What Price Love? (10 page)

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.

 

H
e 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.

 

S
urveying 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.