What Price Love? (42 page)

A narrow, walled rectangle, in days gone by the courtyard had provided herbs for the infirmary attached to the cathedral. Now it was simply a quiet place for contemplation.

The perfect place to consider and decide the rest of their lives.

He led her to a gray stone bench thickly cushioned with thyme. Gathering her skirts, she sat and looked up at him. After an instant's hesitation, of gathering his thoughts, he sat beside her.

“Never having done this before, I'm not sure of the best approach, but I can't see that going down on one knee is going to help.”

“It won't.” Her voice was noticeably tight, a touch breathless.

“In that case…” He took her hand in his, gently tugged off her glove, tossed it in her lap, then clasped her hand palm to palm in his. He looked across the courtyard at the ancient walls—as old as time, a fitting setting for them. In some ways they were “old souls,” too, more pagan than most.

“We're not like other people, other couples, you and I.” He glanced at her; he had her full attention. “I knew that the instant I set eyes on you, on the steps of the club. You were…so unlike any other woman I'd ever met, ever seen. You saw me, the real me. Not through a veil but directly. And I saw you in exactly the same way. I knew then, and I think you did, too. But for both of us, the concept didn't fit what we'd thought would be, so…we prevaricated.”

His lips curved; he looked down at her hand, tightened his about it. “You more than me, I think, but then came the confusion of why I'd offered for you, and that was my error. I knew why all along, but fate's intervention and a moment's hesitation meant you weren't sure. I've since told you something of my reasons,
but
I haven't told you all. I've told you what I feel for you—that you're the woman who makes me feel whole and complete, the natural other half of me—but I haven't told you why you…are so precious to me.”

Her eyes on his profile, Pris gripped his fingers, from her heart softly said, “Isn't that implicit?”

She saw his lips curve, then he shook his head.

“No more prevarications. The truth is, if I hadn't met you that day on the steps of the Jockey Club—if you hadn't been there, searching for Rus—then I seriously doubt I would ever have come to this point. I don't think I could ever have married, not because I don't wish to, but because marriage to a woman who couldn't see me, who could never truly know me, would be…”

“Something very like prison.”

He nodded. “Yes—you see that. But few others ever would.” He glanced at her, lips still curved, yet with seriousness and honesty in his dark eyes. “The truth is, you're my savior. If you'll accept me as your husband, if you'll take my hand and be my wife, you'll be freeing me, replacing the specter of that prison with a chance to live the life I would, if I could, choose.”

His eyes locked with hers, he shifted to face her. “And my chosen life would be to live with you, to renew Hillgate End as a home with you, to have children with you, and grow old with you.”

He paused, then, his eyes still on hers, he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed. “Will you marry me, Pris? Will you be my savior and take my hand, and be my goddess forever?”

It took effort not to let her tears well to the point where they would fall. She had to take a moment to find her voice, conscious, even through that fleeting instant, that he was watching her, that the tension in him rose a notch even though he had to know how she would reply.

He embodied everything she wanted, all she needed. Drowning in his dark eyes, in the steady light that shone there, she had no doubt of her answer, yet he deserved more than a bare acceptance. She drew
in a not quite steady breath, held it for an instant, then said, “Yes, but—” She held up her other hand, staying him as he drew her nearer. “If we're to speak truth here, then my truth is that you're my savior, too. Perhaps I would have married, but what are the chances I would have found another gentleman who not only recognizes but appreciates my ‘wild and reckless ways'?”

She looked into his eyes. “The truth is, if I hadn't found you, I would have suppressed that side of myself, and it would have been like a slow death. But if I marry you—if you marry me—I won't have to. I can simply be
me,
become the best me I can be, for the rest of my life.”

Her heart leapt, then soared at the prospect. Her lips curved irrepressibly as joy filled her, steady and sure.

He studied her eyes, her dawning smile; to her surprise, he remained sober. Then he drew in a breath, tightened his hand about hers. “I have a caveat to make.”

It was her turn to study his face. “A caveat?”

“Your ‘wild and reckless ways'…do you think you could promise to indulge in them only when I'm with you?” He was serious and uncomfortable, uneasy in making the request.

She blinked. “Why?”

Jaw setting, he looked down at her hand, trapped in his, then looked up and met her eyes. “Because”—his expression had changed to one she knew well, all arrogant, domineering male—“losing you is the one risk I will
never
take.”

You are my life. You mean too much to me.

That message was blazoned in his eyes, etched in the hard planes of his face, carried in the defined lines of muscles that had tensed. She felt that reality, unequivocal and unyielding, reach out to her; she hesitated, breath caught, but then she closed her eyes and let it wrap about her.

Accepted it. Accepted him.

As he was. As she needed him to be.

Wild and reckless, passionate—and possessive.

That was the real truth of him. Of them. Of
us.

She opened her eyes, looked into his, still burning with possessive heat. “Yes. All right.”

He wasn't sure whether to believe her, to put his trust in the
bright joy in her eyes. He hesitated, then asked, “All right? Just like that—all right?”

She considered, then nodded. Decisively. “Yes. Yes to everything.” Rescuing her glove from her lap, she stood. Happiness was welling, flooding through her, threatening to spill over; better they left before it did.

Dillon rose with her, retaining his hold on her hand. “So you agree not to take any risks—any risks at all—unless I'm with you?” Feeling a trifle off-balance, he tried to see her face as they walked back to the chapel door.

“Yes! Well, as far as I can.” Reaching the door, she halted and faced him, met his eyes directly. “And no, I am not
pleased
to have to make such a promise, but…” Tilting her head, she searched his eyes. “You won't rest unless I do, will you?”

He'd forgotten she saw straight into his soul. He looked into her eyes, saw all the joy he could wish for, along with too much understanding to deny, and surrendered. “No.”

She nodded. “Precisely.” She turned to the door. “So I'll try my best—”

“Please tell me you'll do more than
try.
”

“—to accommodate you.” She glanced sideways at him, caught his eye. “Isn't that what wives are supposed to do?”

There was a subtle smile on her lips, a light in her emerald eyes—more than teasing, an outright challenge—another element of her understanding.

His gaze fastened on those distracting lips.

She stiffened. “No. Not in a cathedral. This was your plan. You have to live with it.”

He closed his eyes, groaned, and opened the door for her. He followed her into the church, now as eager as she to leave, and mildly amazed that the deed was done, that despite all, their path was set and agreed.

She glanced at the altar as they went past, then looked at him as he took her arm. “Have you given any thought as to when we should wed?”

The point didn't require thought. “How about as soon as humanly possible? Most of your family's here—we could send for your younger brothers and sisters.” He hesitated. “Unless you want to marry in Ireland?”

“No.” Pris shook her head. That would make it too hard for many of her new friends to attend, and besides, there was nothing for her there; her future lay…she glanced at Dillon. “Let's marry in Newmarket.”

He met her gaze as they emerged through the main doors, into brilliant sunshine lancing through the broken clouds. “If you're happy with that?”

“Yes.” Smiling delightedly, she felt her heart soar; all their decisions felt unequivocally right.

They stopped on the porch. Dillon signaled to the tiger to bring the curricle and pair to them, then swept her into his arms and kissed her—thoroughly. When he released her, the smile on his lips set the seal on her joy. She looked about; the sun warmed her; everything seemed sharper, cleaner, more crystal clear. More finite and settled, outside and within, as if from that first meeting in Newmarket she'd been living in a kaleidoscope of ever-shifting possibilities, but now the kaleidoscope had stopped, revealing the fabulous, exciting pattern that her future—their future—would be.

Eagerness gripped her. Impatience welled. The instant they were in the curricle and Dillon had set his horses pacing, she asked, “Where should we go first?”

“First?”

“Where should we go to start the arrangements? Our wedding isn't simply going to happen, not without a great deal of discussion and organizing.”

Dillon grimaced, but didn't take his eyes from his blacks. “I'll make a deal with you—you make the arrangements, tell me where to be when, and I'll be there. Just don't ask me for an opinion on anything.”

She laughed; the sound curled around his heart and warmed it.

“Done.” She leaned lightly against his shoulder, then straightened. “So where should we call first, to tell them our news?”

“Flick's, or she'll never forgive me, and Eugenia and Adelaide will be there, too. I suspect they won't have gone out yet.” They'd be waiting to see what had transpired, he had not a doubt. “And no doubt Flick will then rush us around to Horatia's.”

Pris happily agreed.

Dillon tooled the curricle through the city streets, reassured that he could safely leave her in the Cynster ladies' company, especially
in the throes of planning a wedding. All attention would be focused on her; she would be the center of the gathering.

With her safety assured, he could turn his mind to his latest risk—one last throw of the dice to flush out Mr. X, and ensure that Pris and he did not remain at the mercy of a vengeful villain, possibly for the rest of their lives.

That shared life had now taken shape in his mind; with Pris, he would make it a reality. And there was very little he wouldn't risk to make it safe, to protect it, and her.

R
us was the first person Pris set eyes on as they entered Flick's front hall. Her smile exuberant, she flung herself into his arms. “You're going to have a brother-in-law. I'm going to marry Dillon.”

Rus's face creased in a smile to match her own. “Excellent!” He swung her around and around; Pris laughed, eyes alight.

Adelaide and Eugenia appeared in the drawing room doorway, followed by Flick, all eager to learn what was going on.

With his habitual charm, his eyes on Pris, Dillon told them.

Adelaide shrieked and hugged him wildly. Eugenia beamed, patted his arm, then kissed his cheek. Flick's smile held a touch of gloating as she lined up to do the same. His smile easy yet arrogantly proud, Dillon received and responded to their congratulations and eager questions.

Pris turned to Rus, eyed him accusingly. “You knew.”

He grinned. “Of course. You were both so obviously in love, you can't expect us not to have noticed. Even Papa noticed after just one ball.”

She frowned. “How? What did we do that was so revealing?”

He studied her, confirmed her question was serious. “It's the way you look at each other, react to each other. I've seen you with any number of gentlemen, some nearly as striking as Dillon, and you behave as if they're mere ciphers. You see, smile, talk, even dance
with them, yet it's as if you're not truly aware of them, as if they're too weak to impinge on your consciousness. With Dillon…if he's in the same room”—Rus grinned as her gaze drifted Dillon's way—“you're aware of him. Your attention instantly focuses on him. He doesn't have to do anything to claim your regard—he simply has it.”

Rus squeezed her hand. “And he's the same, if not more so, with you. For instance, if you tried to slip away, he'd know and look up before you managed to leave his sight.”

Still puzzled, she asked, “And that's enough for you—and Papa—to be sure he loves me?”

Rus laughed. “Trust us—for a man like him, it's an infallible sign.”

Pris wondered what he meant by “like him.”

“I'm more than delighted you've found him,” Rus went on. “You've done so much to make my life right—to give me what I need to be happy—it's only right that along the way, you found your happiness, too.”

She snorted. “You make Dillon sound like my reward.”

Rus's eyes twinkled. “If the shoe fits…”

Before she could think of some pithy retort, Flick came rustling up to embrace her, then Eugenia and Adelaide were there, and before she and Dillon could do more than exchange a glance, they were swept up in a giddy whirl of arrangements, questions, decisions, and yet more congratulations. As Dillon had predicted, Flick herded them straight to Horatia's to spread the news.

Within half an hour, the Cynster ladies were gathering, all eager to assist in organizing the engagement ball Horatia had immediately claimed the right to host.

Dizzying mayhem ensued, principally feminine, although some of the men, like George, Horatia's husband, looked in to congratulate them and shake Dillon's hand—then glance around at the company, and quietly escape. Dillon, Rus, and Pris's father all remained for some time, but once their agreement to the principal event had been elicited, they became largely redundant.

Pris wasn't surprised when Dillon touched her shoulder, then murmured, “Your father, Rus, and I are going to my club. I have a business meeting this afternoon—I'll join you for dinner.”

She smiled. “Yes, of course.” She squeezed his hand, let him kiss her fingers and go.

Squelching the errant thought that she would much rather be escaping with him, she turned back to the ladies and surrendered to the inevitable with good grace.

 

T
heir engagement ball was held four evenings later at Horatia's house in Berkeley Square. A formal dinner preceded it, during which the announcement of their engagement and impending wedding was made to a glittering gathering of over fifty guests.

Pris gave thanks for the hours of training she'd endured at the hands of various governesses. “Just as well I
am
an earl's daughter,” she whispered
sotto voce
to Dillon as they stood in the receiving line just inside the ballroom. “How else I would have coped with this I shudder to think.”

Beside her, Dillon snorted. “You'd have coped.” She felt his gaze briefly caress her bare shoulders. “That damn gown alone tips the scales your way—the ladies are almost as distracted as the gentlemen.”

As the extremely haughty Countess Lieven had just bestowed her exceedingly haughty approval, her gaze lingering on Pris's stunningly designed gown, Pris hid a smile at his growl, and murmured back, “One has to make the most of the weapons one is born with.”

Lord Carnegie reached them at that moment, forcing Dillon to let that comment lie.

His lordship's dazzled reaction only buoyed Pris's confidence more. Her gown was one of the few details that the ladies had left entirely to her, judging, correctly, that they could safely leave sartorial matters in her already experienced hands. The creation that graced her person, in figured silk of her favorite shade of emerald green, was an exercise in simplicity and illusion. It didn't just flatter her figure; while entirely decorous, the tightly fitted, low-cut bodice overlaid with gossamer silk of the same shade and print teased the imagination. The skirts were cut in the latest fashion, slender and sheathlike in front, gathered and spreading at the back.

With Dillon in black and crisp white beside her, they appeared the very epitome of a tonnish couple at their engagement ball.

She could barely wait for their first waltz, for the ball to get under way, to move on and ahead with their lives, but the receiving line stretched as far as she could see. Keeping her delighted smile in place, she shook hands, curtsied, and received the guests' congratulations.

Somewhat to her surprise, many ladies with daughters in tow seemed quite sincere in their avowals.

“I'm so
very
glad you've both made your choice.” Lady Hendricks, her niece behind her, smiled graciously, shook their hands, then swept into the ballroom, intent on assessing likely victims.

Grasping a momentary hiatus as an old friend paused to chat with Horatia and George, Pris leaned closer to Dillon, and murmured, “Your father told me we'd pleased all the matchmakers by becoming engaged to each other.” She tipped her head at Lady Hendricks. “It seems he was right.”

“Apparently,” Dillon murmured back, “we'd attained the status of ‘too dangerous'—the ladies are delighted we've removed ourselves from the lists. With us gone, they hope to get their charges refocused on the main chance.”

Pris laughed and turned back to dazzle the Montagues.

The General had arrived the day before; she'd been touched when he'd spent most of the afternoon with her, both calming and distracting her with talk of Hillgate End, of Dillon's mother, of his happiness that she would soon be there with Dillon. The simple family life he'd painted had not just appealed to her, but ensnared her; his gentle words had filled her with both expectation and longing, stirring her usual impetuous wildness to seize the moment and act.

She wanted to be there, at Hillgate End, its mistress, wanted, with Dillon, to grasp the life there and live it.

Impatience was building; she'd harnessed it, lecturing herself that this ball, and all the rest leading up to their wedding in a few weeks' time, was the necessary prelude to that—to gaining all her heart desired.

As they chatted and welcomed and responded to congratulations, she reviewed her mental lists, her preparations for that life ahead, scanning for anything she'd missed or left undone. Any potential cloud that might dim their path, any potential hurdle that might get in their way.

One small item nagged. Barnaby had returned to London, ap
parently with no news of Mr. X. Amid all the distractions, she'd had no time to hear the whole story, only the conclusion; they'd reached a dead end in trying to identify their villain.

All the men seemed to have shrugged and accepted that what ever financial damage Mr. X had sustained would have to stand as sufficient retribution. She wasn't so easily appeased, but from what little she'd heard, there was nothing more they could do. That seemed an unsatisfying end to their adventure; she made a mental note to dance with Barnaby and make him tell her the details of his search.

“Lady Cadogan.” Pris curtsied. “How delightful to see you.”

Dillon smiled and bowed over her ladyship's hand. A twinkle in her eye, Lady Cadogan rapped his knuckles with her fan and advised him to keep his eye on his bride-to-be. He assured her he had every intention of doing so, then watched as her ladyship gathered her husband from the web of Pris's loveliness and bore him away.

To Dillon's relief, the stream of incoming guests eased, then the musicians struck up a brief prelude.

As he turned to Pris, took her hand, bowed, and led her to the steps leading down to the ballroom floor, he felt not the slightest tremor of nervousness or hesitation; what he felt was possessiveness and a driving need to have done with all the outward trappings, to have her wed, and his, at home in Newmarket.

It was she who hesitated at the top of the steps, he who, her hand in his, caught her eyes, her entire attention, and, holding it, led her down, out onto the floor as the guests fell back, led her into their engagement waltz.

She came into his arms light as air, a magical Irish maiden. As he drew her close, and the rest of the room dissolved in a whirl around them, he murmured, “You've captured me—you know that, don't you? My heart, my soul, they're yours forever.”

Emerald eyes, jewel-bright, smiled into his. “You're the only man I see—that I've ever seen. I don't know why that is, but it's so.”

They said nothing more; anything else would have been redundant. They revolved around the ballroom, alone as far as they and their senses knew. Other couples joined them; others laughed and smiled. They remained oblivious, unaware.

Nothing beyond their cocoon could break the spell.

When the music ended, it took effort to wrench their minds from
their private world and return to the mundane, to the hundreds waiting to chat and claim their company. They both did it because they had to, but just a glance, a touch of gazes, was enough to emphasize just how alike in that, too, they were.

Soon, their eyes said. A promise both were committed to keeping.

Turning aside, they let their well-wishers claim them. Eventually, they were forced to part.

Dillon accepted the necessity, but before leaving Pris's side, he glanced up, and found her father waiting nearby to assume the duty of watching over her.

With a nod, he passed the baton to the earl, and allowed the crowd to come between him and Pris. The earl, the General, and Rus were all on hand, primed to ensure that what ever might happen, Pris remained safe, that regardless of any threat that might materialize, she would be neither a target nor able to involve herself in any willful, reckless way.

As for him…glancing around, he made his way to where Barnaby stood by the side of the room.

“Becoming inconspicuous was never so hard,” Dillon grumbled as he joined Barnaby. He looked over the sea of guests. “Any action?”

“Not a hint that I can see.” Barnaby grinned dourly. “I spotted the watchers outside. If Mr. X does make a move, he's going to get a surprise.”

“We can only hope.” Dillon noticed a number of Cynster scions heading their way, smiling and exchanging greetings as they unobtrusively—as unobtrusively as such men could—tacked through the crowd. Over the next several minutes, Demon and Vane, then Gabriel and devil joined them.

“I take it your meeting with Tranter and company was fruitful?” devil raised a brow. “I assume those were his men skulking outside.”

Barnaby nodded. “His, or from one of the others. Mr. X's underworld enemies seem legion, and they've been as stumped as we in identifying him. Until we approached them, I hadn't realized how deeply they felt about him eluding them. He owes them a fortune, but it's his anonymity they view as a personal insult—a slap in the face, a matter of honor.”

“Just so.” devil's lips curved cynically, also wryly. “Powerful men hate to find themselves helpless. Your Mr. X has miscalculated there.”

“Hmm.” Demon glanced around their circle. “If he does move against Dillon, and they nab him, what should we do—haul him free or leave him to their untender mercies?”

They all considered; eventually all looked to devil, but he looked at Dillon and raised a brow. “You're the most involved”—his glance included others in the room, Pris, Rus, and those involved in the substitution switch—“on all counts. What say you?”

Dillon held devil's pale green gaze; he considered the possibilities, how he felt—would feel…“I say it depends on his actions. If he strikes, but it's a token gesture, a jab at me before he goes slinking into the night, then we pull him out and hand him to Stokes. Tranter and crew won't like it, but handing him over to the authorities was part of our agreement—they'll accept it.”

“They'll still benefit,” Barnaby said. “They want him identified so they can pick over his financial bones in case there's anything they can salvage. And they're well aware they'll gain a modicum of status with the authorities for assisting in his capture. So yes, I agree, they'll go along with that.”

“But what,” Gabriel asked, “if his revenge is rather more than token?”

Dillon met his eyes. “Then we leave him to his fate. If he's that bent on revenge, handing him to the authorities will only create unnecessary difficulties.”

Lips curved without a trace of humor. “Indeed.” devil nodded. “So that's what we'll do.”