What Price Love? (14 page)

In the open, less than halfway to the trees, a sudden premonition that there was someone behind her washed like an icy wave down her spine.

Even while her mind was reassuring her that she was imagining things, she was turning to look.

At the man who was sauntering silently in her wake.

A scream rose to her throat—she struggled to swallow it as the moonlight revealed who he was.

Her relief was so profound, she fleetingly closed her eyes—then snapped them open; she'd stopped walking—he hadn't.

He eventually halted with a single pace between them.

By then her temper had flown. “What the devil do you think you're doing, following me?
And,
what's more, in a manner guaranteed to scare me out of my wits!”

What wits were left to her; at least half were fully occupied drinking in his presence—the width of his shoulders, the lean tautness of his chest, the long, strong lines of his rider's legs, his brand of masculine grace even more pronounced when cloaked in the crisp black-and-white of evening dress. A lock of dark hair showed ink black against his forehead; in the sharp contrast created by the moonlight, he appeared a dark and dangerous creature, one conjured from her deepest fantasies and rendered in hot muscle and steel.

He was tempting enough in daylight; in the light of the moon, he was sin personified.

Her accusations had sounded shrill, even to her ears.

He'd tilted his head, studying her face. “I apologize. I didn't mean to scare you.”

If she'd thought he was laughing at her, she'd have verbally flayed him, but there was sincerity in his tone, a touch of honesty she knew was real. She humphed and crossed her arms. With effort refrained from tapping her toe while she waited for him to say something, or better still, turn around and leave her.

When he simply stood there, looking down at her, she hauled in a breath, nodded regally, and swung around once more. “I'll bid you a good night, Mr. Caxton.”

She started walking.

From behind her, she heard a sigh. “Dillon.”

She didn't need to look to know he was following her.

“Where are you going?”

“Home. The Carisbrook place.”

“Why?”

She didn't reply.

“Or”—the tenor of his voice subtly altered—“more to the point, who arrived in the ballroom that you didn't want to meet?”

“No one.”

“Priscilla, allow me to inform you that you're a terrible liar.”

She bit her lip, told herself he was deliberately goading her. “Whom I choose to meet is none of your damned business.”

“Actually, in this case, I suspect it is.”

They'd reached the trees. She didn't fear him, not in the sense that he wished her harm, but she, and her nerves, were not up to the strain of marching through a dark wood with him prowling at her heels. Tempting fate was one thing—that would be madness.

Halting, head high, she turned, and tried to stare him down—difficult given she had to look up to meet his shadowed eyes. “Good night, Dillon.”

He looked down at her for a long moment—long enough for her to have to deliberately will her senses to behave—then he looked past her, toward the trees. “You do know it's more than a mile to the Carisbrook place?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin higher. “I might prefer to ride a horse, but I'm not unaccustomed to using shank's mare.”

His lips twitched; he glanced at her. She got the impression he was about to say something, then thought better of it. Said instead, “More than a mile
cross-country
. Through the fields.” He looked down all the way to her hem. “You're going to ruin that new gown, and your slippers.”

She was, and was inwardly cursing the necessary sacrifice.

“I drove here in my curricle. Come to the stable, and I'll get my horses put to and drive you home.”

He made the offer evenly, straightforwardly, as if it were simply the gentlemanly thing to do. She stared at his face, but couldn't read it; the light was too weak. Crossing the fields alone in the dark, or sitting beside him in his curricle for the few minutes required to travel a mere mile—which was the more dangerous?

Eyes on his face, she willed him to promise not to bite. When he simply waited, unmoved, she stifled a sigh and inclined her head. “Thank you.”

He didn't gloat, but elegantly waved to another path following the tree line. “We can reach the stable that way.”

She set out, and he fell in beside her, adjusting his long strides to her shorter ones. He made no attempt to take her arm, for which she
was grateful. Their last meeting, and the manner of their parting, was high in her mind, combining with her memories of their encounter previous to that, when he'd tried to blind her with passion. Hardly surprising that her nerves had stretched taut, and her senses were jangling.

She felt it when he glanced at her.

“Are you enjoying your stay here?”

The words were diffident; he might have been making polite conversation, yet she sensed he wasn't.

“I'm enjoying the town well enough. It's an interesting place.”

“And the occupants? You appear to have made quite a few conquests.”

Something in his suave tone, a hint of steely displeasure, struck a nerve. She sniffed disparagingly. “But they're so easily conquered.”

She heard the catty dismissiveness, the underlying rancor, and inwardly sighed. “I apologize, that wasn't fair. I daresay they're nice enough, but…” She shrugged, and kept her gaze fixed ahead.

“But you'd rather they didn't fall at your feet.” Cynical empathy laced the words. “No need to apologize. I understand perfectly.”

She glanced at him, but they were moving through the shadows; she couldn't read his expression. Yet she'd seen him in the ballroom, dodging the importunings of a small army of young ladies; later he'd disappeared, and she'd known a pang of envy that she hadn't been able to do the same.

He did understand.

That was such an odd situation, to meet a man who faced the same problem she routinely did, the same problem that drove Rus demented. As they walked through the shrouding dark, it seemed possible to ask, “Why do they do it? I've never understood.”

He didn't immediately answer, but as the stable appeared before them, he softly said, “Because they don't see us clearly. They see the glamor, and not the person.” They paused at the edge of the gravel court before the stable. Through the moonlight, he caught her gaze. “They don't see who we are, nor what we really are, and as we're not as inhumanly perfect as we appear, that's a very real problem.”

A groom came out of the stable; Dillon turned his way. “Wait here. I'll get my curricle.”

In a matter of minutes, he was handing her into a stylish equipage, drawn by a pair of blacks that took her breath away.

Oh, Rus—if only you could see…

Joining her on the box, he glanced at her; sitting beside her, he gathered the reins. “You appreciate horses.”

Not a question. “Yes. I have a brother who's horse-mad—who lives and breathes and even dreams of horses.”

“I see.” There was a smile and real understanding in his tone. “You've met Flick—Felicity Cynster, my cousin. She was horse-mad from infancy, and her husband, Demon, who I've known as long, is even worse.” They rattled down the drive. “I don't think you've met him yet.”

“No.” She hung on to the curricle's rail as he turned out into the lane in style. “It's a form of obsession, I think.”

“I wouldn't argue with that.”

The rattle of the wheels, counterpointed by the sharp clop of hooves, settled to a steady beat. The night about them was quiet and still, the breeze nothing more than a gentle caress.

“Are you going to tell me who you're running from to night?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because I can't. Because I don't dare. Because it isn't my secret to share.
She shifted on the seat, very conscious of him close beside her, the warm solid reality of him. His sleek elegance disguised how large he was; he was taller, broader, much heavier than she, much stronger, much more powerful.

Seated side by side on the curricle's narrow seat, his presence surrounded her.

What she couldn't understand was why it made her feel safe, when she knew beyond doubt that he was the biggest threat to her—to herself, to her peace of mind—that she'd ever faced.

“The man who tried to break into the Jockey Club.” She turned her head to view him as they rolled briskly along. “Have you found him yet?”

She needed to keep her mind on her goal and not allow him to distract her, to lure her to trust when it might prove too dangerous.

Dillon glanced briefly at her, then looked back at his horses. “No.” He considered the opening, decided to offer more. “He's Irish—just like you.”

“Is he?”

She didn't even bother to pretend she hadn't known. He glanced at her again. She caught his gaze, opened her eyes wide. “How difficult could it be to find one Irishman in Newmarket?”

Despite her attempt to make the question a taunt, he knew it was real—she actually wanted to know.

Lips curving cynically, he looked to his horses. “As you've no doubt discovered, Priscilla, finding an Irishman in Newmarket is no problem at all. But finding one
particular
Irishman? Given the number of Irish lads and jockeys working here, let alone those over for the racing, locating any particular one is like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

She didn't reply. He shot her a glance, and found her expression serious, almost brooding.

“Who is he?” The question was out before he'd thought. She looked at him; he added, “Perhaps I could help.”

She held his gaze for an instant, then shook her head and faced forward. “I can't tell you.”

He checked his blacks for the turn into the Carisbrook drive. At least she'd stopped pretending she wasn't looking for some Irishman. He'd suggested brother, and she'd denied it. If not brother, then…lover?

He didn't like the thought, but forced himself to examine it. She was gently bred, of that he was sure, but she wouldn't be the first gentleman's daughter to lose her heart to some charismatic horse fancier. Against that, however, stood her aunt's involvement. Lady Fowles was simply too familiar a type of lady for him to believe she would ever be a party to Pris chasing after some dissolute, or even merely unsuitable, lover.

It came back to a brother.

Or a cousin. Flick, after all, had stood by him, had done things that even now gave him nightmares in order to help him break free.

“I was once involved in a race-fixing swindle.”

Her head swung around so fast her ringlets flew.
“What?”

He met her stunned gaze, then, glancing around, slowed his horses. The drive was a long one; they were only halfway to the house. If he was going to reveal even
that
to persuade her to trust him, they needed somewhere to talk. If he remembered aright…

He found the track a little way along, almost grassed over. Turning the horses onto it, he set them walking.

“Where…?” She was peering ahead, over the lawn to where a line of trees crossed their path.

“Just wait.”

Guiding the blacks through the trees, he drove them up to the summer house standing beyond the end of the elongated ornamental lake before the house.

Reining in, he stepped down. Playing out the reins, he tethered the pair so they could stand and graze. The curricle rocked as Pris clambered down; he glimpsed slender ankles amid a froth of skirts.

She walked to him, puzzlement in her face. “What did you say?”

He waved to the summer house. “Let's go inside.”

She led the way, plainly familiar with the wide, open room tucked under the domed roof. Of painted white wood, the summerhouse was simply furnished with a wicker sofa and one matching armchair, both liberally padded, placed to look down the vista of the lake to the distant house.

Pris sat in one corner of the sofa. She was not just intrigued but captured, not just eager but urgent to hear what he'd meant. And what he intended—why he'd volunteered to speak of such a thing.

But she needed to see his face, so the safety of the armchair wasn't an option. Outside, the moonlight cast a pearly sheen, but within the summer house, it was considerably dimmer. At her wave, he sat beside her. She studied his face; she could discern his features, but not the emotions in his eyes.

“I can't believe you—the Keeper of the Breeding Register—were ever involved in anything illicit. At least not about racing.”

He met her gaze. After a moment, asked, “Can't you?”

It was as if he'd deliberately let his glamor fall, completely and utterly, so that she was suddenly looking at the real man, without any protective screen at all. She looked, examined; gradually it came to her.

She blew out a breath. Curling her legs, she shifted so she could fix her gaze on his face. “All right. Perhaps I can imagine it. You were wild as a youth, and—”

“Not just wild. Reckless.” He paused, his eyes steady on hers; after a moment, he asked, “Isn't that what it takes?”

She didn't reply.

A pregnant moment ticked by, then he faced forward, settling his shoulders against the sofa's back, stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. He looked across the smooth surface of the lake to the distant glimmer that was the house; his lips curved, not cynically but in self-deprecation.

“Wild, reckless, and game for any lark.” His tone suggested he viewed his younger self from a considerable distance, a separation in time and place. “Hedonistic, conceited, and selfish, and, naturally, immature. I had everything—name, money, every comfort. But I wanted more. No—I
craved
more. I needed excitement and thrills. My father tried, as fathers do, to rein me in, but in those days neither of us understood what drove the other.” He paused, then baldly stated, “I became involved in betting on cockfights, got deeply in debt, which then left me—as the only son of the wealthy Keeper of the Stud Book, a revered member of the Jockey Club—open to blackmail.”