They were encouraging him!
She managed to keep her mouth from falling open. She caught enough of the assessing glances all three ladies sent her way, understood enough of the subtle prods couched in their repartee to realize that safety did not lie with them.
Glancing around, she saw Rus standing a little to one side, Adelaide, as ever, beside him. She’d saved her twin; now he could save her.
Sliding her hand from Dillon’s arm—registering that his attention immediately swung her way—she kept her sweet, innocuous smile in place and bobbed a curtsy to the three ladies. “I must speak with my brother.”
Two steps—and Dillon had excused himself and was on her heels. She’d expected nothing else, but his speed confirmed that the older ladies were on his side.
How had he managed to outflank her with them, gain their support, and all before she’d even known he was in town? What had he told them?
Her mind seized, but then her wits reengaged. He wouldn’t have told them all—all was too shocking; they wouldn’t have been so openly approving of him and his suit. He might have allowed them to guess how close he and she had grown without being specific…she inwardly grimaced. She knew enough of tonnish life to know that he might not even have had to do that.
On all counts, he and she would make an excellent match. And promoting excellent matches was the principal activity of the senior ladies of the ton.
Reaching her brother, she smiled, with a gesture indicated the prowling figure beside her. “Dillon’s arrived.”
Rus grinned at the devil and offered his hand. “Excellent.”
There was something, some element in the glance Dillon and her brother exchanged as they shook hands that jarred her nerves, that had her looking sharply from one to the other.
But no, she reassured herself. He couldn’t have corrupted her twin.
Two minutes was enough to assure her he had.
Adelaide, of course, beamed at Dillon, entirely content given she had Rus beside her. For his part, Rus had quickly realized that in this arena, he didn’t need to shield Adelaide, but she could, and would, shield him; he’d been quick to avail himself of her ser vices.
If Pris hadn’t had good reason to believe Rus’s interest, until now predictably fickle, was well on the way to becoming permanently engaged, she might have entertained some concern for Adelaide. As matters stood, the only one she was left feeling concerned about was herself. Astonishing though it was, even Rus and Adelaide seemed to believe that Dillon and she…
She would have to talk to Rus and explain the whole.
But before she could drag her brother aside, the damned musicians struck up. Rus turned to Adelaide, and with a certain glint in his eye, invited her to share a country dance with him.
Adelaide accepted, and with smiles they whisked off. Pris watched them go, a frown in her eyes. Her brother was…engrossed. Enthralled. Busy. Engaged in an enterprise she didn’t wish to interrupt, or disrupt.
She could, she was sure, regardless of how Dillon appeared to him, convince Rus that her best interests lay in avoiding him, but…did she really want to, just at this moment, focus her not-always-predictable twin on her less-than-happy state?
Dillon had remained beside her; she could feel his gaze on her face. He hadn’t asked her to dance, for which she was grateful. It was a Sir Roger de Coverly, involving lots of whirling in each other’s arms, and she knew beyond doubt that she’d be giddy—seriously giddy with her defenses in tatters—by the end of it. He would know that, too…she glanced suspiciously up at him.
He met her look blankly, and inclined his head down the room. “Your father’s over there.”
Her father? She couldn’t believe it, but had to find out. Regally accepting Dillon’s arm, she allowed him to steer her through the unrelenting crowd.
Lord Kentland turned from the gentlemen he’d been conversing with just as they came up. Seeing them, he beamed.
“Caxton!” He clasped Dillon’s hand, smiling delightedly as he shook it, then looked at Pris, his plea sure and pride in her—her appearance, her presence, everything about her—transparent.
Dillon hadn’t been sure how the earl would choose to play this scene. After a moment, Kentland glanced at him, a direct and challenging gleam in his eye. “Glad you’re here, my boy. Now you can watch over her.” He glanced around at the crowd, at the rakes, roués, and assorted wolves of the ton dotted among the ranks, all of whom had noticed Pris, then looked back at Dillon. “I’ve gray hairs enough.”
Dillon let his lips curve, but it wasn’t in a smile. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
Kentland clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you will.”
He looked at his daughter; Dillon didn’t need to glance her way to know she was staring, all but openmouthed, incredulous and disbelieving, at her father. Stunned by his defection, or so she would view it.
Kentland, however, was made of stern stuff. Ignoring the incipient ire, and the Et tu, Brute? accusation flaring in her eyes, he smiled and nodded at her. “I’ll see you later. Enjoy your evening, my dear.” He looked up, and signaled to an acquaintance. “Yes, Horace, I’m coming.”
With a nod and a bow, the earl headed for the card room.
Dillon watched him go. From beside him came silence. Complete and utter silence.
As Pris no doubt now suspected, he’d had a busy day. After driving down from Newmarket, he’d left his bags and his horses in Berkeley Square, in Highthorpe’s, Horatia’s butler’s, care, and had gone posthaste to Half Moon Street. As he’d devoutly hoped, the ladies had been out at some luncheon, but Lord Kentland and his heir had been in. It was the earl with whom Dillon had requested an interview.
Adhering to the principle that the truth would serve him best, he’d given his lordship as much of it as was wise. While he hadn’t stated in so many words how close he and Pris had grown, the earl was man of the world enough to fill in the gaps—and as had quickly become clear, his lordship was well acquainted with his daughter’s character, with her wild, willful, and passionate ways.
That to the earl it was a relief to be able to hand his daughter into the care of someone who actually understood her had slowly dawned; by the time he’d left the study in which their discussion had taken place, Dillon had understood that the earl was counting on him to succeed in overcoming any and all resistance, to one way or another sweep his twenty-four-year-old headstrong daughter off her feet. The earl fully comprehended that his path to success might involve meetings of a nature of which society would not normally approve; assured of Dillon’s commitment and intent, his lordship had dismissed such risks as necessary to the cause.
Paternal approval and more, outright encouragement, were his.
He’d had his card taken up to Rus, who’d come quickly down to join him. The earl had passed them in the front hall. While his lordship headed to White’s, Rus had been eager to visit Boodle’s, of which Dillon was a member. Along the way, Dillon had explained the situation between himself and Pris, much as he had with their father. Even more forthrightly than his sire, Rus had accepted Dillon’s proposed suit for his sister’s hand and pledged his aid.
It was only later, when he’d been dressing for the evening, that Dillon had realized that Rus’s encouragement meant rather more than the norm. Rus and Pris shared that special link twins possessed, and Rus had been convinced, even before Dillon had spoken, that Pris belonged with him.
He’d set out to find her more confident of success than when he’d driven into town. The first necessary elements of his strategy were in place.
When laying siege, the first requirement was to cut off all escape.
Glancing down at Pris, he wasn’t surprised to discover a seriously black frown on her face; she slowly turned and aimed it at him, emerald gaze sharpening to twin arrow points as she narrowed her eyes.
A fraught moment passed, then with awful calm, she stated, “If you’ll excuse me?”
Glacial ice encased t
he words; with a distant nod, she turned away.
He reached out and shackled her wrist. Met the green fire of her furious glance as she swung back to face him, ready to annihilate him. “Where to?”
Lips thin, she drew in a breath, breasts rising ominously beneath the abbreviated bodice of her aqua silk gown. “To the withdrawing room.” She breathed the words on a rising current of seething anger.
It was the one place he couldn’t follow her.
Pointedly, she glanced down at his fingers, locked about her wrist. He uncurled them, released her.
Without another glance at him, she swished her skirts around and glided, with quite lethal grace, to the nearest door.
Dillon stood and watched her. As she passed out of the ballroom, his lips slowly curved—this time, in a smile.
Pris had no need to use the withdrawing room’s amenities, nor had she any torn flounce or trailing lace to pin up. There were a number of mirrors propped about the room; she stood before one, pretending to readjust the curls tumbling in artful disarray from the knot on the top of her head.
Pausing, she looked at her reflection—looked dispassionately, and considered what others saw. A lady of medium height, her features dramatic and arresting, her black hair gleaming, her full lips rosy red, her slender but distinctly curvaceous figure encased in aqua silk, the coruscating hues created with every movement reminiscent of the shifting sea.
Pulling a face at the sight, at her bosom mounding above the low-cut, tightly fitting bodice, she wished that, on coming to London, she’d thought to resurrect her bluestocking look. That might at least have spared her the most deadening aspect of her emergence into the ton’s ballrooms—the relegation to superficial young miss, to being nothing more than a face and a body in gentlemen’s eyes.
They certainly looked, but they didn’t see.
They looked at her face and saw only her perfect features. They looked at her figure and saw only her sumptuous breasts, the evocative and graceful lines of her hips and thighs, her long legs.
They didn’t see her. Not as Dillon saw her…
For a long moment she stared at the mirror, then, lips tightening, she turned away. She was not going to weaken in this; she wouldn’t alter her stance, not even for him. If she couldn’t find it in her to harden her heart against him, then she’d simply have to harden her head—and think faster and more quickly than he.
She caught a few glances from the other ladies, many of whom had entered after she had. She couldn’t hide here, and she was simply too noticeable to fade into the background, for instance in the card room.
An instant’s consideration warned that if she waited too long, Dillon would ask Adelaide to come and check on her. That would be embarrassing.
Resolutely she headed for the door. There had to be some other way.
The door closed behind her; pausing in the poorly lit corridor, she looked along it to where, twenty yards away, light and gaiety spilled through the ballroom doors giving onto the foyer at the head of the main stairs.
There was no one in sight. A situation that wouldn’t last long. She could hear ladies’ voices in the withdrawing room; soon, they’d step out and return to the ball.
She swung around. Beyond the withdrawing room the corridor was unlit. A little way along, it reached a corner, then turned down a wing.
Glancing back, she confirmed that she was still alone in the corridor. The sound of ladies approaching the door at her back decided her; lifting her skirts, she hurried away from the ballroom. The withdrawing room door opened, and a wash of chatter rolled out just as she slipped around the corner.
Into darkness, and peace.
She started down what she guessed would be a wing of bedchambers. Behind her, the ladies’ voices faded and died. She glanced back—and halted.
And smiled; she could barely believe her luck. The other side of the wing, beyond the main corridor from where she stood, ended in a room, recessed so its door wasn’t visible from the main corridor. The door to that room stood open; faint light glowed from within.
Such rooms were often left prepared in case a lady needed to retire in privacy and peace.
A lady such as herself; in the circumstances, she felt she qualified.
Retracing her steps, she peeked around the corner. She waited until two giggling young ladies disappeared through the withdrawing room door, then scurried across the corridor to the recessed door, and her haven.
Quietly, in case some other lady was already there, she walked in. It was a small parlor with two large armchairs angled before the hearth. A fire burned in the grate, more for show than for warmth. On a side table against the wall, a lamp was turned low; it shed enough light to see that neither chair was occupied.
She heaved a sigh of relief and quietly closed the door. She looked at the key sitting in its lock, then turned it. The loud click faded, taking with it some of the rather odd panic that had been brewing inside her.
Feeling strangely alone, she walked to the hearth, then, more out of habit than any real need, bent to warm her hands before the blaze.
She sensed him draw near the instant before his palm cupped her bottom and too knowingly caressed.
With a smothered oath, she shot upright—straight into his arms.
He smiled down at her as if she were his next meal. “I wondered how long you’d be.”
He turned her more fully into his arms. Stunned, she braced her hands against his chest, drew in a huge breath.
Before she could release it in the tirade he so richly deserved, he bent his head, sealed her lips. And kissed every thought from her head.
19
He kissed her until she was gasping, until the scent of him, the taste of him, had overwhelmed and seduced her, until she had to cling to him to stay on her feet. The melding of their mouths, the twining of their tongues, was hungry, ravenous—ravishing. Every particle of her parched being seized, clung, and yearned, drinking him in as voraciously as he did her.
Regardless…she retained enough sanity to grasp the moment when his lips slid from hers to feather along her jaw. Sinking her fingers into the hard muscles of his arms, denying the compulsion to slide her arms up and twine her fingers in his hair—and hold him to her—she closed her eyes and whispered, “Let me go.”
“No.” He gathered her more securely, more fully against him.
Every nerve leapt at the contact. Her head spun as her body reacted to the hard promise of his. But…“Why?”
Her most urgent question. She opened her eyes, caught his, only inches away as he lifted his head. She watched as he studied her, both saw and sensed his search for words, for how to answer with the truth.
Then his lips firmed. “Because you’re mine.”
The words should have sounded merely dramatic, but his tone made them much more. Even more than a statement of fact—his flat implacability made them a statement of certainty, of life as he saw it.
She caught her breath, searched his eyes, struggled to put a name to what she saw in the dark depths. “This is madness.”
He paused, then closed those last few inches. As his lips brushed hers, he murmured, “And more.”
Dillon took her mouth again, laid claim to all she couldn’t deny him. She was right; having her was a madness, a humor of the blood, an addictive ache that only she could assuage. Having her was a madness he now needed and craved, knowing he could, knowing she would. That no matter her denials, her disbelief, when it came to him and her, together, alone like this, their needs and wants converged and became one.
One compulsion, one hunger, one overwhelming craving to taste the wild and reckless, the soaring, greedy, fiery, all-consuming passion that only with each other could they reach.
Her father had remarked to him that when it came to her, he possessed an advantage no other had ever had—he understood her. Not completely, but in many ways he thought as she did, felt as she did.
Wanted with the same fire and passion that coursed through
her wild and reckless soul. And felt the consequent lash of desire every bit as keenly.
In this, always, they were as one. Well matched. The ladies had it right.
Yet even while she met him, matched him, even while he sensed the passion rising and welling and building inside her, he also sensed her confusion, her lack of understanding—her need to understand. Her struggle to hold against the inexorable tide, her innate caution holding her back until she’d learned where he was headed, until she knew what giving herself to him again would mean, until she understood where the road down which he was determined to lead her led.
He could sweep her resistance away; if he wished, he could simply overpower her senses and drive her into intimacy. She might be able to stand against his passion, but not his and hers combined. He knew well enough that telling her simply what his ultimate goal was would only lead to more arguments, to more resistance, not less. If he wanted to win her quickly and surely, before he revealed his goal, he had to establish the truth, as he’d set out from Flick’s parlor to do nights before, to state his reality in a way she couldn’t misconstrue.
But this was Pris—she, like he, mistrusted words. Deeds spoke louder, and more truly. And that was why he was there, with her alone, so he could show her the truth. So he could start revealing to her what she was to him.
They were both heated, the engagement of lips and tongues no longer sufficient to meet the rapacious hunger spiraling up within them. He spread his hands, let them rove, over her back, over the aqua silk screening her skin.
He felt her responsive shudder to his bones, ached when, against her better judgment, she sank against him, fingers tightening on his lapel as she fought the compulsion to urge him on. Fought to hold on to her wits even while she shifted closer, hips and thighs moving into him, making his control quake.
His fingers found what they were searching for. Her gown laced up the back.
Lifting his head, dragging in a breath, he turned her and drew her back—trapped her against him, her back to his chest.