What Price Love? (17 page)

Of course, he now knew; that much she could read in his wide dark eyes.

She narrowed hers at him. “If you value your life, say nothing at all.”

Something flared in the darkness; his jaw set. “You are the most damnable, incomprehensible female.”

The words were bitten off, so low, so gravelly, she could barely distinguish them. “Rather than debating my reasoning, could we return to the matter at hand? I wanted this—so why don't you give me what I want?”

He looked at her for a moment, then his eyes blazed.

“You really want this?”

The words were low, gravelly, but now held a hint of something more. Something faintly menacing, something dangerous. A skitter of excitement slithered down her spine. She knew beyond doubt that she'd lured the wild and reckless soul, had brought him to her.

“Oh, yes.” She settled more fully on him, fought to suppress a wince, boldly reached for him, grabbed his shoulders, and yanked him up to her. “This,” she breathed the words over his lips, and shifted just a little upon him again, “is precisely what I want.”

She leaned in to kiss him, but he kissed her.

Ravenously.

Utterly and completely without reservation.

Every inhibition she'd ever possessed went up in flames as his hard hands found her body and ruthlessly claimed. Relentlessly possessed. Every curve, every inch of skin, every sensitive, intimate place.

She tried to push her hands over and down his shoulders; his coat and shirt got in her way.

He swore, a guttural expletive, then brusquely shifted, shrugged out of coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and hauled her to him.

Crushed her body against his, her swollen and aching breasts pressed tight against that magnificent chest, to skin that burned.

Surrounded by steely arms, by a strength that wouldn't be denied, with every nerve quivering with fevered anticipation welling from the knowledge they were intimately joined, from the overwhelming sensation of him hard and rigid thrust so deeply inside her, Pris exulted and surrendered, wrapped her arms about him, and gave herself up to the wild and reckless, to the passion and desire and the driving need that rose up and consumed them both.

Dillon couldn't believe what she'd done, could barely comprehend the power, the sheer driving need that gripped him. That she had unleashed.

Her body was hot, flushed silk, restlessly urgent, recklessly greedy as she shifted in his arms. Her sheath was a tight glove, scalding and slick, clamped hard about him. His lips on hers, his tongue dueling with hers, he fed from her, and blatantly, forcefully, gave her back the raging tide of fiery desire she and all she was sent racing through him.

Without conscious direction, he sculpted her body, settling her as he wished, then he gripped her hips, took her weight, lifted her fractionally, and thrust farther, deeper. He worked her over him, on him, quickly and efficiently forced her to take him all.

She gasped, trembled, but not once did she retreat, not once did she pull back from her greedy need.

Or his.

The instant he was fully within her, he urged her up, then brought her down.

Once was enough; she caught the rhythm and started to ride him. He kept his hands locked about her hips, not just guiding but driving, making sure she rose high enough and came down with sufficient force to rock both their senses.

Within minutes, she was reeling. Desperate, she jerked back and broke from the kiss; eyes closed, head back, she struggled to fill her lungs.

From beneath heavy lids, he watched her, watched her face as time and again, her so-recently virginal body took him deep, as he thrust steadily, powerfully, again and again, and her sheath gave and accepted and gripped him.

For one instant, there in the darkness with the scent of lust and passion wreathing about them, with her dancing in that most primitive way upon him, with her soft gasps and fractured moans falling like a siren song from her lips, he could almost believe she was some fey creature sent to ensnare him.

Regardless, she'd succeeded.

Her desperation heightened, and infected him. Sharp spurs of need pricked him; her nails sank deeper into his shoulders as passion rose and swept them yet higher.

His gaze lowered to her breasts, undulating with her ride, heaving with the breaths she desperately drew in. Bending his head, he set his mouth to the swollen mounds, sought and found a tightly budded peak, swirled it with his tongue, then drew it deep.

He suckled powerfully.

And she screamed.

Her body started tightening, climbing the final peak. Still guiding her, driving her ever onward, he feasted on her breasts, felt the age-old power rise through them both, felt it take them, grip them, ride them, whip them.

It plunged them both into a maelstrom of passion, of molten heat and raging glory.

It raced through them, lifted them high, whirled them through the cosmos of sensation, then swept them higher, then yet higher—until she shattered about him, her cry echoing in his ears as she contracted powerfully about him. As she came apart in his arms in a glory so blinding he saw stars.

Still blind, passion-wracked, he joined her, sank deep into her body, held her ruthlessly down, felt every last contraction of her sheath as he emptied himself into her.

 

A
nd, he suspected, lost his soul in the process.

Slumped back against the padded arm of the sofa, Priscilla Dalling a warm, all-but-naked, exceedingly sated body draped in
flagrant abandon over him, Dillon tried to assess just where they now stood.

She'd unquestionably started it, but just what she'd started…he didn't think she fully comprehended just what her reckless act had brought into being.

He was fairly sure he didn't comprehend the full ramifications himself, not yet. Regardless, he definitely wasn't up to examining, and facing and acknowledging, the depth and breadth of all she'd made him feel. It was bad enough knowing she'd breached every wall he'd ever had, that somehow, in just a week, she'd been able to gain sufficient ground with him to be able to wreak the havoc the last hour had wrought.

She stirred, and he glanced down at her, but she remained boneless, apparently senseless. Her cheek lay on his chest, her glorious hair a tumble of curls rippling across his cooling skin. Her hair was darker than his, a true black where his was sable; it felt like silk against his jaw.

He raised a hand, plucked one lock from the jumble, ran it through his fingers. Head back, he looked across the darkened summer house, into the immediate future.

His, and hers.

As far as he was concerned, the two were one, and nothing would ever change that. Unfortunately, he seriously doubted she saw it that way.

Yet.

So how should he proceed?

Pris felt the touch of his fingers in her hair, felt the gentle, absentminded play…and stayed where she was, as she was. She wasn't sure why, couldn't place the warm feeling that suffused her, of security, of peace, and something more.

Regardless, it was balm of a heady sort, a blissful taste of heaven. She was parched, and drank it in, felt it sink to her soul.

Gradually, reality intruded; her rational mind awoke and took determined stock, reminding her that she was lying naked in his arms, that he was still inside her, not as large and flagrantly impressive as he had been, but still there. Still intimately connected.

She waited for a blush to warm her cheeks, but none came.

She puzzled for a moment, then accepted; she couldn't pretend
she hadn't reveled in every moment, even that instant of sharp, lancing pain, transcended as it was by the indescribable sensation of feeling him hard and solid and so very real, so deep inside her.

Of course, he'd forged even deeper yet, and she'd enjoyed and thrilled to every moment of that communion.

Every sense she possessed, every nerve, was still glowing in the aftermath.

She'd wanted, craved, excitement and thrills, and he'd given her that, and more.

He'd fulfilled her every illicit dream, did he but know it.

Her lips quirked. She was about to lift her head when his hand firmed over her hair, holding her momentarily in place.

“I'll show you the register.”

It took an instant or three before she recalled what he was talking about.

A fact that spoke loudly of the rattled state of her brain and the sluggish operation of her wits. She rapidly flayed them to attention, tried to speak, and found she had to clear her throat. “I'll call at the club tomorrow morning.”

“No.” He sighed; his hand slid from her hair. “That won't work. I don't show the register to anyone, and this week all the volumes are in use in the clerks' room. If I fetch one to show you, even if no one actually sees you looking at it, it's bound to cause comment.”

Lifting her head, she looked into his face. “Neither of us needs that.”

“No.” He met her eyes. “Tomorrow night there's a party at Lady Helmsley's—we'll both be there. Helmsley Hall's not far from the club. We can slip away, you can look at the register, then we'll return to the party. There's sure to be a crowd—no one will know.”

She looked into his dark eyes. “What about the guards you've set patrolling the club?”

“They won't be surprised to see me. I can walk in, then let you in via the back door. They won't see you.”

She studied his face, screamingly conscious of the hard body cradling hers, of the intimacy they'd shared and that still cocooned them. She moistened her lips. “Very well. Tomorrow night, then.”

Beyond her control, her gaze dropped to his lips. A moment passed, then she looked at his eyes, read in their steady gaze, in the
sense of waiting that emanated from him, that his mind was following the same track as hers…that his inclination and hers were the same.

She'd already thrown her cap over the windmill; she no longer had anything to lose.

And having once supped from the cup of passion with him, she now knew precisely what she stood to gain.

She knew without asking, without him saying, that it was once again her choice.

Easing up, leaning on his chest, she drew his head to hers, drew his lips to hers.

And again called the wild and reckless man to share thrills and excitement with her.

U
nlike the first time, he had taken charge.

The following evening, Pris stood by the side of Lady Helmsley's drawing room surrounded by a coterie of admirers, and tried to stop her mind from dwelling on the latter events of the previous night.

A vain endeavor, given the poor competition from her attentive swains. Four gentlemen, along with Miss Cartwright and Miss Siddons, stood trading quips and nonsense; their inconsequential chatter couldn't compete with her memories, with the images her mind now contained—of Dillon rising above her in the night, of him removing his remaining clothes, then hers, and showing her how much plea sure he could give her, to what degree he could make her body sing, to what rapturous heights he could take her on the way to that ultimate, soul-sating bliss.

Best of all had been those moments when she'd seen and known how much plea sure she gave him, how deeply she called to that wild and reckless man, how completely he enjoyed her, that joining with her satisfied him as thoroughly, as intensely and all-encompassingly as it did her.

The second act had been even more compelling, more fascinating, than the first.

In the end, they'd stirred, regathered their clothes, and dressed in the darkness, all shyness conspicuously lacking, then he'd driven
her to the house. She'd been in her room, her candle out, when Eugenia and Adelaide had returned; she hadn't wanted to talk of anything, hadn't wanted to return to the world—all she'd wanted was to lie in her bed and dream.

“Will you be attending the race meet this week, Miss Dalling?”

She blinked, and summoned a smile for Lord Matlock, who'd been trying to impress her for the past half hour. “I suspect not, my lord. It's a minor meeting. I doubt it will prove sufficiently interesting to tempt my aunt forth.”

“But what of you and the lovely Miss Blake?” Lord Matlock held her gaze appealingly. “Surely we can tempt you to join us? Cummings here will bring his sister, Lady Canterbury. We could make up a party.”

Too experienced to utter a bald no, Pris played the game and let them try to persuade her. Much of that involved making plans and arguing between themselves, giving her a chance to once again scan the room.

Lady Helmsley's party was noticeably more select than Lady Kershaw's event. Lord Cromarty wasn't expected; Eugenia had inquired of Lord Helmsley when they'd arrived, citing the Irish connection to excuse her interest.

So Pris was safe for the evening, at least from that quarter.

Dillon had yet to appear; excitement thrummed through her as she surveyed the heads, impatient to see the register and learn what she could of Rus's predicament—and also to see Dillon again, to again spend time alone with him.

Their interludes to date had been largely illicit—private meetings at night or in surroundings that freed them of social restraint. Perhaps that was why she felt such a thrill when she saw his dark head through the crowd.

Returning her gaze to Lord Matlock, she kept her attention fastened on him.

“My high-perch phaeton will do nicely as a viewing platform,” Matlock appealed to her. “What say you, Miss Dalling? Are you game?”

She lightly grimaced. “I'm sorry, my lord, but I can't see my aunt permitting it.” She softened the rejection with a smile. “If truth be told, Miss Blake and I are indifferent followers of the Turf.”

The gentlemen politely ribbed her, pointing out that no real lady truly followed the nags. Smiling, she returned their sallies, her gaze on them while her senses twitched and tugged her attention to Dillon, drawing steadily nearer.

And then he was there, bowing over her hand, claiming the position by her side. He bowed to Miss Cartwright and Miss Siddons, and nodded to the gentlemen. “Matlock. Hastings. Markham. Cummings.”

Immediately he became the focus of all attention. The young ladies, predictably, hung on his every word, but the gentlemen's reactions were more revealing; in their eyes, Dillon, a few years older, with his aura of hardness, of experience, was an enigma, but one they admired.

Given the figure he cut in the austere black-and-white of evening dress, his dramatic handsomeness only more enhanced, Pris fully comprehended the admiration of both male and female. Visually speaking, he was a pattern card depicting all an aristocratic gentleman should be.

The other men were exceedingly polite, respectful as they asked his opinion of certain runners in the upcoming races.

“I say, is there any truth in the rumor that some race here a few weeks ago was…” Mr. Markham had spoken impulsively; belatedly realizing to whom he spoke, he glanced at the others, color rising in his cheeks. “Well,” he rather lamely concluded, “in some way suspect?”

Suspect?
Pris looked at Dillon's face; his polite, faintly aloof expression told her nothing.

“I really can't comment at this point.” Summoning a distant smile, Dillon reached for Pris's hand. “If you'll excuse us, I've been dispatched to fetch Miss Dalling to meet Lady Amberfield.”

“Oh. Ah…yes, of course.” Lord Matlock bowed, as did the other gentlemen.

Once Pris had taken leave of them and the young ladies, Dillon led her into the crowd.

Lady Helmsley's L-shaped drawing room was large, but the number of guests crammed into the space made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. He guided Pris through the throng, grateful that the crush limited people's view of them. She
was eye-catching, as always, despite the severe style of her figured silk gown. The color matched her eyes and was an excellent foil for her black hair, to night wound high at the back of her head; the style should have looked austere, but instead evoked fantasies of the mass unraveling. The silk clung lovingly to her figure, the heart-shaped neckline displaying her breasts and the deep cleft between as well as the seductively vulnerable line of her exposed nape.

Again, she'd done her best to mute the effect with a heavily fringed, jade-and-black-patterned silk shawl; again, it hadn't worked.

His eyes feasting, he wondered at his sudden susceptibility to such heretofore undistracting feminine charms. Cynically resigned, he steered her to the end of the shorter arm of the room.

She glanced around. “Who's Lady Amberfield?”

“A local gorgon.”

Pris frowned. “Why does she want to meet me?”

“She doesn't.” Tacking through the last of the crowd, he halted her before a minor door in the end wall.

She considered the door. “Ah. I see.”

He opened it; without a word, she slipped through, into a long, unlit corridor. Glancing briefly at the guests—all otherwise engaged—he followed, closing the door on the noise.

Through the dimness, he met her eyes. “I don't think anyone saw us leave. Are you willing to risk disappearing for an hour or so?”

She raised her brows. “To see the register? Of course.”

He stared at her for a moment, then waved her on. “We can cut through the gardens. It's not far to the back of the club.”

He was familiar with the house and gardens; once outside, they walked briskly through the shrubbery, through a door in the garden wall, out onto a stretch of cleared land, screened from the High Street by the backs of other properties and a line of trees; across the open stretch lay the wood at the back of the Jockey Club.

“That way?” She pointed at the wood.

He nodded. Lifting her hems free of the short grass, she stepped out.

Instinctively scanning the shadows beneath the trees, he fell in beside her. “I'll leave you at the back door, then go around and deal with the guards.”

“Do you often drop by late at night?”

“Occasionally. Sometimes things occur to me, especially after I've been talking with my father.”

“You said he was the Keeper of the Stud Book.”

“He was.” He glanced at her. “That's part of the position I now hold. You could say it's become a family interest. My grandfather was involved in developing the records of the racing industry back in his day.”

The outliers of the wood rose before them. He glanced at her feet and was relieved to see she was wearing proper shoes, albeit ones with a sizable heel. Flimsy dance slippers would have already been sodden, and traipsing through the wood…

Reaching for her arm, he halted her at the edge of the trees. He looked into the shadows, grimaced. “Briars.”

“Oh.” She glanced down at her skirts and the trailing fringe of her shawl.

He stepped back, stooped, and swung her up into his arms.

She swallowed a shriek, then muttered an Irish oath—one he knew.

Hiding a grin, he hefted her, settling her weight. “Gather up the shawl.”

Still muttering ungratefully, she piled the fringe in her lap.

Ducking under a branch, he carried her into the wood. There were no defined paths, but the undergrowth wasn't dense; it was easy enough to tack around the few bushes in his path.

Although she said no more, he got the impression she chafed at being so much in his control, at being so dependent on him. At having to rely on him.

The thought slid through his brain; his response was unequivocal. He might understand, but she'd have to get used to it.

Around them, the wood was alive with a muted chorus of rustlings, scratches, and snaps, but there was no hint of any person skulking in the shadows. He was aware she scanned, peering about as much as she could; clearly she didn't know if her “acquaintance” was still set on breaking into the club.

The point reminded him of how serious matters were, reminded him why he was about to break his until-now-inflexible rule and show her the register.

They reached the edge of the wood; she immediately wriggled. He set her down. She brushed her skirts down, twitched her shawl back into place, then looked across the swath of open ground at the club. “Thank you.”

He grinned and looked along the side of the building toward the front. There was no one in sight. He reached for her hand. “Come on.”

He led her across the drive, then over the trimmed grass to the path that led to the rear of the club. The back door was protected by a shallow porch. He whisked her into it. “Wait here,” he murmured. “I'll go around and let you in.”

She nodded, and he left her, walking back around the corner, then along the side of the building and around to the front door.

The two guards, chatting over a brazier, looked up. They recognized him and grinned in greeting. One tapped the bill of his cap. “Mr. Caxton.”

Fishing his keys out of his waistcoat pocket, Dillon nodded back. “I'm going in for a while. I'll be in my office.”

“Right you are, sir.”

He started up the steps. “I'm supposedly at Lady Helmsley's—I came across through the wood. All's quiet that way.”

As he'd hoped, the older of the guards grasped his meaning. “Well, then—Joe here was about to go off on another round, but seeing as it's all clear, we might as well just sit tight for a while.”

“Indeed. I'll be at least an hour.” Unlocking the door, he pushed it open and went in. Relocking it, he strode across the hall.

The night watchman inhabited a small booth to one side. He stuck his head out; Dillon waved. The man snapped off a salute and retreated; he was used to Dillon's nocturnal visits.

Dillon headed down the corridor, then diverted to the rear door. The instant he opened it, Pris pushed through, brushing past him.

She shivered, then drew her shawl tighter; he assumed he was supposed to think she'd been cold. He relocked the door, then turned to discover her wandering along the corridor, peering into rooms.

Catching up with her, he took her elbow. Leaning close, he whispered, “This way.”

She shivered again, not from any chill.

Aware that his libido, already aroused to a heightened state sim
ply because she was near—let alone that they were private and alone after he'd carried her through the wood—needed no further encouragement, he steered her directly to his office.

Releasing her, he closed the door, then crossed to the large window. “Stay where you are.”

He pulled the heavy curtains across, plunging the room into stygian darkness, but he knew the place like the back of his hand. Moving to the desk, he picked up the tinderbox lying beside his pen tray and struck a spark.

Lighting the large lamp on the corner of his desk, he adjusted the wick, then set the glass in place. Light spilled out across the room. He saw she'd gone to the bookcase and was scanning the volumes. “It's the missing tome.”

There was a gap on the third shelf. She turned to him, brows rising.

“It's in the clerks' room. Wait here while I fetch it.”

Pris frowned at the bookcase. “Is there only one book?”

Almost at the door, he paused, then turned to face her. “Do you need to see ‘the register'—any volume—or one particular volume of the register?”

She stared at him; she had no idea.

He sighed, and explained, “Each volume of the Breeding Register lists the horses born in any one year that are subsequently registered for racing under Jockey Club rules. Horses aren't accepted to race until they're two years old, so this year's register lists all horses who by the first of May—the anniversary date for horses—were eligible as two-year-olds and have been formally registered. Last year's register lists all the horses who are now three-year-olds, and any new three-year-olds registered for the first time get added to that register.”

She frowned. “Any register should do, but perhaps the most recent…?”

What ever Rus was involved in was happening now, so presumably the latest volume would contain what ever he was looking for.

Dillon studied her face, then nodded and left the room.

Pris wandered back to the desk. Letting her shawl slip from her shoulders, she folded and set it aside. The room wasn't cold. The prickling beneath her skin, the flickering of her nerves, owed their existence to expectation, anticipation.