What Price Love? (33 page)

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 pre
dicament.”

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…”