His nostrils flared, his chest swelled; his entire body went rigid. “If you won’t, then I’ll just have to make sure you never again have the chance…”
She listened, amazed, as he described in inventive detail just how he would restrict her freedom, hem her in and restrict her ability to ever put herself in the way of any risk—no matter how infinitesimal.
How he would make it totally impossible for her to be her.
If it had been anyone but him, she would have screamed her defiance. Instead, she watched him pace, rant, and rave—watched his sophisticated carapace crack and shatter and fall away, leaving him exposed, vulnerable…
Blocking out his words, she concentrated on what he was really saying.
What emotion was riding him, driving him.
You are my life. You mean too much to me.
She saw, understood, and waited.
Eventually, he realized she wasn’t reacting. He stopped and looked at her. Frowned. “What?”
She couldn’t tell him what she’d seen in him, how it only made her love him more. She met his gaze, and quietly said, “Do you remember, when I asked how much you would surrender…for me, for my love? Do you recall what you replied?”
He studied her for a long moment. His lips thinned. “‘How much do you want.’”
She nodded. “You’ll also recall I didn’t reply.” He stiffened; before he could speak she continued, “This”—she waved between them—“is part of the answer.”
Stepping away from the fire so the flickering light reached his eyes, she held his gaze. “What I want from you in return for my hand is a partnership. A partnership of equals, each with our own strengths, our own weaknesses, maybe, and also our own wills and needs and wants.”
Her gaze locked with his, she tilted her head. “We’re alike in many ways—you understand how I feel. However you feel about me, I feel the same about you. So no, I won’t sit meekly by when your life is at risk, any more than you would if mine were. I will always claim the right to act, to choose my path.” She let her lips curve. “Just as I chose you—not just now, but in the summer house by the lake. That first time wasn’t because of the register, although I allowed you to think so. That time, as with all subsequent times, was simply for you. Just you. You were all and everything I’d ever wanted, ever dreamed could be, so I gave and took, all those nights ago.”
Drawing breath, she spread her hands; speaking truth at this level, this directly, was harder than she’d thought. “And what we have now—you, me, and what’s between us—that’s created by both of us, and if I lose you, I lose that, too. You can’t expect me not to act to protect you, just as you would me. We’re wild, we take risks, but we protect what’s important to us—that’s how we are, how we’ll always be.
“I can’t change, any more than you can. The price of my love is that you accept me as I am, not as you—or at least some part of you—might prefer me to be. My price is that you acknowledge what you know to be the truth—that I won’t be your possession, yours to rule, that I’m as wild and reckless as you, that what ever danger you court, I’ll be there, by your side, that what ever comes in the future to threaten us we’ll meet it together, defend us together.”
She paused. There was no sound in the room bar the crackling of the fire. She continued to hold his gaze, too dark for her to read, and slowly raised her hand—offered it to him. “I’m willing to accept you as you are—exactly as you are, all you are.” His fingers closed, tight, about hers. She smiled. “I can’t ask if you’ll pay the price for my love when you already have it…but will you do the same for me? Will you accept me as me?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer, then he closed his eyes and sighed. “Not willingly.” He opened his eyes; a flame lit the darkness. “But I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for you.”
Dillon stared into her emerald eyes, and wondered where his violence and the terror behind it had gone. He could only marvel at her ability to cut through to the heart of him, to the soul of his needs, and soothe him. “To night…” He grimaced. “Just now—”
She came into his arms. “To night’s behind us, past—and we have more than enough to deal with tomorrow.” She held his gaze for a moment, then laid her hand on his cheek. “Let it go.”
She was right. They were here, together, safe and free. Their future, joint and shared, beckoned. Their partnership for life.
He couldn’t argue, didn’t want to.
And she knew.
She took his hand and led him to her bed, and he let her. Let her take him in her arms, into her body, and lead him to paradise. To the wild and reckless place that together they could journey to, to the world that was wholly theirs, one of shared pleasures and joys created and embellished by one powerful, undeniable, irresistible force, their shared love.
They gave themselves up and it took them. Lifted them high, filled them with glory, fractured and claimed them, then, like warmed husks tossed on the wind, left them to drift slowly back to earth, to the soft sheets of her bed, to the warmth of each other’s arms.
He settled her beside him, within the circle of his arms, felt the power drift like a benedictory hand over them.
She nuzzled his chest, then sighed.
Eyes closed, his arms around her, he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, “Regardless, I’m not letting you near a pistol again.”
She chuckled, then softly humphed.
He smiled, and slept.
Late the next morning, Dillon stretched beneath the covers, then glanced at Pris, slumped, sated, beside him.
He hadn’t left before dawn; he much preferred waking up beside her—he might as well start as he meant to go on.
“You should go,” she mumbled, prodding his side.
The prods were weak; he grinned and remained where he was. From where he lay, all the world seemed rosy…except for one thing.
He glanced at the tumbled jumble of black curls poking above the covers. “This wedding of ours…does it really have to be so large? So involved?”
She stirred; one eye opened and regarded him, then she raised a brow.
“What I mean…” He sighed, shifted to face her, and confessed, “I’d much rather get a special license, do the deed, and whisk you away, back to Newmarket, so we can make a start on setting up our home together.” He raised his brows back. “What do you think?”
The truth was he was feeling rather desperate, especially after the previous evening. Especially after all he’d felt, all he’d realized. Being married to Pris, getting her married to him, was his most urgent priority.
She studied his eyes, then smiled, raised a hand, and patted his cheek. “I think that’s a pleasant dream, but it is a dream.”
He managed not to frown, but disgruntlement wasn’t far away. “So you really want a huge wedding?” He wouldn’t have thought it of her—she was normally as impatient, if not more so, than he.
“Heavens, no! But they do.”
He frowned then, but she shook her head at him. “You can’t disappoint them, and, in truth, they’re doing it for you.”
“But…” He wheedled, he whined, he tried every argument he could think of, but, finally, he realized she was right; he didn’t have it in him to disappoint Flick, Eugenia, Horatia, and all the rest. Especially not after all they’d done to help him.
He pulled a face at her, then inspiration struck. “Perhaps if you ‘persuaded’ me?”
She grinned, and did. She put her heart and soul into addling his brain sufficiently for him to smile and accept the inevitable.
A monstrous big wedding, complete with all the associated tortures.
In the blissful end, a quiet voice whispered that it was a small price to pay for this much love.
They were married in the church at Newmarket. The event, held just after the end of the racing season, was hailed as the highlight of the social year.
The other members of the Dalloway family and a host of connections traveled fro
m Ireland to be present; still others journeyed from all over england to witness the nuptials of the Earl of Kentland’s eldest daughter. The Cynsters and various other Caxton connections thronged the town; the gathering outside the church when the bride and groom emerged from the chapel was immense, swelled by hordes of local residents eager to see their hero wed.
Smiling proudly, Dillon refused to let go of Pris’s hand as they stopped here and there on their way to the waiting carriage; they’d already weathered a veritable storm of rice. There were many among the crowd they owed a word, a greeting, an acknowledgment, but finally they reached the carriage, and amid rousing cheers, rolled away to the wedding breakfast.
Demon and Flick had insisted on holding the celebration at their home. By the time Dillon and Pris stepped out on the lawn beyond the drawing room, the wide expanse was already dotted with guests.
Dillon’s two closest friends, Gerrard Debbington and Charlie Morwellan, had stood as his groomsmen. Gerrard was waiting just beyond the terrace with his wife, Jacqueline; Dillon and Pris joined them. As Gerrard and Jacqueline had wed only a few months before, the four had much in common.
“I’m still struggling to keep all the names and connections straight,” Jacqueline confessed. “And the clan only keeps growing!”
Pris laughed. “And in more ways than one.” She met Jacqueline’s bright eyes; Jacqueline had whispered that she was increasing, something anyone seeing her beatific smile would surely guess.
Charlie came up as Gerrard and Jacqueline moved on. “Two down. I’m the last man left standing.”
Dillon clapped him on the shoulder. “Your time will come.”
Pris listened as Dillon and Charlie ribbed each other; when she and Dillon were about to venture on, she murmured, “Just remember—there’s no escape.”
Charlie stared at her. She smiled, patted his arm, and let a chuckling Dillon lead her away.
There were so many guests to speak with that her head was soon reeling, but it was a giddy, pleasurable feeling, one she embraced. While she hadn’t specifically wished for it, she was now glad she’d listened to older and wiser heads, agreed to the large wedding, and persuaded Dillon to do the same. There was something so special in having everyone there to share the day; she would never forget these moments for as long as she lived—and that felt very right.
Barnaby was waiting amid the crowd. He apologized for broaching the subject before saying, “Stokes told me they pulled Abercrombie-Wallace’s body from the Thames a week ago.”
She frowned. “He drowned?”
Barnaby hesitated, but at a nod from Dillon said, “No. His throat was cut…eventually. From what Stokes said, Wallace’s death wasn’t peaceful.”
All three of them exchanged glances, then, as one, closed the door on the past and turned their minds to thoughts more in keeping with the day.
Dillon was conscious of a heightened sensitivity, an awareness of people and their interactions, that he couldn’t recall possessing before. He sensed a connectedness, warm and assured, intangible yet so powerful he felt he could almost touch it, as they chatted to devil and Honoria, to Demon and Flick, to Gabriel and Alathea, and the other Cynster couples who had been a constant in his life over the last decade.
He felt the touch of that intangible force even more personally when he embraced his father, then watched the General beam at Pris, when he was the recipient of backslaps and warm handshakes from Rus and the earl, and when Pris laughed and wildly hugged them both.
He felt it when he saw Rus and Adelaide share a secret smile.
Pris’s brother Albert, and her younger brother and sisters, were all present, Albert interested in all around him—in the stud and the town and Dillon’s work—while the younger crew ran wild beneath the shade trees, laughing and playing with Nicholas and Prue and the small army of other children present. Dillon saw Pris, Flick, and a host of other ladies smile fondly, not just at their own siblings or offspring, but at others, too.
Inclusive, all-embracing.
As he strolled arm in arm with Pris through the throng, all in some way part of his extended family, he felt the strands of that familiar, warm and pleasurable power twining and sliding like ribbons linking them all.
Husband to wife, parent to child, sibling to sibling, twin to twin, between lovers, between uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews, the strands of that power reached and touched, linked and held, connected and supported.
Love.
It was in the air in so many guises, it was impossible not to feel it.
Dillon felt, saw, acknowledged, accepted, and let the power flow through him.
He glanced at Pris, on his arm, then looked around with eyes fully open. Soon, he hoped, another strand of love—the one that linked father to child—would find him. They moved through the crowd, and he drank in all he saw, and felt his heart swell with anticipation.
The majority of males, most of whom were married, congregated to one side of the lawn. Leaving Pris with the ladies sitting under the trees, Dillon joined the gentlemen, inwardly smiling at their glib comments, their habitual grumbling giving voice to their reluctance over attending such emotion-laden events.
He now had a deeper understanding of that reluctance. In this arena, it was exceedingly difficult not to wear their hearts on their sleeves, not to openly acknowledge that power that claimed them all so thoroughly. And that always left them feeling exposed and vulnerable, a reality they never appreciated acknowledging, even if for only a short time.
Regardless, they would always attend as commanded by their mothers, their wives, their daughters or sisters.
Because, as he now understood, when all was considered and weighed in the balance, feeling vulnerable and exposed was a very small price to pay…for this much love.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career, and her series of historical romances set in Regency England about the masterful Cynster cousins has captivated readers, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors. She has also introduced the equally unforgettable members of the Bastion Club. She lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters.
Visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com
For more information on the Cynster novels. Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also available from HarperAudio and HarperLargePrint.
Credits
Jacket design by Beth Middleworth
Jacket photograph by Mary Javorek
ALSO BY STEPHANIE LAURENS
Cynster Novels
The Truth About Love
The Ideal Bride
The Perfect Lover
On a Wicked Dawn
On a Wild Night
The Promise in a Kiss
All About Passion
All About Love
A Secret Love
A Rogue’s Proposal
Scandal’s Bride
A Rake’s Vow
Devil’s Bride
Bastion Club Novels
A Fine Passion
A Lady of His Own
A Gentleman’s Honor
The Lady Chosen
Captain Jack’s Woman
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WHAT PRICE LOVE? Copyright © 2006 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered,
or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition February 2006 ISBN 9780061755774
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Laurens, Stephanie.
What price love? a Cynster Novel/Stephanie Laurens—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-06-084084-6 (acid-free paper)
ISBN-10: 0-06-084084-6 (acid-free paper)
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Stephanie Laurens, What Price Love?
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