What Price Love? (35 page)

During all her time in Newmarket, through all they'd done, all they'd shared, her only regret, an abiding regret, was that she'd allowed the fiction that she'd given herself to him as an inducement to view the register to stand.

Aside from her name, that was the one other lie she hadn't corrected for him. It was a big lie, a serious lie, but the situation between them meant she'd never be able to address it.

If she confessed she'd seduced him, had first taken him into her body purely because she'd wanted him, and had repeated the exercise because she'd craved the closeness, the connection, he'd see the truth, that she'd been in love with him from the first, and feel even more compelled to marry her.

So she wouldn't tell him, and the lie would stand.

She told herself it didn't matter, that in the wider scheme of things she'd accomplished all she'd set out from Ireland to do. Rus was safe and free, and the racing world was now his oyster, her father and he had reconciled, and her family was once again whole.

She should be grateful; her heart should be light.

The yawning emptiness within her grew colder and ached.

A squeak from a distant violin broke through her thoughts, made her blink and refocus on Mr. Barton, who'd been laboring through a description of the latest play at the Theatre Royal. The three gentlemen shot glances at one another. She dragged in a breath, dragooned her wits into action—anything to avoid an invitation to waltz. “What was your sister's opinion of the play, sir?”

Mr. Barton put great store in his sister's opinions; chest inflating, he was about to launch forth when something behind her caught his eye.

He blinked. Mouth open, his words dying on his tongue, he stared.

Pris glanced at the other two; they'd followed the direction of Barton's fixed gaze and were now staring, apparently dumbstruck, too.

It would be rude, and too obvious, to swing around and look, yet it appeared that whatever—whoever—was occasioning the gentlemen's consternation was approaching, drawing nearer.

Then she felt it—a ruffling of her senses, like a hand stroking the air a mere breath from her skin.

Felt the touch, the burning caress of his gaze on her nape, fully exposed by her gown and upswept hair.

She hauled in a breath, and swung around.

Her heart leapt. Her traitorous senses teetered, ready to swoon.

He was there. Right behind her, large as life. Darker and more
sinfully handsome than she recalled.

One step, and she would be in his arms.

The battle not to take that step nearly slew her; she literally swayed.

He took her hand—she wasn't aware she'd offered it—and bowed, an abbreviated gesture that shrieked of closeness, of something a great deal more than mere acquaintance.

His eyes had searched her face; now they fixed on hers. She couldn't read his, dark and impenetrable, could read nothing in his rigidly impassive expression.

The feel of his fingers closing warm and strong about hers effortlessly locked every iota of her consciousness on him.

“What are you doing here?” The only question that mattered; the only question to which she needed an answer.

One dark brow arched. He held her gaze. “Can't you guess?”

She frowned. “No.”

The violins interrupted with the prelude to a waltz. He looked up—over her head at the three gentlemen she'd completely forgotten. Recalling her manners, she shifted so her back was no longer to them, just in time to hear Dillon say, “If you'll excuse us, gentlemen?”

No real question. Camberleigh, Barton, and Halliwell all blinked.

Pris blinked, too—at the wealth of confident, arrogant assumption carried in his tone. Temper sparking, she swung to face him—only to find him, now at her side, winding her arm in his, settling her hand on his sleeve.

And leading her to the dance floor.

She tried to catch his eye, but he was looking ahead, steering her through the guests. She tried to halt. Smoothly, he changed his hold on her arm and stepped back—so he was half behind her, herding her with his body through the crowd.

The thought of stopping and letting him run into her sent shivers down her spine; she bundled it out of her mind. Physical resistance was clearly not an option.

“I haven't agreed to waltz with you.” She hissed the words over her shoulder as they approached the dance floor.

For an instant, he didn't reply, then his breath caressed her ear. “You haven't refused…and you won't.”

Her breath hitched; she fought to quell a reactive shiver—one of pure, anticipatory plea sure. Arguing was clearly not an option either. Not if she wished to hold on to her wits, and she had the distinct impression she was going to need them.

That was confirmed the instant he swept her into his arms and into the sea of swirling couples thronging the floor. It was the middle of the evening, the crowd at its height; they should have been anonymous amid the revolving horde.

Of course, they were anything but. Alone, each of them drew eyes; together, they could, and were, transfixing the entire crowd, even some of their fellow dancers.

Not that she had eyes, or ears, or wits for anyone else.

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable, his eyes the same. He was waltzing very correctly, not taking advantage of the dance as he might have to tantalize her senses and addle her brain.

Her senses were tantalized anyway, but at least her wits remained hers.

Keeping her expression outwardly serene, she let a frown infuse her eyes. “You haven't answered my question.”

“Which question is that?”

His tone—one of drawling male arrogance—seemed designed to prick her temper. Suspecting that might indeed be the case, she met his gaze steadily. “Why are you here?”

The answer came back, not in that irritating tone but in his usual deep voice, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I came for you.”

She stared into his eyes, fell into the beckoning darkness; the world was spinning—she wasn't at all sure it was due only to the dance. “Why?”

“Because I haven't finished with you—I want more from you.”

She felt the blood drain from her face, but forced herself to continue to meet his dark eyes. “No. What we had in Newmarket—it ended there. A clean break, a finite end. You shouldn't have come, shouldn't have followed me.”

“But I did. I have.”

There was something—some edging of tone, some elusive light in his dark eyes—that set her senses on full alert.

He seemed to see it; smoothly, he gathered her in for a tight turn, bent his head, and whispered in her ear, “And I would suggest this is
not a wise time or place to pretend you don't want me.”

She turned her head. Their faces were close, their lips mere inches apart. She looked into his eyes, at this range nearly black, still unfathomable. “What are you doing?”

His lips curved lightly. Unbidden, her gaze dropped to them; she realized and hauled it back to his eyes.

“As you've been so assiduous in reminding me, it was you who first seduced me.” He held her gaze. “Now it's my turn.”

Her lungs had stopped functioning; it was an effort to find breath enough to whisper back, “I don't want to be seduced.”

One dark brow arched. Straightening as their revolutions took them down the room, he calmly stated, “I don't believe you have a choice.”

Temper was such a useful emotion; she let it fill her, let it infuse her eyes, her glare, while keeping the rest of her expression serene. “I suspect you'll discover you're mistaken.”

His other brow rose to join the first; his disgustingly confident male arrogance was back. “Are you willing to put that to the test?”

No!
Innate caution leapt to catch her tongue, to grab back the gauntlet her temper—and he—had very nearly goaded her into flinging at his feet.

“I believe,” she returned, in her haughtiest, iciest tone, “that I can live without that particular amusement.”

The final chords of the waltz sounded. He whirled her to a halt, smiled as he raised her hand to his lips. “We'll see.”

Battling to ignore the warmth that spread from the contact, the lingering touch of his lips on her fingers, a subtle seduction in itself, she turned away, glanced around. “I should return to Eugenia.”

He looked over the heads. “She's over there.”

Somewhat to her surprise, he led her straight to her aunt, seated on a chaise to one side of the room with Lady Horatia Cynster and the beautiful and intriguing Dowager Duchess of St. Ives. Pris set eyes on the three ladies with relief; in their company, she was sure to be safe.

Her first intimation that that might not be the case came when all three ladies saw Dillon by her side. Eugenia positively beamed; Lady Horatia and the Dowager welcomed him effusively. Standing beside him, Pris heard their teasing, lightly arch comments—and had to fight not to stare.

They were
encouraging
him!

She managed to keep her mouth from falling open. She caught enough of the assessing glances all three ladies sent her way, understood enough of the subtle prods couched in their repartee to realize that safety did not lie with them.

Glancing around, she saw Rus standing a little to one side, Adelaide, as ever, beside him. She'd saved her twin; now he could save her.

Sliding her hand from Dillon's arm—registering that his attention immediately swung her way—she kept her sweet, innocuous smile in place and bobbed a curtsy to the three ladies. “I must speak with my brother.”

Two steps—and Dillon had excused himself and was on her heels. She'd expected nothing else, but his speed confirmed that the older ladies were on his side.

How had he managed to outflank her with them, gain their support, and all before she'd even known he was in town? What had he told them?

Her mind seized, but then her wits reengaged. He wouldn't have told them all—all was too shocking; they wouldn't have been so openly approving of him and his suit. He might have allowed them to guess how close he and she had grown without being specific…she inwardly grimaced. She knew enough of tonnish life to know that he might not even have had to do that.

On all counts, he and she would make an excellent match. And promoting excellent matches was the principal activity of the senior ladies of the ton.

Reaching her brother, she smiled, with a gesture indicated the prowling figure beside her. “Dillon's arrived.”

Rus grinned at the devil and offered his hand. “Excellent.”

There was something, some element in the glance Dillon and her brother exchanged as they shook hands that jarred her nerves, that had her looking sharply from one to the other.

But no, she reassured herself. He couldn't have corrupted her twin.

Two minutes was enough to assure her he had.

Adelaide, of course, beamed at Dillon, entirely content given she had Rus beside her. For his part, Rus had quickly realized that in this arena, he didn't need to shield Adelaide, but she could, and would,
shield him; he'd been quick to avail himself of her ser vices.

If Pris hadn't had good reason to believe Rus's interest, until now predictably fickle, was well on the way to becoming permanently engaged, she might have entertained some concern for Adelaide. As matters stood, the only one she was left feeling concerned about was herself. Astonishing though it was, even Rus and Adelaide seemed to believe that Dillon and she…

She would have to talk to Rus and explain the whole.

But before she could drag her brother aside, the damned musicians struck up. Rus turned to Adelaide, and with a certain glint in his eye, invited her to share a country dance with him.

Adelaide accepted, and with smiles they whisked off. Pris watched them go, a frown in her eyes. Her brother was…engrossed. Enthralled. Busy. Engaged in an enterprise she didn't wish to interrupt, or disrupt.

She could, she was sure, regardless of how Dillon appeared to him, convince Rus that her best interests lay in avoiding him, but…did she really want to, just at this moment, focus her not-always-predictable twin on her less-than-happy state?

Dillon had remained beside her; she could feel his gaze on her face. He hadn't asked her to dance, for which she was grateful. It was a Sir Roger de Coverly, involving lots of whirling in each other's arms, and she knew beyond doubt that she'd be giddy—seriously giddy with her defenses in tatters—by the end of it. He would know that, too…she glanced suspiciously up at him.

He met her look blankly, and inclined his head down the room. “Your father's over there.”

Her
father
? She couldn't believe it, but had to find out. Regally accepting Dillon's arm, she allowed him to steer her through the unrelenting crowd.

Lord Kentland turned from the gentlemen he'd been conversing with just as they came up. Seeing them, he beamed.

“Caxton!” He clasped Dillon's hand, smiling delightedly as he shook it, then looked at Pris, his plea sure and pride in her—her appearance, her presence, everything about her—transparent.

Dillon hadn't been sure how the earl would choose to play this scene. After a moment, Kentland glanced at him, a direct and challenging gleam in his eye. “Glad you're here, my boy. Now you can
watch over her.” He glanced around at the crowd, at the rakes, roués, and assorted wolves of the ton dotted among the ranks, all of whom had noticed Pris, then looked back at Dillon. “I've gray hairs enough.”

Dillon let his lips curve, but it wasn't in a smile. “I'll do my best, sir.”

Kentland clapped him on the shoulder. “I'm sure you will.”

He looked at his daughter; Dillon didn't need to glance her way to know she was staring, all but openmouthed, incredulous and disbelieving, at her father. Stunned by his defection, or so she would view it.