What Price Love? (34 page)

His smile held no humor. “Do let's get to afterward.”

Leaning forward, she returned that smile with interest. “Afterward, it didn't
matter
.
Yes
, I forgot about it—because my name is not who I
am
. It's just a
name,
and me by any name is the same person! So yes, I forgot—and so forgot to correct what you knew.
So
I apologize for the shock you just had to endure, but as for anything else…”

Her voice had risen, gaining in strength. Flinging out her arms, she held his gaze, her own now scorching. “This is me.
Pris
. Whether it's Dalling or Dalloway, whether there's a lady in front of it, what the devil difference does it make?

“Why on earth should my being an earl's daughter make any difference to us? To what happened, or where we are now? It certainly doesn't change what's to come.”

Dillon looked into her face, all blazing eyes and unwavering certainty—and realized she'd just told him all he wanted to know. Her name, her title, didn't matter; she would marry him anyway. Good. Because he was definitely marrying her, and the sooner the better.

There was no reason he couldn't offer for an earl's daughter. His
family was one of the oldest in the haut ton, connected to several of the principal families. His estate might be described as tidy, but his private fortune was immense, and his status as one of the select few elected to govern the sport of kings, a status their recent triumph had only elevated, ensured that Lord Kentland would have no reason to refuse his suit.

“Marry me.”

She blinked. Then, lips parting, she stared at him, her emerald eyes growing wide, then even wider. “Wh-what? What did you say?”

His jaw clenched; he spoke through gritted teeth. “I said:
marry me
. You heard me perfectly well.”

She drew back. Looked at him as if he were the strangest specimen of manhood she'd yet encountered, but then, as he watched, suspicion, then wariness, flooded her eyes. She drew a breath; her voice wobbled as she asked, “Why?”

“Why?”
A host of answers flooded his incredulous brain. Because if she didn't, soon, he'd go insane? Because he needed her in his life and she needed him? Because it was obvious? Because they'd been intimate and she might be carrying his child…the thought made him weak-kneed.

Very definitely weak-brained. “Because I want you to.”

Before she could demand “why?” to that, too, he leaned closer, bringing his face level with hers. “And you want to, too.”

He was one hundred percent sure of that.

To his astonishment, she paled. Her lips set, as did her expression. “No, I don't.” She bit the words off.

It was his turn to stare. Equally disbelieving. Equally astounded.

Before he could say anything—before he could argue and press—Pris held up a restraining hand. Temper and sorrow, hurt and anger were a powerful mix, roiling and boiling and rising inside her. “Let's see if I have this right.”

From the sudden hardening of his expression, she knew her eyes had flashed, that soaring emotion had again set them alight. She pointed toward the ballroom. “Ten minutes ago, a pleasant evening—our last evening together—was drawing to a civilized close. We were about to part amicably and, with fond farewells and Godspeeds, go
our separate ways.” She folded her arms; chin high, she kept her eyes on his. “But then you learned I'm an earl's daughter—that the young lady you've been dallying intimately with is a nobleman's daughter—and you suddenly perceive that we need to marry.”

She gave him only an instant to absorb that summation before stating unequivocally, “
No
. I
don't
agree! I will never agree to marry because society deems it necessary.”

There was so much anger surging beneath her words they wavered, but it was the sorrow swirling through her that shook her to her core. She dragged in a breath and went on, clinging to her temper, drawing on its strength. “I knew what I was doing from the first—I never imagined marriage was any part of our arrangement, because it
wasn't,
as you and I both know. What we had was an affair, a succession of mutually agreed interludes. There was a reason for the first. And the second, if you recall. The rest came about because we both wished them to.”

His face had turned stony, a set of hard angles and unforgiving planes in which his eyes burned. “Do you seriously imagine—”

“What I
know
is that you didn't seduce me—
I
seduced
you
.” She gave him back glare for glare. “Do
you
seriously imagine I did that so that now you would feel obliged to marry me? That I did what I did—dallied intimately with you—in order to trap you into offering for my hand?”

Hurt fury laced her voice as she gave her temper free rein. Better that than any of the other emotions coursing through her.

Confused exasperation disrupted the intensity of his dark gaze. “I never said…” He frowned, scowled. “That
wasn't
how it was.”

“
Yes, it was!
” Her voice had grown shrill; she was close to crying with the frustration and futility of it all—the sad irony of fate. Until he'd said the words, raised the specter, she'd been able to ignore it, pretend it didn't exist—convince herself that she didn't want to marry him, that dalliance and experience were all she'd ever wanted. That they were enough.

But now he'd said the fateful words—for all the wrong reasons. For the
worst
of wrong reasons. And in doing so he'd raised the prospect and she could no longer hide from the truth. Marrying him, being his wife, was the dream she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge, the one she'd pretended she hadn't had.

There was no way to turn back the clock, to start again as if they were simply gentleman and lady, to ignore the reality of what had passed between them over recent weeks.

No way for them to marry without knowing that it was not love but social dictates that had brought them to it.

And that was something she would never accept.

Especially not with him. Better than anyone, she knew it was impossible to trap a wild soul without harming it.

She held his gaze, clung to her composure, tilted her chin. “Regardless, I have absolutely no interest in forcing you to marry me. Indeed, I'm no longer sure I have any interest in marrying at all.”

He stared at her, still scowling, then exhaled through his teeth. Lifting one hand, he raked it through his hair.

She seized the moment; she couldn't bear to stand there and argue, not when it felt like every word, every phrase, was another stone hitting her heart. “I wish you every success in your future endeavors.” Ducking around him, she rushed to the door. “And I hope—” Pausing with her hand on the knob, she looked back.

He'd spun around and now stared at her, an absolutely stunned, totally incredulous look on his face.

She stared back for an instant, drinking in her last sight of his dramatic male beauty, then hauled in a quick breath. “I hope you have a fulfilling life.”

Without me.

His expression changed; she didn't wait to see to what. Opening the door, she rushed out; shutting it behind her, she picked up her skirts and ran toward the ballroom.

Behind her, she heard a bellow, then he opened the door—called “
Pris!
Damn it—come back!”—but then she turned a corner, and heard no more.

In the doorway to the parlor, Dillon stared down the corridor, but she didn't reappear. For a long moment, he just stood there. It was the—what? third time?—she'd left him feeling like she'd taken a plank to his head.

Turning back into the room, he shut the door. Frowning, he crossed to the well-padded sofa and slumped down on it. And tried to sort out his feelings.

That she didn't want him feeling forced to marry her was all well and good, but that
she'd never at any time thought of marrying
him
…

He wasn't sure what to do with that—couldn't see how it fitted with what he'd thought was going on, with what he'd thought had grown between them. Until she'd said that, he would have sworn that she was…as emotionally enmeshed with him as he was with her.

Yet when he'd tried to correct her view that marriage hadn't been any part of their arrangement, she'd been adamant. Clearly, it hadn't been in her mind, even if it had, from the first, been in his. And she'd just as clearly been planning to bid him a fond farewell—affectionate, perhaps, but she'd made it clear her heart wasn't involved. Hadn't been touched.

Unlike his.

He was suddenly very aware of that organ constricting. Leaning his head against the sofa back, he looked up at the ceiling, and swore.

And heard a rustle behind him, and a familiar little “Humph!”

Swinging around, up on one knee, he peered over the back of the sofa. And goggled. “Prue!”

She looked up at him; not one whit discomposed, she wrinkled her nose, and got to her feet.

“What the devil are you doing there?”

Calmly smoothing down her robe, she cinched it tight. “My bedchamber is above the ballroom. Mama and Papa said if it got too loud, I could come down here and read or sleep.”

Sinking back onto the sofa, Dillon realized all the lamps had been lit.

“I was reading.” A book in her hand, Prue climbed into one of the armchairs by the fire. “Then I heard someone coming, so I hid.”

Rapidly reviewing all she must have heard, Dillon narrowed his eyes at her. “You hid so you could eavesdrop.”

She looked superior. “I thought it might be instructive.” Her blue eyes—bluer than her father's, sharper than her mother's—fixed on his face. “It was. That will probably be the poorest attempt at a proposal I'll ever hear.” She frowned. “At least, I hope it will be.”

He spoke through his teeth in his most menacing voice, “You will forget everything you heard.”

She sniffed. “All that gammon about you offering for her hand because you'd found out she was an earl's daughter. I can't see what else you expected. She was quite restrained, I thought, at least for
her. She has a fabulous temper, hasn't she?”

Dillon ground his teeth. He remembered the emotions lighting Pris's eyes—temper, yes, but also something else, something that had bothered him, distracted him, and slowed him down. “That wasn't why I proposed.”

The words had slipped out, a statement of fact, more to himself than anyone else. Realizing he'd spoken aloud, he glanced up and found Prue watching him, a pitying light in her eyes.

“It's what she thinks that matters, and she thinks you offered because you feel obliged to. She asked why, and you let her think that, more fool you.”

“It wasn't only that.”

“No, indeed. One minute you're roaring at her—you did realize you were roaring, didn't you? Then you don't ask, but tell her—order her—to marry you.
Huh!
In her shoes, I would have sent you to the right about, too.”

Dillon stared at Prue, at her direct, scathingly unimpressed expression, for a full minute, then, jaw setting, he hauled himself to his feet and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Hand on the door knob, he looked back to see Prue opening her book. She looked at him inquiringly. He met her gaze, and smiled dangerously. “I'm going to find her, drag her off somewhere where there will be no one listening, and explain the truth to her in simple language impossible to misconstrue.”

Hauling open the door, he went out and shut it with a definite click.

T
he 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. Re
gardless 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.

 

O
ne 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
im
material?”

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.”

 

O
h—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.