What Price Love?

5

Four hours later, Pris was reasonably satisfied with her entrance into Newmarket society. She’d adopted a “severe bluestocking” persona; garbed in a simple gown of gray-and-white-striped twill with her hair restrained in a tight chignon, she worked to project a quiet if not studious appearance.

The Cynster gathering had proved larger than she’d expected; a host of young ladies and a surprising number of eligible gentlemen strolled the lawn beside the house under the watchful eyes of a gaggle of matrons and older ladies, seated comfortably beneath the encircling trees.

“Thank you, Lady Kershaw.” Pris bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.” With a light smile, she parted from the haughty matron.

Invitations to dinners and parties were an inevitable consequence of attending such an event, but having discovered most here had some connection to the racing industry, she was at one with Eugenia in accepting what ever invitations came their way. Who knew from whom they might learn the crucial fact? Until they found it, they would press forward on every front. She and Eugenia were earls’ daughters, and Adelaide had moved all her life in similar circles; dealing with Newmarket society posed no great challenge.

Once the introductions had been made they’d gone their separate ways. Adelaide had joined the younger young ladies; charged with seeing if she could discover any word of derelict stables or the like from her peers, she was happily applying herself to the task.

Eugenia, meanwhile, was pursuing the register with duly eccentric zeal. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to talk solely of that; when Pris had last drifted past, Eugenia had been exchanging views on the latest London scandal.

Pausing by the side of the lawn, Pris scanned the guests. Her task had been to engage the not-quite-so-young ladies as well as the gentlemen, to see what she could learn. She’d steadfastly adhered to her role of bluestocking, responding to the usual sallies her beauty provoked with blank if not openly depressing stares. Her attire hadn’t helped as much as she’d hoped, but her attitude had carried the day. Her reputation was now going before her; the sallies were becoming less common, and more young ladies viewed her with interest rather than incipient jealousy.

That was rather refreshing; she was enjoying the greater freedom the role allowed her to interact with others on a plane beyond the superficial. She’d always found people interesting, but over the last eight and more years, her beauty had become a wall, prohibiting easy, unstilted discourse.

Now, however, completing her scan of the gathered multitude and confirming she’d chatted to them all, she felt her real self stir, felt the prick of rising impatience.

A movement within the drawing room caught her eye. The doors to the lawn stood open; with the bright sunlight streaming down, the interior was full of shadows. As she watched, one moved-with a predatory grace that set mental alarms ringing.

She’d remained on guard until she’d assured herself neither Caxton nor his friend Adair were lurking among the guests. Now, senses focused, watching the shadow resolve into the shape of a man, watching him stroll out onto the sunlit steps-seeing his dark locks and sinfully dark elegance revealed-she swore.

His gaze had already fixed on her.

Pris turned and rejoined a group of guests.

Dillon watched her merge with the crowd. He hesitated at the edge of the lawn, debating his best avenue of attack.

He’d spent the last three days thinking of little else but the lovely Miss Dalling, and while many of those thoughts had revolved about her potential role in any racing scam, some had been a great deal more private. While he understood, even agreed in principle with Demon’s suggestion that given the seriousness of the situation, the potential damage to the racing industry, then using more personal persuasions to gain her trust and learn all they needed was justified, he felt strangely reluctant to pursue her in that way…or, at least, for those reasons.

After their last meeting, he was not at all sure he wished to reengage with her personally at all.

He’d warned her off. Never before had he even thought of such a thing, yet with her he’d been moved to it, for one compelling reason. No other woman had ever tempted him as she had. She’d cut through his control effortlessly, as if it hadn’t been forged in the steamy hot house of ton affairs, tested by the most experienced and never before found wanting, and left him facing a side of himself he hadn’t, until that fraught moment in the wood, known he possessed.

No matter how he’d made it sound, his warning had been driven by self-preservation. His, not hers.

He’d always regarded himself as sensually aloof, passionate maybe yet always in control, never at the mercy of his appetites, never driven by a need that raked and clawed. She’d shown him he’d been wrong, that with the right female, the right temptation, he could be just as driven as others-as Demon, as Gerrard, as the other Cynster males he’d spent most of the last decade around.

That was not a comforting thought, especially as it seemed he needed to “persuade” her to tell him her secrets. Getting that close to her, tempting her, dallying as far as he needed to, was going to severely strain his until-now-vaunted control, already, with her, seriously weakened.

Given his body’s instant reaction to the sight of her, a delectable vision in a gown of vertical gray-and-white stripes highlighted by fine stripes of gold, standing momentarily alone, surveying the crowd-an outsider who, courtesy of her beauty, stood apart, as he often did-he seriously doubted that, in this case, familiarity would breed contempt. More likely insanity if he was constantly forced to battle his newfound demons.

Nevertheless…her equally instant reaction to him, her instinctive move to seek refuge with others, had set the ends of his lips curving. The predator in him recognized her flight for what it was. Perhaps there was hope? Perhaps “persuading” her wouldn’t demand more than he could safely risk?

“There you are!”

He turned to see Flick bustling toward him. Stretching up, she planted a kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “She’s over there with the Elcotts-did you see?”

“Yes.” Flick had sent word that Miss Dalling and her aunt would be attending her afternoon tea. “How long have they been here?”

“A little over an hour, so you’ve plenty of time. Now”-turning, Flick surveyed her guests-“would you like to meet the aunt?”

“Indeed. And after that, you can try to clear my path.” Dillon pretended not to notice the avid looks cast his way. “I have absolutely no interest in any sweet young lady-just Miss Dalling.”

Flick chuckled as she took his arm. “I agree she’s not sweet, but at least she’s interesting. However, my good lad, I greatly fear that regardless of your lack of interest, there are too many here whose interest you cannot ignore.”

He groaned, but surrendered, allowing her to lead him into the waiting throng. He exchanged greetings with various matrons, bowed over their daughters’ hands, effortlessly maintaining his usual aloof distance; even while he was looking at each sweet young miss, his senses were tracking his true prey. She was circling, keeping more or less behind him as he moved through the crowd.

She’d taken his warning to heart. How to tempt her close enough to rescind it was a novel challenge.

Then Flick steered him to an older lady sitting alongside Lady Kershaw. “And this is Lady Fowles. She and her niece and goddaughter are spending some weeks at the Carisbrook place. Allow me to present my cousin, Mr. Dillon Caxton. Dillon’s in charge of the famous Breeding Register.”

“Really?” Lady Fowles smiled up at him, an eagle sighting prey.

Bowing over her hand, Dillon met a pair of shrewd gray eyes.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you, young man. From my niece. So disobliging of you not to tell her all I wanted to know.”

Her ladyship’s smile robbed the words of all offense. Dillon responded with a smile as he straightened. “I’m afraid the details of the Breeding Register are something of an industry secret.”

He wondered if her ladyship knew of her niece’s late-night exploits. It seemed unlikely; for all her purported eccentricity, Lady Fowles appeared perfectly sane.

She did, however, proceed to grill him about the register. He slid around her questions, imparting instead various Jockey Club rules, ones that were public knowledge. Given his long association with the club, he could hold forth at length without any real thought.

That left his mind free to dwell on Miss Dalling, to consider how to lure her close…all he had to do was continue talking animatedly with her aunt. Miss Dalling had more than her fair share of curiosity.

Even as his senses pricked, telling him she was near, Lady Fowles looked past him, and beamed. “There you are, my dear. I’ve been attempting to wring information about the register from Mr. Caxton here.” Her ladyship threw him a sharp look. “Producing water from stone would be easier.”

She looked again at Miss Dalling as she joined them. Dillon turned to face her; she remained a wary few feet away.

“Mr. Caxton.” Her tone was cool. She curtsied; Dillon bowed.

Eyes widening, her ladyship suggested, “Why don’t you see if you can weaken his resolve, my dear? Perhaps he’ll be more amenable to sharing such details with you.”

Hiding his satisfaction, Dillon looked at his prey. Her eyes, startled, lifted to his. He could almost feel for her-thrown to the lion by her aunt.

“I don’t think that’s at all likely, aunt.” Primly correct, she waited, expecting him to make some comment declining her company and withdraw.

He smiled charmingly, as if taken by her beauty; she wasn’t fooled-sudden suspicion bloomed in her emerald eyes. “I know how devoted you are to satisfying your aunt’s thirst for knowledge, Miss Dalling.” Smoothly he offered his arm. “Perhaps we should stroll, and you can test your wiles? Who knows what, in such congenial surrounds, I might let fall?”

She stared at him, then looked at his arm as if it were something that might bite.

“Ah…” Tentatively, she reached out. “Yes. Very well.” Lifting her head, eyes narrowing, she met his gaze. “A stroll would be…pleasant.”

He felt the hesitant pressure of her fingers on his sleeve keenly; he suppressed a strong urge to cover them with his, to trap them.

They took their leave of her aunt and Lady Kershaw. Dillon turned toward the end of the lawn. “Let’s go this way.”

She assented with a nod.

There were fewer guests farther down the lawn. He guided her through the groups, avoiding meeting the eyes of those who sought to engage them. “Tell me, Miss Dalling, what drives your aunt’s interest in the register?”

She glanced at him, wary yet direct. “I realize you might not comprehend how it might be, but my aunt is obsessive. When she decides she must know something, she simply won’t rest until her curiosity is appeased.”

“In that case, in this instance, she’ll wear herself to the bone. The details of the register are not for public consumption.”

“She’s hardly ‘public.’ I cannot see why-” She broke off.

He glanced at her face; her expression told him little, but her eyes had widened-something had just occurred to her.

He sensed when she jettisoned all attempt at a façade; the tension in the lithe body beside his subtly altered, becoming more relaxed, more fluid, yet more focused as she shifted to attack.

“Tell me this, then.” She met his eyes, her gaze direct, challenge in the green. “Why are those details such a secret?”

He held her gaze, then looked ahead. They’d left the other guests behind; focused on him, she didn’t notice when he turned into the yew-lined walk that led to the stable.

How far should he go? “Those details can be used to falsify races in various ways. The Jockey Club prefers not to draw attention to those ways, hence the secrecy surrounding the register’s information and how it’s used.”

She frowned, pacing alongside him. “So the information is used in some way to…validate race horses?”

When she looked up, he caught her gaze. Dropped all pretense, too. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you tell me why you need to know what’s in the register, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

She studied his eyes for a pregnant instant, then looked ahead. “I’ve already told you why-more than once. My aunt wishes to know-you’ve spoken with her, you know that’s true.”

A hint of truculent impatience roughened her brogue.

Dillon inwardly sighed. Demon was right. Gaining her trust was the only way he was going to learn her secrets.

And the only quick and certain way to get close was to seduce her.

He didn’t let himself think, just acted. Halting, he faced her. Lowering his arm, he caught her hand and smoothly backed her until the thick, fine-leaved hedge stopped her.

Then he stepped closer, the movement so practiced, so polished, it shrieked of his experience.

Her eyes had widened. She stared at him-incredulous-for one fraught instant, then she glanced right and left, and realized where they were. Out of sight, alone.

Her gaze whipped back to him. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

An irritated demand; there was not the slightest hint of panic in her tone.

Her recalcitrance acted like a spur. Bending his head, he leaned in. Raising one hand, he twined a finger in a lush, black curl that had slipped loose from her too-severe chignon and now bobbed by her ear.

The sensation of warm silk wrapping about his finger momentarily distracted him. Gently, he tugged his finger free, then realized she’d stopped breathing. He glanced at her eyes, caught her stunned stare, hesitated, then gently, languidly, with the pad of his finger traced the fine skin of her jaw.

For one instant, desire swirled in those fabulous emerald eyes; she fought to quell a shiver-he sensed the flare of response, watched her lids flutter half-closed.

Only a saint wouldn’t have shifted closer still, until their bodies were a scant inch apart, until he could feel the heat of her, the beckoning delight of her, all along his body. He was definitely no saint; he reveled in the sensation.

He whispered his next words over her cheek. “I thought perhaps, obsessed as you are with the details of the register, you might like to persuade me to your cause?”

Her lids flew up. The eyes that locked with his weren’t hazy with desire; it was temper, steel-bright, that flashed at him. “What happened to”-her voice altered; she couldn’t match his tone, but she succeeded with his inflection-“‘I would suggest, Miss Dalling, that if you have the slightest sense of self-preservation, you will not again attempt to sway me using yourself as bait’?”

He held her irate gaze for two heartbeats, then shrugged. “I changed my mind.” He lowered his gaze to the delectable twin mounds showing above her scooped neckline. “I reconsidered in light of your charms. Obviously I spoke too hastily, in the heat of the moment.” Lifting his gaze, he met her eyes. “As it were.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits; she studied him for a long moment, then crisply stated, “Nonsense.” Raising both hands, she pushed at his shoulders.

Sheer bemusement had him stepping back. She whisked around and started back up the walk. Then she stopped, unsure, and glanced around. “Where are we?”

Feeling very like shaking his head, he strolled up to her, waving back at the buildings filling the end of the walk. “My brother-in-law’s stable. Given your aunt’s great interest in horse racing, I assumed the stable of the premier race horse breeder in England might be of some interest to you.”

She stared at the stable long enough for him to wonder if she might take him up on his offer, giving him more time with her in a more private, more enclosed space…but then she shook her head. “My aunt has only one highly specific obsession at present. I need to concentrate on satisfying that.”

Whirling, she marched back up the path.

Inwardly sighing, he fell in beside her. “I had thought that’s what I was suggesting.”

The look she threw him was scorching. “Do you seriously expect me to believe I have any chance of ‘persuading’ you-regardless of what time and energy I might devote to the task?”

They stepped back onto the lawn. He halted, caught her gaze as she paused beside him. He raised a brow, deliberately taunting. “How will you know unless you try?”

She held his gaze, her expression dismissive…but she thought about it. He remained unmoved, unaffected, challenging yet not threatening.

Eventually, she lifted her chin. “I’ll bid you a good day, Mr. Caxton.”

Her tone suggested she hoped he fell in a bog on the way home. He smiled and elegantly inclined his head. “Miss Dalling.” He waited until, head high, she turned away, before quietly adding, “Until next we meet.”

She froze, spine rigid, then, without acknowledging his words in any way, she walked away across the lawn.

Dillon watched her until she rejoined her aunt, saw her bend to speak into her ear. Before any other lady could capture him, he stepped back into the yew walk and beat a strategic retreat.

He didn’t take any chances. The next morning, he spoke with his clerks and race stewards, making it plain that their continued employment depended on them resisting any blandishments or temptations of any kind to divulge details of the Breeding Register, or the Stud Book.

Later, he reported to the Committee, the three gentlemen elected as stewards by the members of the club, modifying his warning accordingly, describing it as a precaution arising out of his ongoing investigations.

He didn’t mention Miss Dalling.

She was involved, but he didn’t yet know how, nor why she was after the register’s details. He was having increasing difficulty envisaging her, much less her aunt, as lending themselves in any way to any illicit enterprise.

His day passed in meetings with owners, trainers, and jockeys, with the town’s aldermen and various denizens of the turf.

He wondered when Barnaby would return, whether he and the Cynsters would be able to turn up firm information.

Time and again, his mind returned to Miss Dalling, to that brief and rather surprising interview in the yew walk. Although the thought made him sound like a coxcomb, experience had taught him few ladies could have broken from his spell, not at such close quarters, let alone snap into perfectly genuine ire.

Ire shouldn’t have been within her range of responses, not at that moment.

When he touched her, she responded, if anything more ardently, more acutely than others, yet if there were no direct contact, her mind remained incisive, her temper determined, her will strong-and she saw straight through him.

He found her unbelievably refreshing.

He caught himself wondering what waltzing with her would be like, how she might react…

Flick had been right. Miss Dalling might not be sweet, but she was definitely interesting. Having dangled his bait, he was looking forward to crossing her path again that night.

Surveying Lady Kershaw’s ballroom, Pris felt relief seep through her, felt oddly tense muscles ease as she detected no elegantly ruffled dark locks, no sinfully handsome gentleman waiting to waylay her.

Other gentlemen eyed her speculatively, but they barely registered; she didn’t fear them. She wasn’t even sure she feared Caxton so much as what he might tempt her to do. To risk. Especially given her increasing anxiety over Rus.

She’d returned to the lending library that morning; the woman behind the counter had confirmed that their wonderful map showed only buildings currently in use. She’d suspected as much, yet still it was a blow.

Patrick had confirmed that Rus hadn’t caught any coach, nor hired one. Her twin was as striking as she; no ostler would have forgotten him. So Rus was, as she’d thought, still in the vicinity, hiding and in danger not just from Harkness himself but from all who might think to secure the offered reward.

Someone in Newmarket, among the many they would meet socially, had to know what she needed to learn. Moving through the guests, she exchanged greetings with those she remembered from Mrs. Cynster’s afternoon tea, allowing them to introduce her to others.

She’d built on her image of a serious if beautiful bluestocking, disguising her dashing gown of dark green silk by draping a black knitted silk shawl over her bare shoulders and tying it between her breasts. The long fringe hid much of her figure; the dark mesh dimmed the jewel hue of the gown. Long dark gloves added to the impression of repressive severity; her bountiful hair was once again restrained in a tight chignon.

Her social experience combined with her years allowed her the status of still-eligible yet in de pen dent spinster, one who no longer needed to remain under her chaperone’s eye.

Smiling, chatting, she circulated, paying most attention to the gentlemen; she was a dab hand at using her looks to prompt older men into trying to impress her, in this case with their understanding of the racetrack.

Although the ladies who’d heard of her aunt’s obsession steered the conversation to the register, she’d realized it might behoove her to widen her inquiries. Caxton’s comments on the subject had been brief, but he had revealed one pertinent point; she encouraged any who could to describe what occurred at the end of races, how the winning horses were treated, what the rules were, what checks were made.

After an hour of steady application, with a delighted smile she turned from two portly gentlemen who had finally told her of the race stewards and their role in verifying winning horses.

“The stewards won’t tell you anything-don’t bother to ask.”

With a squeak, barely stifled, she very nearly jumped back-away from him. He loomed over her. Her heart had leapt to her throat; she had to wait a moment before it subsided and her lungs started working again.

All because of the waft of his breath over the edge of her ear.

Dragging in a breath, she lifted her chin and fixed him with a look designed to slay.

He met her eyes and smiled.

She felt like blinking, managed not to, but that smile…it wasn’t one of his practiced gestures, but genuine and sincere.

For some ungodly reason, she amused him.

She elevated her nose farther. “You were eavesdropping.”

His smile deepened; he reached out and took her arm.

Why she didn’t twist free and storm off she had no idea.

Twining her arm in his, he met her gaze. “I told you more than I should have yesterday. You had that far too easily. If you want to know more, you’ll have to work harder.”

“Yesterday I wasn’t even-” She broke off. Glanced at him.

He caught the glance, returned it with a knowing, faintly arrogant smile.

She blinked and looked ahead. Last afternoon she might not have been trying to extract-seduce-information from him, yet he’d told her something. Apparently deliberately.

Was he really willing to divulge the register’s secrets in return for…?

Was she in any position to ignore the possibility that he might?

Was Rus?

She was about to turn to him-how did one embark on such an “exchange”?-when his hold on her arm tightened. He steered her to the dance floor as the musicians at the end of the room started playing.

“Come and dance.”

She inwardly shrugged, happy enough to put off the uncertain moment. They were playing the introduction to a waltz; she turned into his arms before she’d thought.

His fingers closed about hers; his palm settled, warm, hard, and shockingly strong in the middle of her back. She sucked in a breath, felt her senses quake, determinedly forced them to behave and not betray her sudden sensitivity. Fixing her gaze beyond his shoulder, she fought to concentrate on the revolutions of the dance, then realized that wasn’t helping at all.

He was sweeping her effortlessly, powerfully around the room, her traitorous senses happily caught in his spell. In the shift and sway, in the seductive shush of her skirts against his trousers, in the sudden heat that flared as his hard thigh parted hers and he spun her into the turn.

Her lungs seized. She shifted her gaze to his face.

He met her eyes, read them, then smiled. That seductive, wholly genuine smile that sent her wits careening.

She couldn’t drag her gaze from his, couldn’t free her senses from his hold, from the sensual web the dance had become.

His dark eyes slowly heated. The hard planes of his face subtly shifted, as if he, too, felt it, as if he, too, were conscious of the tightening grip of sensation, the burgeoning craving the dance evoked.

Not the dance. Them dancing.

Never before had she considered the waltz a sensual experience, yet when the music faded and he whirled her to a halt, she felt exhilarated. Keyed up, nerves on edge, as she’d felt only once before.

When he’d kissed her in the wood and nearly ravished her.

Something must have shown in her face. His dark eyes raced over her features; when his gaze fixed on her lips, they throbbed.

He muttered something, his tone low, harsh. Instead of releasing her, his hand closed more tightly about hers; his arm fell away reluctantly as, head rising, he scanned the room.

She moistened her lips. Her wits seemed to be working unusually slowly.

She had a strong suspicion that if they’d been functioning normally, they’d be urging her to flee. Something else was keeping her rooted to the spot, wholly focused on a man who was the personification of danger.

“This way.” Dillon looped her arm in his, with his other hand trapped her fingers on his sleeve. Lady Fowles had noticed them dancing; smiling benignly, she’d returned to her conversation. It was helpful that Miss Dalling had established herself as in de pen dent; no brows would be raised if he escorted her beyond the ballroom’s walls.

Rather than head for the terrace, as a number of other couples were, he steered her to a door that gave onto a corridor, presently deserted.

He’d been visiting the Kershaws since he was in short coats; he knew the house and all its nooks well. The rarely used conservatory, down the corridor and out of sight of the ballroom, was the perfect place in which to pursue Miss Dalling-in which to encourage her to pursue him.

Guiding her down the corridor, ignoring her weak, “What…? Where are we going?” he halted before the glassed conservatory doors, set one swinging wide, and whisked her through.

“Mr. Caxton-”

“Dillon. If we’re going to be engaging in personal persuasions, it seems only reasonable to be on first-name terms.” Tacking down a narrow corridor between masses of leafy shrubs, towing her behind him, he halted and turned to look at her. “What’s your first name?”

She frowned, narrowed her eyes. “Priscilla.”

His lips twitched. “What does your brother call you?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he guessed. “Pris?”

She didn’t deny it. She looked around, then back, realizing they were out of sight of the corridor or anyone coming through the door. There were no lamps burning, but the moonlight poured through the glassed roof, providing steady illumination, enough to see by. She glanced toward the gardens beyond the glassed walls, but dense foliage screened them from that direction, too.

Her frown grew more definite. “Mr. Caxton, I don’t know what ‘persuasions’ you think to employ, but regardless, I’ll thank you to escort me back to the ballroom.”

Clearly holding her hand was insufficient contact. Dillon sighed, let her hand fall, reached for her, and neatly jerked her into his arms.