What Price Love? (40 page)

Her first decision, her first action, was to beard the one person who knew him best. She ran Flick to earth in the back parlor, thankfully alone, idly studying the
Ladies Journal
.

Walking to the window, restless and bold, she opened without preamble. “You know Dillon well, don't you?”

Flick looked up, mildly smiled. “From the age of seven. He's older by a year, but we were both only children, with few other children about, and with my interest in horses and riding, as you might imagine we spent a lot of time together, far more than would be the norm.”

Sinking onto the window seat, Pris met Flick's blue eyes. “Can you…explain him to me? I can't quite…that is, I don't know…”

“Whether to trust him?” Flick grinned. “A wise question for any lady to ask. Especially of a man like him.”

Pris blinked. “A man like him?”

“A heartbreaker. Oh, not intentionally, never that. But there are hearts aplenty among the ton that carry a crack because of him. Some of them remarkably hard hearts, I might add. But of that, he—like most males in similar circumstances—remains oblivious.”

Flick paused. “But you were asking about trust.” Frowning, she closed the magazine. “Hmm…I'll do you the courtesy of not simply saying you should. So let's see if I can help.”

She stared across the room. “Let's stick to recent events, ones we both know of. For instance, dealing with the substitution racket.” Shifting on the chaise to face Pris, Flick went on, “He's told you
about his past, hasn't he? How he once became involved in fixing races?”

Pris nodded. “You and Demon helped disentangle him.”

“Yes, but in the process Dillon blocked a pistol shot aimed at me. Perhaps he saw it as redeeming himself, but regardless, when the instant came, he acted without hesitation. And after all the brouhaha, it was he himself who rebuilt his reputation. Steadily, doggedly. More than any other gentleman, he knows how much his reputation is worth.”

“Because he once lost it.” Pris nodded.

“However!” Flick held up a finger. “When it came to dealing with this latest scam, Dillon chose the best way for the industry, the sport whose ideals he champions, even though that meant putting his hard-won reputation at risk. And it was a real risk, one he saw and understood. If anything had gone wrong, if Belle had lost, any hint of his involvement would have made his position as Keeper of the Register untenable, and you'll have seen how much that means to both him and the General, yet he didn't hesitate in what was, once again, a selfless act in defense of something he considers his to protect.”

Flick paused, then continued, “I've met a great number of powerful men.” Her lips quirked; she met Pris's eyes. “I married a Cynster, after all. But not one of them has the same reckless abandon when it comes to risks that Dillon has. If there's something he's committed to protecting, something he cares about, then he never weighs the risk to himself.” Flick grinned. “Luckily, fate tends to smile on such passionately reckless souls.”

Pris tilted her head, her gaze far away. “So you're saying he's unwaveringly loyal, courageous, and…”

“True. There's not an ounce of deceit in him, not in terms of intending to harm. He can prevaricate and manipulate with the best of them, but the instant things turn serious, and action becomes imperative, everything else falls away, and he's unfailingly direct.”

Pris thought of what he'd said, revealed, over the past days and nights. She refocused on Flick, to find her regarding her pointedly.

“And then there's you.” Flick nodded. “A very revealing enterprise, how he's dealing with you.”

“Revealing?”

“Consider the evidence. First, despite his unwavering loyalty to the racing game, he's put you ahead of it—he followed you here rather than watch over the rest of the season in Newmarket. Then he capped that by doing everything—making absolutely every possible gesture—to make it
publicly
clear that he wants you as his wife, despite the lack of any encouragement on your part. He's taken the risk of laying his heart not just on his sleeve, but at your feet, and in the most public way imaginable. This from a man who passionately abhors being in the public eye.

“In matters concerning ladies, he's normally discretion incarnate. All his previous affairs—I know they existed, but even
I
don't know which ladies were involved.” Flick paused, then shook herself. “But I digress. What I was attempting to point out was that in typical fashion, Dillon has knowingly and intentionally taken a massive social and emotional risk, all in pursuit of you.”

Pris frowned. “What risk?”

Flick opened her eyes wide. “Why, that you might refuse him. You can still refuse him, you see—and you're strong enough to do it, regardless of what he does or causes to happen, and he knows that, too.”

Pris sat frowning, fitting together the insights Flick had offered.

Flick watched her for a minute, then leaned across and briskly patted her knee. “When you're deciding whether to trust him, don't forget this—he's trusted you. Because of his actions, because of what he is, he's put his life and his heart into your hands. There's not much more a man like him can yield.” Flick paused, then reiterated, “When making your decision, remember that.”

Pris held Flick's blue gaze for a long moment, then drew a deep breath and inclined her head. “Thank you.”

Flick grinned and sat back. “For the advice? Or for pointing out the responsibility?”

Pris studied her, then smiled back. “Both.”

A
bsorbed with her side of the equation, she hadn't considered his. Now that Flick had pointed it out, along with the implications, Pris had a great deal more to think about—a much wider view of Dillon Caxton and his pursuit of her.

She still couldn't be certain of his reason for wanting to marry her, but, with Flick's revelations, the scales had tipped.

If belief had yet to surface, hope at least had bloomed.

Later that evening, whirling down Lady Kendrick's dance floor, she listened to Rus enthusiastically describe his plans—not just for the next months, but for the rest of his life.

“We'll go back to the Hall eventually, of course, but first…”

He hadn't specified, but it seemed clear that “we” meant he and Adelaide. He'd slipped into the habit of referring to them in the plural—just as Dillon insisted on doing with her and him. It was always them.
Us.

Suddenly aware that Rus had stopped speaking, she looked, and found him regarding her with unusual seriousness.

What are you going to do?
was on the tip of his tongue; instead, he looked over her head. “If you're still at the Hall, you might well be an aunt by then.” His lips curved lightly. “You could help take care of our children.”

Pris narrowed her eyes to slits, but he refused to meet her gaze. “It's no use, you know. I won't be prodded.”

He glanced at her. “Adelaide suggested a little nudge might help.”

She widened her eyes in an affronted glare. “You know better.”

He sighed. “Well, anyway.” Blithely, he returned to his life, his future, and left her to plan her own.

Which still wasn't any easy matter. Adelaide had known where to prod.

Returned to Dillon's side at the end of the mea sure, she grasped the excuse of a trailing flounce to escape to the withdrawing room. While repairing the damage, she tried to bring some order to her thoughts, to approach the vexed question of her future—as Dillon's wife or not?—from a different angle.

If she didn't marry Dillon, what would she do?

The answer wasn't heartening. What, outside marriage, remained for her to achieve?

Rus was safe, welcomed into his chosen field, and he and her father were reconciled. Indeed, they were all three in greater harmony than she could ever recall. Her younger siblings were happy and well cared for, largely as a result of her planning; they didn't need her to be there, on hand. While she would instantly return should any trouble threaten, with her father, Eugenia, Rus, Adelaide, and Albert all present and in league, it was difficult to imagine what such trouble might be.

As for the Hall, her home, she'd grown up knowing it would never be hers to run; the reins would pass to Adelaide, Rus's wife. Leaving, establishing her own home…she'd always assumed she would one day.

She'd traveled with Eugenia to Dublin, to Edinburgh, to London. She enjoyed cities well enough, enjoyed their distractions, but she enjoyed the country more.

She'd felt at home in Newmarket.

The thought slid through her mind. Wrinkling her nose, she sat before a mirror to tidy her curls.

A movement to her left drew her attention. A lady, elegantly gowned and coiffed, sank onto a chair alongside and simply stared.

Slowly, Pris turned and looked—directly—at the lady.

She blinked. “Oh.” Her eyes remained round as she studied Pris's face. She seemed disposed to simply stare.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Pris asked.

The lady's eyes lifted to hers, then her shoulders slumped. “No. That is…” She frowned. “You're very beautiful. My sisters warned me, but I didn't really believe…” Her frown deepened. “You've made things very difficult.”

Pris blinked. “In what way?”

“Why, over Dillon Caxton, of course.” The lady, blond and brown-eyed, regarded Pris with increasing disfavor. “It was supposed to be my turn—mine, or Helen Purfett's, but if I say so myself, my claim is the stronger.”

“Your claim?” Pris frowned back. “To what?”

Glancing about, the lady leaned closer and hissed, “To
him,
of course!”

Pris looked at her; she didn't appear demented. “I don't understand.”

“Every time he visits London, there's a…a competition of sorts. To see who can catch his eye and lure him to her bed. We all know the rules—only matrons of the ton, only those he hasn't indulged before. My sisters—all three of them—have had their turns. We're all acknowledged beauties, you see. So I was quite determined that next time he came to the capital, he would be mine. But instead”—the lady glared at Pris—“he's spent all his time chasing you. He hasn't spared so much as a glance—not for me, or Helen, or anyone else!” The lady leaned back; surveying Pris, she spread her hands. “And just look at you!” Her lower lip quivered. “It's not
fair
!”

Pris understood the plight of the bored matrons; they'd married for the socially accepted reasons and consequently were reduced to searching for excitement outside their marriage vows. They epitomized the reason she refused to marry other than for love; she felt a certain compassion for their straits. However…“I'm sorry. I can't see how I can help you. I can hardly change my face.”

The lady's frown grew more pointed. “No, and I daresay it's senseless asking you to refuse him. Besides, he seems totally committed. But you could at least marry him quickly, then, once you're settled, he'll be free again for us.”

Pris blinked. It took effort, but she managed not to react, not to, succinctly and with great clarity, disabuse the lady of that notion.
If
she married Dillon, he'd look at another lady at his peril. However, as she read it, this was a matter of the ladies looking at
him
—almost
as…as if he were she. This was a mirror image of the way men too often viewed her.

Her wild and reckless self stirred.

She summoned a smile—a sweet, Adelaide-like expression of willing but uncertain helpfulness. Deception might be beyond Dillon; it was definitely not beyond her, not in a good cause, specifically theirs.

Theirs.
The word rang in her mind, made her hesitate for one instant, then she accepted it. “I'd be happy to marry him with all speed, but…” She shrugged lightly. “To do that, I need to bring him to the point sooner rather than later.” She looked innocently at the lady. “You—or at least your three sisters—must know him well. Perhaps you could give me some hints of how to…
encourage
him?”

For a moment, she feared the lady wouldn't be gullible enough to share her sisters' knowledge. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, but then she grimaced. “It will probably shock you, and goodness knows, it'll certainly shock him coming from a naïve young lady like you, but…”

The lady tapped a finger to her lips, glanced around, then leaned closer. “First, you must arrange a private interlude.
Then
—”

Pris listened, and learned. The lady was most helpful.

 

L
ater that night, Pris waited in her bedchamber for Dillon to appear.

They'd attended the usual three balls, then he'd seen them home and gone off, she presumed to his club. Soon he would return, to her room, to her. A robe belted over her nightgown, she paced before the hearth, and waited.

She'd made up her mind. It hadn't been Flick's insight that had tipped the scales irrevocably, but rather what the lady—Lady Caverstone—had revealed. It had suddenly dawned that if she didn't accept Dillon—didn't take the risk, grasp the chance, and make of
them
what might be—she would condemn him to precisely the sort of life she would never accept for herself.

They were very alike. Outward beauty set them apart, yet few understood the dramatic passions that lay beneath. Regardless, until now, she hadn't perceived just how closely their mirror-destinies matched.

If, as Flick had suggested, she was special to him, the only one he'd ever pursued with a view to matrimony, if, as he'd told her, she was the one woman with whom he felt complete, then…if she didn't embrace all she was, and allow herself to be who he needed her to be—his wife, and more, that wild, tempestuous, passionate goddess who could hold his heart and soul—if she instead refused his suit and went back to Ireland to live a quiet, unchallenged life, where would that leave him?

At the mercy of ladies such as Lady Caverstone and her sisters.

A deadening existence, one with no fire and passion, no wild and reckless thrills, no real comfort.

No. Not that road.

The idea of him dwelling in such soul-eating aloneness, the emotion that notion had evoked, had not just answered her questions but dismissed them. They didn't matter; this—he—did.

It was time to make an end, to declare her decision, to make her direction known.

After listening to Lady Caverstone, she knew precisely how.

When the door to her bedroom opened, she was ready.

Ready to smile, to herself more than him, ready to offer him her hands, and lead him to her bed. To the side of it, where she halted, braced her hands against his chest and stopped him from drawing her into his arms and kissing her. “No. Not yet.”

He blinked, studied her; suspicion and wariness slid through his eyes.

She met them, arched a brow in challenge. “My turn to lead.”

Suspicion fled. His lips quirked. “This being the sort of dance where you can?”

“Exactly.” She breathed the word as she pushed his coat off his shoulders and down his arms. She left him to free his hands from the sleeves, and gave her attention to his cravat.

Unraveling the knot, she drew the ends free, then pulled on them to bring his head down to hers, to kiss him—openmouthed and eager, hungry and wanton. The instant she felt his arms slide around her, the instant he moved to take control, she drew back.

“Uh-uh.” Stepping back, out of his arms, she wagged a finger. “No touching. Not until I give you leave.”

He cocked a brow at her, but obediently lowered his arms. He
stood passive as she set her fingers to the silver buttons of his waistcoat. She slid the garment off, flung it aside, then set to work on his shirt. The buttons dealt with, she wrestled the tails from his waistband, spread the halves wide—then paused. To admire. To gloat.

All this could—and would—be hers. Lady Caverstone and her sisters could go begging.

Dillon sucked in a long, slow breath, felt desire slide and coil through him as he watched her, saw in her face a possessiveness he hadn't thought to see there. Why not, he couldn't have said, but the sight…surely it could mean only one thing?

Carefully, he reached for her, intending to draw her to him and learn what that expression truly meant.

“No.” She batted his hands away. Frowned at him as she wrenched his shirt over his shoulders, trapping his arms. “Stay still.”

They were speaking in whispers even though the room next door was unoccupied. Swallowing his impatience—she'd taken the role he usually played; he wasn't accustomed to submission—he waited for her to free his hands. Instead, she spread hers on his chest, blatantly possessively caressed, then set her lips to his already heated skin.

Her teeth came into play, distracting nips, a subtle grazing over one tight nipple. Then her tongue swept across it and he sucked in a breath; shifting his weight, he leaned down and tried to nudge her head up—for a kiss, not a touch.

She avoided him, commanded, “Don't move.”

Impossible. There was one part of him not even she could command; it was already straining against the flap of his trousers, and she knew it. He gritted his teeth. “Pris…”

She laughed, low, sensuous, the waft of her breath against his skin a subtle torture. “Wait.” She drew back.

Jaw clenched, he sighed, and stared—martyred—at the ceiling, then he heard a muted thump—her robe hitting the floor—a second later glimpsed a flash of white nightgown. His eyes locked on her in time to see her wriggle the long gown off over her head.

He stared; his chest ached. Grudgingly, he freed enough of his mind to breathe. He'd seen her naked only in bed, or shrouded in darkness. Now…

Clothed in a seductive mix of moonlight and candlelight, she was the goddess he dreamed of. Pagan, wild, untamed. Her black
curls cascaded over her shoulders, silken locks framing the furled peaks of her breasts. Her long limbs, graceful, skin pearlescent, were a deity's bounty.

She came to him, softly smiling, emerald eyes smoldering, and something within him shook. Broke. Then she was there, and her hands spread, her breasts touched, and he was lost.

Lost in wonder as she pandered to a dream he hadn't known he'd had. She moved against him, sinuously supple, her promise implicit, yet for the moment withheld.

Behind his back, he freed first one hand, then the other from the tangle of his shirt, barely daring to breathe as she dealt with the buttons at his waist, then, crouching, drew his trousers down.

At her direction, he helped her dispense with his shoes and stockings, at her prodding stepped clear of his trousers and allowed her to sweep them away.

He sucked in a too-tight breath. He couldn't think clearly, not enough to take control, not when she was in this mood. He had to see what more she'd planned; that she
had
planned had finally sunk into his distracted brain. Instead of the usual single candlestick on her nightstand, a four-armed candelabra stood there, shedding ample light over the bed.

And her as, still crouched at his feet, she swiveled to him, and looked up—let her gaze travel slowly up his body, from his knees up his thighs, past his jutting erection, past his taut abdomen, past his locked chest to reach his eyes.

For a heartbeat, she held his gaze, her own a blaze of emerald intent, then she smiled and slid to her knees; spreading her hands on his thighs, she sent them cruising. Upward.