approval and more, outright encouragement, were his.

He’d had his card taken up to Rus, who’d come quickly down to join him. The earl had passed them in the front hall. While his lordship headed to White’s, Rus had been eager to visit Boodle’s, of which Dillon was a member. Along the way, Dillon had explained the situation between himself and Pris, much as he had with their father. Even more forthrightly than his sire, Rus had accepted Dillon’s proposed suit for his sister’s hand and pledged his aid.

It was only later, when he’d been dressing for the evening, that Dillon had realized that Rus’s encouragement meant rather more than the norm. Rus and Pris shared that special link twins possessed, and Rus had been convinced, even before Dillon had spoken, that Pris belonged with him.

He’d set out to find her more confident of success than when he’d driven into town. The first necessary elements of his strategy were in place.

When laying siege, the first requirement was to cut off all escape.

Glancing down at Pris, he wasn’t surprised to discover a seriously black frown on her face; she slowly turned and aimed it at him, emerald gaze sharpening to twin arrow points as she narrowed her eyes.

A fraught moment passed, then with awful calm, she stated, “If you’ll excuse me?”

Glacial ice encased the words; with a distant nod, she turned away.

He reached out and shackled her wrist. Met the green fire of her furious glance as she swung back to face him, ready to annihilate him. “Where to?”

Lips thin, she drew in a breath, breasts rising ominously beneath the abbreviated bodice of her aqua silk gown. “To the withdrawing room.” She breathed the words on a rising current of seething anger.

It was the one place he couldn’t follow her.

Pointedly, she glanced down at his fingers, locked about her wrist. He uncurled them, released her.

Without another glance at him, she swished her skirts around and glided, with quite lethal grace, to the nearest door.

Dillon stood and watched her. As she passed out of the ballroom, his lips slowly curved-this time, in a smile.

Pris had no need to use the withdrawing room’s amenities, nor had she any torn flounce or trailing lace to pin up. There were a number of mirrors propped about the room; she stood before one, pretending to readjust the curls tumbling in artful disarray from the knot on the top of her head.

Pausing, she looked at her reflection-looked dispassionately, and considered what others saw. A lady of medium height, her features dramatic and arresting, her black hair gleaming, her full lips rosy red, her slender but distinctly curvaceous figure encased in aqua silk, the coruscating hues created with every movement reminiscent of the shifting sea.

Pulling a face at the sight, at her bosom mounding above the low-cut, tightly fitting bodice, she wished that, on coming to London, she’d thought to resurrect her bluestocking look. That might at least have spared her the most deadening aspect of her emergence into the ton’s ballrooms-the relegation to superficial young miss, to being nothing more than a face and a body in gentlemen’s eyes.

They certainly looked, but they didn’t see.

They looked at her face and saw only her perfect features. They looked at her figure and saw only her sumptuous breasts, the evocative and graceful lines of her hips and thighs, her long legs.

They didn’t see her. Not as Dillon saw her…

For a long moment she stared at the mirror, then, lips tightening, she turned away. She was not going to weaken in this; she wouldn’t alter her stance, not even for him. If she couldn’t find it in her to harden her heart against him, then she’d simply have to harden her head-and think faster and more quickly than he.

She caught a few glances from the other ladies, many of whom had entered after she had. She couldn’t hide here, and she was simply too noticeable to fade into the background, for instance in the card room.

An instant’s consideration warned that if she waited too long, Dillon would ask Adelaide to come and check on her. That would be embarrassing.

Resolutely she headed for the door. There had to be some other way.

The door closed behind her; pausing in the poorly lit corridor, she looked along it to where, twenty yards away, light and gaiety spilled through the ballroom doors giving onto the foyer at the head of the main stairs.

There was no one in sight. A situation that wouldn’t last long. She could hear ladies’ voices in the withdrawing room; soon, they’d step out and return to the ball.

She swung around. Beyond the withdrawing room the corridor was unlit. A little way along, it reached a corner, then turned down a wing.

Glancing back, she confirmed that she was still alone in the corridor. The sound of ladies approaching the door at her back decided her; lifting her skirts, she hurried away from the ballroom. The withdrawing room door opened, and a wash of chatter rolled out just as she slipped around the corner.

Into darkness, and peace.

She started down what she guessed would be a wing of bedchambers. Behind her, the ladies’ voices faded and died. She glanced back-and halted.

And smiled; she could barely believe her luck. The other side of the wing, beyond the main corridor from where she stood, ended in a room, recessed so its door wasn’t visible from the main corridor. The door to that room stood open; faint light glowed from within.

Such rooms were often left prepared in case a lady needed to retire in privacy and peace.

A lady such as herself; in the circumstances, she felt she qualified.

Retracing her steps, she peeked around the corner. She waited until two giggling young ladies disappeared through the withdrawing room door, then scurried across the corridor to the recessed door, and her haven.

Quietly, in case some other lady was already there, she walked in. It was a small parlor with two large armchairs angled before the hearth. A fire burned in the grate, more for show than for warmth. On a side table against the wall, a lamp was turned low; it shed enough light to see that neither chair was occupied.

She heaved a sigh of relief and quietly closed the door. She looked at the key sitting in its lock, then turned it. The loud click faded, taking with it some of the rather odd panic that had been brewing inside her.

Feeling strangely alone, she walked to the hearth, then, more out of habit than any real need, bent to warm her hands before the blaze.

She sensed him draw near the instant before his palm cupped her bottom and too knowingly caressed.

With a smothered oath, she shot upright-straight into his arms.

He smiled down at her as if she were his next meal. “I wondered how long you’d be.”

He turned her more fully into his arms. Stunned, she braced her hands against his chest, drew in a huge breath.

Before she could release it in the tirade he so richly deserved, he bent his head, sealed her lips. And kissed every thought from her head.