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.
One 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 immaterial?”
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.”
Oh—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 h
ouse 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.
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. Thei
r 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.