His gaze had already fixed on her.

Pris turned and rejoined a group of guests.

Dillon watched her merge with the crowd. He hesitated at the edge of the lawn, debating his best avenue of attack.

He’d spent the last three days thinking of little else but the lovely Miss Dalling, and while many of those thoughts had revolved about her potential role in any racing scam, some had been a great deal more private. While he understood, even agreed in principle with Demon’s suggestion that given the seriousness of the situation, the potential damage to the racing industry, then using more personal persuasions to gain her trust and learn all they needed was justified, he felt strangely reluctant to pursue her in that way…or, at least, for those reasons.

After their last meeting, he was not at all sure he wished to reengage with her personally at all.

He’d warned her off. Never before had he even thought of such a thing, yet with her he’d been moved to it, for one compelling reason. No other woman had ever tempted him as she had. She’d cut through his control effortlessly, as if it hadn’t been forged in the steamy hot house of ton affairs, tested by the most experienced and never before found wanting, and left him facing a side of himself he hadn’t, until that fraught moment in the wood, known he possessed.

No matter how he’d made it sound, his warning had been driven by self-preservation. His, not hers.

He’d always regarded himself as sensually aloof, passionate maybe yet always in control, never at the mercy of his appetites, never driven by a need that raked and clawed. She’d shown him he’d been wrong, that with the right female, the right temptation, he could be just as driven as others-as Demon, as Gerrard, as the other Cynster males he’d spent most of the last decade around.

That was not a comforting thought, especially as it seemed he needed to “persuade” her to tell him her secrets. Getting that close to her, tempting her, dallying as far as he needed to, was going to severely strain his until-now-vaunted control, already, with her, seriously weakened.

Given his body’s instant reaction to the sight of her, a delectable vision in a gown of vertical gray-and-white stripes highlighted by fine stripes of gold, standing momentarily alone, surveying the crowd-an outsider who, courtesy of her beauty, stood apart, as he often did-he seriously doubted that, in this case, familiarity would breed contempt. More likely insanity if he was constantly forced to battle his newfound demons.

Nevertheless…her equally instant reaction to him, her instinctive move to seek refuge with others, had set the ends of his lips curving. The predator in him recognized her flight for what it was. Perhaps there was hope? Perhaps “persuading” her wouldn’t demand more than he could safely risk?

“There you are!”

He turned to see Flick bustling toward him. Stretching up, she planted a kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “She’s over there with the Elcotts-did you see?”

“Yes.” Flick had sent word that Miss Dalling and her aunt would be attending her afternoon tea. “How long have they been here?”

“A little over an hour, so you’ve plenty of time. Now”-turning, Flick surveyed her guests-“would you like to meet the aunt?”

“Indeed. And after that, you can try to clear my path.” Dillon pretended not to notice the avid looks cast his way. “I have absolutely no interest in any sweet young lady-just Miss Dalling.”

Flick chuckled as she took his arm. “I agree she’s not sweet, but at least she’s interesting. However, my good lad, I greatly fear that regardless of your lack of interest, there are too many here whose interest you cannot ignore.”

He groaned, but surrendered, allowing her to lead him into the waiting throng. He exchanged greetings with various matrons, bowed over their daughters’ hands, effortlessly maintaining his usual aloof distance; even while he was looking at each sweet young miss, his senses were tracking his true prey. She was circling, keeping more or less behind him as he moved through the crowd.

She’d taken his warning to heart. How to tempt her close enough to rescind it was a novel challenge.

Then Flick steered him to an older lady sitting alongside Lady Kershaw. “And this is Lady Fowles. She and her niece and goddaughter are spending some weeks at the Carisbrook place. Allow me to present my cousin, Mr. Dillon Caxton. Dillon’s in charge of the famous Breeding Register.”

“Really?” Lady Fowles smiled up at him, an eagle sighting prey.

Bowing over her hand, Dillon met a pair of shrewd gray eyes.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you, young man. From my niece. So disobliging of you not to tell her all I wanted to know.”

Her ladyship’s smile robbed the words of all offense. Dillon responded with a smile as he straightened. “I’m afraid the details of the Breeding Register are something of an industry secret.”

He wondered if her ladyship knew of her niece’s late-night exploits. It seemed unlikely; for all her purported eccentricity, Lady Fowles appeared perfectly sane.

She did, however, proceed to grill him about the register. He slid around her questions, imparting instead various Jockey Club rules, ones that were public knowledge. Given his long association with the club, he could hold forth at length without any real thought.

That left his mind free to dwell on Miss Dalling, to consider how to lure her close…all he had to do was continue talking animatedly with her aunt. Miss Dalling had more than her fair share of curiosity.

Even as his senses pricked, telling him she was near, Lady Fowles looked past him, and beamed. “There you are, my dear. I’ve been attempting to wring information about the register from Mr. Caxton here.” Her ladyship threw him a sharp look. “Producing water from stone would be easier.”

She looked again at Miss Dalling as she joined them. Dillon turned to face her; she remained a wary few feet away.

“Mr. Caxton.” Her tone was cool. She curtsied; Dillon bowed.

Eyes widening, her ladyship suggested, “Why don’t you see if you can weaken his resolve, my dear? Perhaps he’ll be more amenable to sharing such details with you.”

Hiding his satisfaction, Dillon looked at his prey. Her eyes, startled, lifted to his. He could almost feel for her-thrown to the lion by her aunt.

“I don’t think that’s at all likely, aunt.” Primly correct, she waited, expecting him to make some comment declining her company and withdraw.

He smiled charmingly, as if taken by her beauty; she wasn’t fooled-sudden suspicion bloomed in her emerald eyes. “I know how devoted you are to satisfying your aunt’s thirst for knowledge, Miss Dalling.” Smoothly he offered his arm. “Perhaps we should stroll, and you can test your wiles? Who knows what, in such congenial surrounds, I might let fall?”

She stared at him, then looked at his arm as if it were something that might bite.

“Ah…” Tentatively, she reached out. “Yes. Very well.” Lifting her head, eyes narrowing, she met his gaze. “A stroll would be…pleasant.”

He felt the hesitant pressure of her fingers on his sleeve keenly; he suppressed a strong urge to cover them with his, to trap them.

They took their leave of her aunt and Lady Kershaw. Dillon turned toward the end of the lawn. “Let’s go this way.”

She assented with a nod.

There were fewer guests farther down the lawn. He guided her through the groups, avoiding meeting the eyes of those who sought to engage them. “Tell me, Miss Dalling, what drives your aunt’s interest in the register?”

She glanced at him, wary yet direct. “I realize you might not comprehend how it might be, but my aunt is obsessive. When she decides she must know something, she simply won’t rest until her curiosity is appeased.”

“In that case, in this instance, she’ll wear herself to the bone. The details of the register are not for public consumption.”

“She’s hardly ‘public.’ I cannot see why-” She broke off.

He glanced at her face; her expression told him little, but her eyes had widened-something had just occurred to her.

He sensed when she jettisoned all attempt at a façade; the tension in the lithe body beside his subtly altered, becoming more relaxed, more fluid, yet more focused as she shifted to attack.

“Tell me this, then.” She met his eyes, her gaze direct, challenge in the green. “Why are those details such a secret?”

He held her gaze, then looked ahead. They’d left the other guests behind; focused on him, she didn’t notice when he turned into the yew-lined walk that led to the stable.

How far should he go? “Those details can be used to falsify races in various ways. The Jockey Club prefers not to draw attention to those ways, hence the secrecy surrounding the register’s information and how it’s used.”

She frowned, pacing alongside him. “So the information is used in some way to…validate race horses?”

When she looked up, he caught her gaze. Dropped all pretense, too. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you tell me why you need to know what’s in the register, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

She studied his eyes for a pregnant instant, then looked ahead. “I’ve already told you why-more than once. My aunt wishes to know-you’ve spoken with her, you know that’s true.”

A hint of truculent impatience roughened her brogue.

Dillon inwardly sighed. Demon was right. Gaining her trust was the only way he was going to learn her secrets.

And the only quick and certain way to get close was to seduce her.

He didn’t let himself think, just acted. Halting, he faced her. Lowering his arm, he caught her hand and smoothly backed her until the thick, fine-leaved hedge stopped her.

Then he stepped closer, the movement so practiced, so polished, it shrieked of his experience.

Her eyes had widened. She stared at him-incredulous-for one fraught instant, then she glanced right and left, and realized where they were. Out of sight, alone.

Her gaze whipped back to him. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

An irritated demand; there was not the slightest hint of panic in her tone.

Her recalcitrance acted like a spur. Bending his head, he leaned in. Raising one hand, he twined a finger in a lush, black curl that had slipped loose from her too-severe chignon and now bobbed by her ear.

The sensation of warm silk wrapping about his finger momentarily distracted him. Gently, he tugged his finger free, then realized she’d stopped breathing. He glanced at her eyes, caught her stunned stare, hesitated, then gently, languidly, with the pad of his finger traced the fine skin of her jaw.

For one instant, desire swirled in those fabulous emerald eyes; she fought to quell a shiver-he sensed the flare of response, watched her lids flutter half-closed.

Only a saint wouldn’t have shifted closer still, until their bodies were a scant inch apart, until he could feel the heat of her, the beckoning delight of her, all along his body. He was definitely no saint; he reveled in the sensation.

He whispered his next words over her cheek. “I thought perhaps, obsessed as you are with the details of the register, you might like to persuade me to your cause?”

Her lids flew up. The eyes that locked with his weren’t hazy with desire; it was temper, steel-bright, that flashed at him. “What happened to”-her voice altered; she couldn’t match his tone, but she succeeded with his inflection-“‘I would suggest, Miss Dalling, that if you have the slightest sense of self-preservation, you will not again attempt to sway me using yourself as bait’?”

He held her irate gaze for two heartbeats, then shrugged. “I changed my mind.” He lowered his gaze to the delectable twin mounds showing above her scooped neckline. “I reconsidered in light of your charms. Obviously I spoke too hastily, in the heat of the moment.” Lifting his gaze, he met her eyes. “As it were.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits; she studied him for a long moment, then crisply stated, “Nonsense.” Raising both hands, she pushed at his shoulders.

Sheer bemusement had him stepping back. She whisked around and started back up the walk. Then she stopped, unsure, and glanced around. “Where are we?”

Feeling very like shaking his head, he strolled up to her, waving back at the buildings filling the end of the walk. “My brother-in-law’s stable. Given your aunt’s great interest in horse racing, I assumed the stable of the premier race horse breeder in England might be of some interest to you.”

She stared at the stable long enough for him to wonder if she might take him up on his offer, giving him more time with her in a more private, more enclosed space…but then she shook her head. “My aunt has only one highly specific obsession at present. I need to concentrate on satisfying that.”