What Price Love? (38 page)

She narrowed her eyes at the pair of them—Dillon and Vane—trying to put her finger on the other similarity that hovered at the edge of her perception. The same…was it protectiveness?

Glancing across at the newcomer, she saw that same element in him; as he detached from his mother and made his way toward them the description came to her as an image without words—a knight fully armored, sword drawn. Not in aggression, but in defense.

Knights sworn to defend. That's how they appeared to her.

All three, including Dillon.

“Lady Priscilla?” The newcomer reached for her hand, and she surrendered it. He bowed. “Gabriel Cynster.” He nodded to Dillon
and Vane. “I have news—not as much as I'd hoped, but something.”

“I was just telling Lady Priscilla and Dillon that the underworld is seething.”

Gabriel's gaze remained on Vane's face for an instant, then switched to Dillon's. After a fractional hesitation, he said, “I see. Well.” He smiled at Pris. “What I have to report tallies with that.”

Pris listened as Gabriel—whose mother called him Rupert, just as Vane's mother called him Spencer and Demon was Harry; there was doubtless some story there, but she'd yet to hear it—described how his contacts in the world of finance had confirmed that numerous criminal figures had been badly singed if not terminally burned by the collapse of the substitution scam.

“Boswell is under the hatches and unlikely to resurface, and at least three others are close to plunging underwater permanently, too. While no one is openly cheering, many, including the new police force, are exceedingly pleased.”

Neither Gabriel, Vane, nor Dillon appeared quite as thrilled as she'd expected. Indeed, they all looked a trifle grim.

“Whoever was behind the scam, they've taken a good portion of London's criminals down with them. Some will survive; others won't. All, however, will want revenge.” Gabriel cocked a brow at Dillon. “Any word from Adair?”

“Not yet. He's out of town, hot on the trail of Mr. Gilbert Martin, supposedly of Connaught Place.”

Vane humphed. “For Martin's sake, let's hope Adair and the police catch up with him first.”

Pris had remained silent throughout, judging it wise to leave those protective instincts she'd sensed unstirred. She'd been expecting them to try to exclude her; instead, she'd caught Dillon's surreptitious signal to Vane that he could speak freely in front of her.

She appreciated that. Appreciated the fact he hadn't sought to treat her like a child, to be protected and cosseted and patted on the head and told to go and play with her dolls. She knew there were dangerous people involved in the substitution scam; she hadn't, however, until Gabriel had spoken so soberly, understood just how dangerous they were.

Instincts of her own were stirring, even before Vane glanced at
Dillon, and said, voice low so the ladies around them wouldn't hear, “One thing. While I was trawling for news, I heard your name often. If not general knowledge yet, it's at least widely known that you were the crucial player in bringing the scam crashing down. Everyone, grudgingly or otherwise, regardless of which side of the street they inhabit, is acknowledging your strategy as brilliant—as just the sort of response the villainous least want to see from the authorities.”

Dillon grimaced. “Once the club stewards were told the truth—by Demon, I might add—it was impossible to put the lid back on the pot.”

Gabriel shifted. “As matters now stand, you'll need to stay alert.”

Dillon met his gaze, then nodded. “I know.”

Pris wasn't sure she caught the full implications of that exchange, but Vane nodded, too, then, with his charming smile, gracefully took his leave.

“You might have a word with young Dalloway,” Gabriel murmured, “although as far as I know, his involvement has remained unremarked.”

“I will,” Dillon said. “Come—I'll introduce you.”

With her by his side, he led Gabriel to Rus. A few minutes later, they left her brother chatting to Gabriel about horses and his future assisting at Demon's stud.

A number of ladies waylaid them; when they finally won free, she suggested they stroll by the long windows giving onto the gardens.

Few ladies present were interested in horticulture.

She paused to gaze out at a manicured lawn. “Mr. Cynster intimated there was some threat…?”

Halting beside her, Dillon replied, “Not a specific threat—a potential one.” He caught her questioning gaze, lightly grimaced. “Now it's become known that I engineered the collapse of Martin's scheme, it's possible those who've suffered major losses might feel moved to revenge, and in the absence of Martin, or even after they've dealt with him, there's a chance they'll lash out.”

“At you?” She searched his dark eyes, calm as night-shrouded pools; she didn't like the cold, deadening sensation that had locked about her heart. “That's…
monstrous
! They took a risk—if they
lost, they should…”

Dillon smiled ruefully. “Be gentlemen enough to accept their losses?” Once, he'd been naïve enough to think the same.

But her outrage on his behalf warmed his heart, and his smile, as he lifted her fingers to his lips, and kissed. “Unfortunately not, but don't worry about them.” He brushed her fingertips again and saw her mind shift focus, watched her eyes fix on his lips. He let his smile deepen. “You've enough on your plate.”

She blinked, lifted her gaze, narrowed her eyes at him, but he merely smiled imperturbably and turned her back into the room. And set himself to distract her until she forgot Gabriel's warning.

He hadn't needed to hear it; he'd already seen the threat. But as he intended to spend every waking hour—and as many of his sleeping hours as possible, too—by Pris's side in the immediate and subsequent future, he would be there to deflect any action against her, which was what Gabriel had meant.

A threat against him he would have viewed with dismissive nonchalance; a threat to him that might evolve into a threat against her was another matter entirely.

P
ris couldn't believe it. When Dillon at last returned her to Half Moon Street, a hackney carrying Rus and Adelaide following his curricle, it was nearly time to dress for dinner; somehow she'd spent the entire day with him!

At the conclusion of Lady Celia's luncheon, he'd suggested that a visit to the capital, however short, should take in at least some of the more notable sights. As the day had turned cloudy, the wind rising, he'd suggested she, Rus, and Adelaide allow him to show them the museum.

Rus and Adelaide had been keen; she'd seen no reason not to indulge them all, but as she'd allowed Dillon to squire her out of Lady Celia's house, she'd glimpsed a certain satisfaction in the older ladies' faces.

But Dillon's behavior had been faultless, even though he'd remained assiduously by her side; although there'd been moments when her senses had leapt, when his fingers had brushed her silk-twill-covered back, or when he'd lifted her down from his curricle, she could hardly blame him for that. That was her witless senses' fault, not his. And while at times she'd been uncomfortably aware of a flickering of her nerves, of heat beneath her skin, she'd also found it easy to relax in his company—in which Rus and Adelaide had largely left her.

She'd attempted to remonstrate with her brother, in a whispered aside pointedly suggesting that it was unwise for him to slip away with Adelaide out of her chaperoning sight. He'd looked at her as if she were mad, and uttered one word. “Poppycock!” He'd promptly taken Adelaide's arm and headed off to view the Elgin Marbles.

Resigned, she'd remained with Dillon, strolling about a series of exhibits of Egyptian treasures. Somewhat to her surprise, there'd been numerous others strolling about the hall. When she'd commented on the crowd, he'd explained that the recent artifacts from Egypt had caused quite a stir.

She mentally shook herself as he drew his blacks to a halt before the steps to Flick's door. Tossing the reins to the tiger, he climbed down and came around to lift her to the pavement. As usual, when his hands closed about her waist, her breathing suspended, but she was growing used to the effect, enough to disguise it. She smiled up at him. For an instant, as his eyes met hers, held hers, he seemed to sober, to look deeper…her heart gave an unexpected flutter, but then he returned her light smile. Releasing her, he escorted her to the door.

Reaching the porch, he rang the bell, then turned to her. Raising her hand, he caught her eyes, brushed her fingertips with his lips, then, smile deepening, he turned her hand and, her gaze still trapped in his, pressed a hotter, distinctly more intimate kiss on the inside of her wrist.
“Au revoir.”

His deep, rumbling tone reverberated through her, an evocative wave that left a sense of empty yearning in its wake.

Releasing her hand, with an elegant nod, he turned as the hackney carrying Rus and Adelaide drew up behind his curricle. Descending the steps, he made his farewells to them, then leapt to the curricle's box seat, took the reins, glanced her way, smiled and saluted her, then gave his horses the office.

The door at her back had opened. Pris dragged in a breath, turned, and walked into the hall, lecturing her unruly senses to behave and subside.

She listened with half an ear to Adelaide's bright chatter as together they climbed the stairs. As they gained the gallery, she murmured, “It's Lady Hemmings's musicale to night, isn't it?”

“Yes! I've never been to such an event—Aunt Eugenia said there's
to be an Italian soprano, and a tenor, too. Apparently they're all the rage.”

Pris smiled noncommittally; she parted from Adelaide at Adelaide's door, then walked on to her own, at the end of the hallway.

An Italian soprano and a tenor; that didn't sound like the sort of entertainment at which gentlemen of Dillon's ilk would be found. Given the state of her treacherous heart, that was undoubtedly just as well.

 

A
re you truly enjoying this caterwauling?”

Pris started, then turned; she only just managed to keep her jaw from dropping as Dillon sank into the chair beside hers, then struggled to arrange his long legs beneath the chair in the row in front. Flicking open her fan, she raised it, and hissed from behind it, “What are you doing here?”

His dark eyes slid sidelong to meet hers. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

When she raised her brows even higher, he nodded to the front of the room where the Italian soprano had launched into her next piece. “I couldn't miss the chance to hear the latest sensation.”

“Shhhh!” The lady in front turned and scowled at them.

Pris shut her lips, held back her disbelieving snort. There were a total of five males present, aside from the tenor and the harried accompanist. Of those five, four were clearly fops. And then there was the gentleman beside her.

Not even Adelaide had been able to convince Rus that he should attend.

She glanced at Dillon, mouthed, “Where's Rus?” She'd thought her brother was with him.

He pointed to the lady in front, and mouthed, “Later.”

She possessed her soul with very little patience until the soprano had ended her piece.

“He's with Vane at the club,” Dillon answered without waiting for her to ask again. “He's safe.”

He turned his head and smiled at her, and she wondered if she was.

She summoned a frown. “I thought gentlemen like you never
attended”—she glanced at the buxom singer at the front of the room, shuffling sheets of music with the pianist—“‘caterwauling' sessions such as this.”

“You're right. We don't. Except on certain defined occasions.”

She fixed her eyes on his face. “
What
occasions?”

“When we're endeavoring to impress a lady with the depth of our devotion.”

She stared at him. After a moment, somewhat faintly asked, “You choose the middle of a recital to say something like that?” She had to fight to keep her tone from rising.

He smiled—that untrustworthy smile she was coming to recognize; catching her hand, he fleetingly raised it to his lips. “Of course.” He lowered his voice as the pianist rattled the keys. “Here, you can't argue, nor can you run.”

The soprano gave voice again. Pris faced forward. He was right. Here, he could say what he wished, and she…in the face of his presence, it was very hard to argue.

Assuming she wished to argue. Or run.

Her head was suddenly whirling, and it had nothing to do with the musical contortions the soprano unerringly performed. She'd refused his offer, dictated by honor as it had been. He'd followed her to London, refusing to let her go. Now…

Her entire day snapped into sharper focus. The entire day in which he'd remained by her side, demonstrating to everyone who'd seen them—the better part of the ton's ladies—just how intent, how committed he was to having her…
as his bride
!

Temper surged. Leopards didn't change their spots; apparently jaguars didn't either. He hadn't changed his mind about marrying her; he'd simply changed his line of attack.

And
he'd gained her father's and her twin's approval—and Eugenia's, and everyone else's who mattered. The scales fell from her eyes with a resounding crash, and she suddenly saw it all.

Before her, the soprano shrieked. Pris's eyes narrowed, unseeing; she set her lips. She wasn't going to be bullied into marrying him because he thought she should—because he thought it right and proper—even if the ton, her family, and everyone else thought so, too.

That wasn't enough, not nearly enough. Not enough to hold her,
or him.

The singing finally ended; the ladies rose—all noting Dillon's presence, all alert and intrigued. And approving; she saw that in one glance. There was not one person in the entire room who would support her in avoiding him.

No point taking him to task—not there—and she couldn't dismiss him, either, not unless he chose to be dismissed.

She treated him with unreserved iciness; he saw, smiled, and refused to react. Appropriating her hand, then gathering Adelaide, he led them to Eugenia, remained chatting politely, then escorted them downstairs, joined them in the carriage—where he and Eugenia discussed the Egyptian treasures—and ultimately saw the three of them into Flick's house.

Eugenia and Adelaide thanked him for his escort, bade him good night, and started up the stairs.

Pris watched them go, waited until they were out of sight before turning, grimly determined, to face him.

“I'm off to the club to roust your brother.” He smiled at her. “I'll make sure he gets safely home.”

That smile was the one she didn't trust—the one that reminded her of a hunting cat. And his gaze was serious, direct, and far too intent for her peace of mind. She drew herself up, clasped her hands before her, drew in a breath—

His lashes lowered; he tweaked his cuffs. “What room has Flick given you—the one at the end of the wing?”

She blinked, effectively distracted. “Yes…how did you know?”

Dillon raised his brows. “A lucky guess.”

A predictable guess. When he'd reached Horatia's house, there'd been a packet waiting, addressed to him in Flick's neat hand. It had contained a key—one he'd looked at, puzzled; he'd had a key to Flick's front door for years. Seeing his confusion, Horatia had informed him that Flick had left the key to make amends for whisking the Dalloways to London; she'd believed it would prove useful.

The truth had dawned. The key was to Flick's side door—the one beside the stairs at the end of the wing.

He'd been shocked, especially when Horatia had seen his comprehension and smiled. They were shameless, the lot of them, but…

It was his turn to smile shamelessly—at Pris. “I'll see you later.”

With a nod, he turned to the front door.

“What…? Wait!”

Glancing around, confirming they were alone, Pris started after him, reaching to catch his sleeve. “What do you mean—later?”

He halted, and looked at her. “Later to night.”

She frowned at him. “Later to night
where
?”

His brows rose; his eyes smiled—laughed—down at her, but there was an intentness behind the expression that had been growing sharper with each hour that passed. “In your room. In your bed.”

Shocked speechless, she simply stared at him. She finally managed to get her tongue to work. “No.”

Lifting her hand from his sleeve, he kissed her fingertips and released them. “Yes.” Turning, he walked to the door; hand on the latch, he looked back. “And don't bother to lock your door.”

With a nod, he let himself out, leaving her staring at the closing door. When it snapped shut, she shook her head—shook her wits into place, shook her resistance back to life.

“No.” She narrowed her eyes at the door. “No, no, no.”

Swinging on her heel, she marched up the stairs and headed off to barricade her door.

 

S
he was not going to allow him to “persuade” her into marriage.

Standing to one side of the closed and definitely locked window in her bedchamber, Pris looked out at the dark night and wished he wasn't so determinedly honorable, that he'd accepted her refusal, heaved a sigh of relief, and let her go. That would have been so much easier.

Regardless, his determination was only making her even more adamant, even more sure of her mind, heart, and soul. It was love—wild, reckless, passionate, and unbounded—or nothing. Love was the only bond she would accept.

It was the only one he should accept, too.

They were who they were. One way or another, he was going to have to face that fact.

She glanced at her door. It was closed; she'd tried to lock it only to discover that while it had a lock, the lock sported no key. She could hardly go and ask Flick for it, especially not at that hour, and
even then, what excuse could she give?

Looking out once again at the garden below, poorly lit by the waning moon, she drew the shawl she'd thrown over her nightgown tighter and wondered how long she might have to wait…wondered where he was. She'd heard Rus come in a little while ago. Had Dillon brought him home? Was he down there, cloaked in the shadows, shifting as the bushes threshed in the stiffening wind?

A storm was rolling in, heavy clouds swelling, darkening the sky. The wind shrieked and rushed around the eaves. She smiled. She liked storms. She glanced down again. Did he?

Pressing closer to the glass, she peered out and down.

The footfall behind her was so soft, she almost missed hearing it.

Whirling, disbelief swamped her when she saw Dillon prowling halfway across the room.

He halted at the foot of the bed, shrugged out of his coat, tossed it onto a nearby chair, then calmly sat on the end of the bed, and glanced at her. “What are you doing over there? Did you imagine some Romeo and Juliet encounter?”

Eyes narrowing, she folded her arms, and walked closer. “Far from it. I wasn't going to open the window.”

Dillon's fleeting smile as he shrugged out of his waistcoat was quite genuine. Looking down, he reached for his boots. “How farsighted of Flick,” he murmured.

“What?”

Glancing up, he saw confusion and rapid calculation in Pris's eyes. “Nothing.” Setting aside one boot, he reached for the other, but kept his gaze on her. He was closer to the door than she. Even though she didn't glance that way, he sensed her tensing. “Trust me—you won't make it.”

She looked at him and glared. Then she threw her hands in the air and turned away. “This is
ridiculous
! I am not going to change my mind and marry you simply because you and society deem I should. This”—pacing before him, she gestured, including the bed behind him—“
won't work
.”