What Price Love? (36 page)

Kentland, however, was made of stern stuff. Ignoring the incipient ire, and the
Et tu, Brute?
accusation flaring in her eyes, he smiled and nodded at her. “I'll see you later. Enjoy your evening, my dear.” He looked up, and signaled to an acquaintance. “Yes, Horace, I'm coming.”

With a nod and a bow, the earl headed for the card room.

Dillon watched him go. From beside him came silence. Complete and utter silence.

As Pris no doubt now suspected, he'd had a busy day. After driving down from Newmarket, he'd left his bags and his horses in Berkeley Square, in Highthorpe's, Horatia's butler's, care, and had gone posthaste to Half Moon Street. As he'd devoutly hoped, the ladies had been out at some luncheon, but Lord Kentland and his heir had been in. It was the earl with whom Dillon had requested an interview.

Adhering to the principle that the truth would serve him best, he'd given his lordship as much of it as was wise. While he hadn't stated in so many words how close he and Pris had grown, the earl was man of the world enough to fill in the gaps—and as had quickly become clear, his lordship was well acquainted with his daughter's character, with her wild, willful, and passionate ways.

That to the earl it was a relief to be able to hand his daughter into the care of someone who actually understood her had slowly dawned; by the time he'd left the study in which their discussion had taken place, Dillon had understood that the earl was counting on him to succeed in overcoming any and all resistance, to one way or another sweep his twenty-four-year-old headstrong daughter off her feet.
The earl fully comprehended that his path to success might involve meetings of a nature of which society would not normally approve; assured of Dillon's commitment and intent, his lordship had dismissed such risks as necessary to the cause.

Paternal approval and more, outright encouragement, were his.

He'd had his card taken up to Rus, who'd come quickly down to join him. The earl had passed them in the front hall. While his lordship headed to White's, Rus had been eager to visit Boodle's, of which Dillon was a member. Along the way, Dillon had explained the situation between himself and Pris, much as he had with their father. Even more forthrightly than his sire, Rus had accepted Dillon's proposed suit for his sister's hand and pledged his aid.

It was only later, when he'd been dressing for the evening, that Dillon had realized that Rus's encouragement meant rather more than the norm. Rus and Pris shared that special link twins possessed, and Rus had been convinced, even before Dillon had spoken, that Pris belonged with him.

He'd set out to find her more confident of success than when he'd driven into town. The first necessary elements of his strategy were in place.

When laying siege, the first requirement was to cut off all escape.

Glancing down at Pris, he wasn't surprised to discover a seriously black frown on her face; she slowly turned and aimed it at him, emerald gaze sharpening to twin arrow points as she narrowed her eyes.

A fraught moment passed, then with awful calm, she stated, “If you'll excuse me?”

Glacial ice encased the words; with a distant nod, she turned away.

He reached out and shackled her wrist. Met the green fire of her furious glance as she swung back to face him, ready to annihilate him. “Where to?”

Lips thin, she drew in a breath, breasts rising ominously beneath the abbreviated bodice of her aqua silk gown. “To the withdrawing room.” She breathed the words on a rising current of seething anger.

It was the one place he couldn't follow her.

Pointedly, she glanced down at his fingers, locked about her
wrist. He uncurled them, released her.

Without another glance at him, she swished her skirts around and glided, with quite lethal grace, to the nearest door.

Dillon stood and watched her. As she passed out of the ballroom, his lips slowly curved—this time, in a smile.

 

P
ris had no need to use the withdrawing room's amenities, nor had she any torn flounce or trailing lace to pin up. There were a number of mirrors propped about the room; she stood before one, pretending to readjust the curls tumbling in artful disarray from the knot on the top of her head.

Pausing, she looked at her reflection—looked dispassionately, and considered what others saw. A lady of medium height, her features dramatic and arresting, her black hair gleaming, her full lips rosy red, her slender but distinctly curvaceous figure encased in aqua silk, the coruscating hues created with every movement reminiscent of the shifting sea.

Pulling a face at the sight, at her bosom mounding above the low-cut, tightly fitting bodice, she wished that, on coming to London, she'd thought to resurrect her bluestocking look. That might at least have spared her the most deadening aspect of her emergence into the ton's ballrooms—the relegation to superficial young miss, to being nothing more than a face and a body in gentlemen's eyes.

They certainly looked, but they didn't see.

They looked at her face and saw only her perfect features. They looked at her figure and saw only her sumptuous breasts, the evocative and graceful lines of her hips and thighs, her long legs.

They didn't see her. Not as Dillon saw her…

For a long moment she stared at the mirror, then, lips tightening, she turned away. She was not going to weaken in this; she wouldn't alter her stance, not even for him. If she couldn't find it in her to harden her heart against him, then she'd simply have to harden her head—and think faster and more quickly than he.

She caught a few glances from the other ladies, many of whom had entered after she had. She couldn't hide here, and she was simply too noticeable to fade into the background, for instance in the card room.

An instant's consideration warned that if she waited too long, Dillon would ask Adelaide to come and check on her. That would be embarrassing.

Resolutely she headed for the door. There had to be some other way.

The door closed behind her; pausing in the poorly lit corridor, she looked along it to where, twenty yards away, light and gaiety spilled through the ballroom doors giving onto the foyer at the head of the main stairs.

There was no one in sight. A situation that wouldn't last long. She could hear ladies' voices in the withdrawing room; soon, they'd step out and return to the ball.

She swung around. Beyond the withdrawing room the corridor was unlit. A little way along, it reached a corner, then turned down a wing.

Glancing back, she confirmed that she was still alone in the corridor. The sound of ladies approaching the door at her back decided her; lifting her skirts, she hurried away from the ballroom. The withdrawing room door opened, and a wash of chatter rolled out just as she slipped around the corner.

Into darkness, and peace.

She started down what she guessed would be a wing of bedchambers. Behind her, the ladies' voices faded and died. She glanced back—and halted.

And smiled; she could barely believe her luck. The other side of the wing, beyond the main corridor from where she stood, ended in a room, recessed so its door wasn't visible from the main corridor. The door to that room stood open; faint light glowed from within.

Such rooms were often left prepared in case a lady needed to retire in privacy and peace.

A lady such as herself; in the circumstances, she felt she qualified.

Retracing her steps, she peeked around the corner. She waited until two giggling young ladies disappeared through the withdrawing room door, then scurried across the corridor to the recessed door, and her haven.

Quietly, in case some other lady was already there, she walked in. It was a small parlor with two large armchairs angled before the
hearth. A fire burned in the grate, more for show than for warmth. On a side table against the wall, a lamp was turned low; it shed enough light to see that neither chair was occupied.

She heaved a sigh of relief and quietly closed the door. She looked at the key sitting in its lock, then turned it. The loud click faded, taking with it some of the rather odd panic that had been brewing inside her.

Feeling strangely alone, she walked to the hearth, then, more out of habit than any real need, bent to warm her hands before the blaze.

She sensed him draw near the instant before his palm cupped her bottom and too knowingly caressed.

With a smothered oath, she shot upright—straight into his arms.

He smiled down at her as if she were his next meal. “I wondered how long you'd be.”

He turned her more fully into his arms. Stunned, she braced her hands against his chest, drew in a huge breath.

Before she could release it in the tirade he so richly deserved, he bent his head, sealed her lips. And kissed every thought from her head.

H
e kissed her until she was gasping, until the scent of him, the taste of him, had overwhelmed and seduced her, until she had to cling to him to stay on her feet. The melding of their mouths, the twining of their tongues, was hungry, ravenous—ravishing. Every particle of her parched being seized, clung, and yearned, drinking him in as voraciously as he did her.

Regardless…she retained enough sanity to grasp the moment when his lips slid from hers to feather along her jaw. Sinking her fingers into the hard muscles of his arms, denying the compulsion to slide her arms up and twine her fingers in his hair—and hold him to her—she closed her eyes and whispered, “Let me go.”

“No.” He gathered her more securely, more fully against him.

Every nerve leapt at the contact. Her head spun as her body reacted to the hard promise of his. But…“Why?”

Her most urgent question. She opened her eyes, caught his, only inches away as he lifted his head. She watched as he studied her, both saw and sensed his search for words, for how to answer with the truth.

Then his lips firmed. “Because you're mine.”

The words should have sounded merely dramatic, but his tone made them much more. Even more than a statement of fact—his flat implacability made them a statement of certainty, of life as he saw it.

She caught her breath, searched his eyes, struggled to put a name to what she saw in the dark depths. “This is madness.”

He paused, then closed those last few inches. As his lips brushed hers, he murmured, “And more.”

Dillon took her mouth again, laid claim to all she couldn't deny him. She was right; having her was a madness, a humor of the blood, an addictive ache that only she could assuage. Having her was a madness he now needed and craved, knowing he could, knowing she would. That no matter her denials, her disbelief, when it came to him and her, together, alone like this, their needs and wants converged and became one.

One compulsion, one hunger, one overwhelming craving to taste the wild and reckless, the soaring, greedy, fiery, all-consuming passion that only with each other could they reach.

Her father had remarked to him that when it came to her, he possessed an advantage no other had ever had—he understood her. Not completely, but in many ways he thought as she did, felt as she did.

Wanted with the same fire and passion that coursed through her wild and reckless soul. And felt the consequent lash of desire every bit as keenly.

In this, always, they were as one. Well matched. The ladies had it right.

Yet even while she met him, matched him, even while he sensed the passion rising and welling and building inside her, he also sensed her confusion, her lack of understanding—her need to understand. Her struggle to hold against the inexorable tide, her innate caution holding her back until she'd learned where he was headed, until she knew what giving herself to him again would mean, until she understood where the road down which he was determined to lead her led.

He could sweep her resistance away; if he wished, he could simply overpower her senses and drive her into intimacy. She might be able to stand against his passion, but not his and hers combined. He knew well enough that telling her simply what his ultimate goal was would only lead to more arguments, to more resistance, not less. If he wanted to win her quickly and surely, before he revealed his goal, he had to establish the truth, as he'd set out from Flick's parlor to do nights before, to state his reality in a way she couldn't misconstrue.

But this was Pris—she, like he, mistrusted words. Deeds spoke louder, and more truly. And that was why he was there, with her alone, so he could show her the truth. So he could start revealing to her what she was to him.

They were both heated, the engagement of lips and tongues no longer sufficient to meet the rapacious hunger spiraling up within them. He spread his hands, let them rove, over her back, over the aqua silk screening her skin.

He felt her responsive shudder to his bones, ached when, against her better judgment, she sank against him, fingers tightening on his lapel as she fought the compulsion to urge him on. Fought to hold on to her wits even while she shifted closer, hips and thighs moving into him, making his control quake.

His fingers found what they were searching for. Her gown laced up the back.

Lifting his head, dragging in a breath, he turned her and drew her back—trapped her against him, her back to his chest.

Her luscious bottom to his groin. He bit back a groan, and concentrated—on her. Raising his hands to her breasts, he closed them, locked her against him as the contact made her gasp, made her momentarily more malleable.

Pris kept her eyes closed and battled to quell the shivers coursing down her spine. She wasn't cold, wasn't in need of more clothes, but less.

He kneaded her breasts, but there was no desperation in his touch, only a knowing confidence, one that screamed of how well he knew that each evocative caress sank into her mind, captured her senses, weakened her will.

Before she could gather her wits and respond—resist, break away—one hard hand left her already aching breast. His chest shifted back. A second later, she felt the quick, deft tugs as he unpicked her laces.

Why was he here? Why was he doing this—what did he hope to achieve?

Her mind wasn't sure; her heated body didn't care.

But she knew she should say something, do something, before—

Her bodice gaped; the tiny off-the-shoulder sleeves weren't de
signed to hold it up. Drawing her fully back against him again, he slid one hand beneath the loose silk, tugged down the gathered top of her chemise, and lifted first one breast, then the other, free.

She sucked in a tight breath, had to lean back against him, had to grip the long muscles of his thighs as the remembered plea sure of his hands and fingers on her naked skin swept through her again. His hands sculpted and shaped. He pandered to her senses, openly, flagrantly, until her breasts were heavy, aching and swollen, firm and sensitive to every seductive touch.

His fingers circled her ruched nipples, then closed, squeezed.

She gasped, and he bent his head, with his lips traced the curve of her ear.

“Open your eyes. The mirror—look.”

It took effort, but she raised her lids, looked across the room, and saw what he saw. He was a dark male presence, clothed in black, holding trapped before him a slender siren in aqua silk, her bodice loose and lowered, revealing two creamy flushed mounds that his tanned hands possessed and caressed, as if he had the right, yes, but that wasn't all she felt in his touch.

Wasn't all she saw when she raised her gaze and in the mirror searched his face.

Soft light spilled over them, golden and flickering from the fire, muted and white from the lamp. In that gentle illumination, she both felt and saw something that made her breath catch.

She—the siren—might be trapped and helpless, but…

Her breath suspended, her body all his, she watched as he watched her watch him. As he caressed with a reined need that was powerfully reverent, as he worshipped her openly, without disguise.

Every touch, every brush of his fingertips across her taut skin was a testament, a prayer. It wasn't simply the physical but something more ephemeral, as if he valued the needs raging inside her, without question appreciated the wild passion she longed to let free…

Her gaze had dropped to his hands; now she looked back at his face, confirmed that he did indeed worship that. The wild compulsive beat in her blood.

No other had ever heard it, let alone responded. No other had ever appreciated it, shared it, as he did.

That was what she read in his face.

That was when she felt the reins of her will start to slide from her grasp.

She dragged in a breath, tried to wrench her senses from the gentle but overpowering seduction. She licked her dry lips. “I don't…”

He looked down at his hands. “Want this?” His fingers found her nipples and squeezed; she closed her eyes on a hiss of plea sure, and he murmured, “Don't lie—you do.”

His voice was a dark rumble in her ear. His touch changed, became more flagrantly possessive. “What of this?”

Sudden pressure—burgeoning pleasure—made her gasp.

“Do you know…one thing I love about you is how you respond. To every touch, every brush, every caress.” He demonstrated, and her shameless body, her witless senses swooned, and proved him right.

“Yes, that.” His breath was another caress. “But not only that. With you, with me, it's not just your body that rises and meets mine, that aches and hungers, but your senses, your soul. You come to me, join with me, fly with me.” He shifted slightly, his strength surrounding her as one hand left her breast and reached down. “And that's something infinitely more precious.”

She heard her skirt rustle, felt it rise, felt the cooler touch of air as he drew the front up. Not in any rush, not bunching and crushing, but carefully sweeping it up and to the side; opening her eyes, she stared, mesmerized, as he released her other breast, draped her raised skirt in the crook of that arm, then his fingers returned to her heated skin, firming around one breast again while his other hand slid beneath the angled hem, and skimmed up one leg.

To the curls at the apex of her thighs. He stroked them once, then reached past, sliding his fingers along the swollen folds, then caressing.

In the mirror, he watched her face. “And this?” His fingers were slick with her arousal; he slid one into her sheath, lightly probed.

She shuddered and closed her eyes.

Felt his lips at her temple, felt his breath against her cheek.

“I didn't tell you before, but I should have…this, having you in my arms, feeling you respond to me, is one of the things I most love
about you.” Between her thighs, his fingers probed; at her breast, his fingers squeezed. At her ear, his voice deepened and roughened, and drew her deeper into his thrall.

“This.” And her body answered.

“And this.” Her senses quaked.

The deep rumble of his words, explicit and evocative, kept her with him, held her to him—in those heated moments, through the rising flames, showed her herself through his eyes.

A revelation that made her ache. That made her want with a need she'd felt before but only now understood, only now saw for what it was.

And in that, he was right. She did want him—would always want him. Would always want to give herself to him in just this way—not just to please him, but to take for herself the joy of knowing she could, that she did.

His hands caressed, his voice ensnared, but it was her own needs that flamed within her. That drove her passion to ever wilder heights.

And she knew. She might have the strength to deny him, but once he'd stirred her senses and given them passionate life, she didn't possess the will to deny them.

She couldn't, now he'd revealed something of his fascination with her, quench the drive to know more—to take him into her body once more and experience again the connection…knowing what she now knew.

If she could understand what that connection was, what gave it its power, she would know what to do, how to deal with it. How to conquer it.

That, unquestionably, was what she most urgently needed to know.

Her body started to coil, to tighten—but she needed him inside her, needed the physical joining to reveal the ephemeral.

As if he heard her thoughts, his stroking eased, slowed.

Eyes still closed, she sensed his hesitation before he asked, his voice gravelly with desire, “Do you want me inside you?”

She opened her eyes, across the room met his in the mirror. “Yes.” She held his gaze for a second, then boldly asked, “How?”

The abruptness of his response spoke volumes. His hands left her; he urged her to an armchair—a high-seated wing chair. “Kneel
on that—be careful not to crush your skirt.”

She could only just make out his words; she wasn't the only one at the mercy of their shared passion. Lifting her skirt, she clambered up onto the seat, dropping the aqua silk over her knees.

“Lean forward and hold on to the top.”

His hands at her waist steadied her; when her fingers curved about the carved wooden edge, he released her and lifted the back of her skirt.

They were at an angle to the mirror; turning her head, she watched as he flipped her skirt over her waist, saw his face as his hands made contact with her bare bottom, as thumbs and palms caressed, then, still engrossed, he reached blindly for the buttons at his waist.

Two flicks, and his erection sprang free.

She caught her breath, held it, eyes wide as he guided the thick rod between her thighs…as she felt the broad head part her slick, throbbing flesh, as she watched his face as his lids fell, as he slowly, with blatantly reined strength, eased his way inside her. Then he thrust home.

She lost her breath on a gasp. The passion she'd held back rose and roared within her, howled and kicked as she clamped around him, embraced him, welcomed him.

For one instant, he held still, his thighs to her bare bottom, his face etched with passion, with ravening desire—and something more. Something starker, more powerful, more elemental.

More important.

For that one instant, she stared, drinking in the sight, trying to fathom just what it was that held him so effortlessly.

Then he dragged in a huge breath, withdrew, and returned. Her breath shuddered; her lids fell.

And she gave herself over to him, to pleasing him, and pleasing herself.

To being pleasured to oblivion.

Thoroughly.

Twice.

 

P
ris woke the next morning, and stretched languidly beneath the covers. Relaxing, she lay there, wallowing in the lingering after
math of the glory that had, last night, coursed her veins.

She'd missed it, missed this feeling of wonderful wholeness, of completion. Of feeling female in the most all-encompassing sense.