Stephanie Laurens - What Price Love?

She looked superior. “I thought it might be instructive.” Her blue eyes-bluer than her father’s, sharper than her mother’s-fixed on his face. “It was. That will probably be the poorest attempt at a proposal I’ll ever hear.” She frowned. “At least, I hope it will be.”

He spoke through his teeth in his most menacing voice, “You will forget everything you heard.”

She sniffed. “All that gammon about you offering for her hand because you’d found out she was an earl’s daughter. I can’t see what else you expected. She was quite restrained, I thought, at least for her. She has a fabulous temper, hasn’t she?”

Dillon ground his teeth. He remembered the emotions lighting Pris’s eyes-temper, yes, but also something else, something that had bothered him, distracted him, and slowed him down. “That wasn’t why I proposed.”

The words had slipped out, a statement of fact, more to himself than anyone else. Realizing he’d spoken aloud, he glanced up and found Prue watching him, a pitying light in her eyes.

“It’s what she thinks that matters, and she thinks you offered because you feel obliged to. She asked why, and you let her think that, more fool you.”

“It wasn’t only that.”

“No, indeed. One minute you’re roaring at her-you did realize you were roaring, didn’t you? Then you don’t ask, but tell her-order her-to marry you. Huh! In her shoes, I would have sent you to the right about, too.”

Dillon stared at Prue, at her direct, scathingly unimpressed expression, for a full minute, then, jaw setting, he hauled himself to his feet and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Hand on the door knob, he looked back to see Prue opening her book. She looked at him inquiringly. He met her gaze, and smiled dangerously. “I’m going to find her, drag her off somewhere where there will be no one listening, and explain the truth to her in simple language impossible to misconstrue.”

Hauling open the door, he went out and shut it with a definite click.

The following afternoon, a mix of frustration, exasperation, and uncertainty riding him, Dillon turned his blacks into the Carisbrook house drive, not at all sure what he would face when he finally ran Pris to earth, or what he would do when he did.

Last night he’d returned to the ballroom only to discover her nowhere in sight. He’d eventually found Humphries, Demon’s butler, and learned that Lord Kentland’s party had left some ten minutes before, Lady Priscilla having been taken unwell.

In his mind he’d heard one of Prue’s unimpressed snorts, but Pris running away had left him uneasy. If she’d been defiantly angry, she would have stayed and flirted with every gentleman willing to fall victim to her charms; there’d been enough of those present to have made her point.

Instead…if she’d pleaded illness and run, she must have been upset.

That was what had distracted him in the parlor-the hurt he’d glimpsed in her eyes. She distracted him in any case, but her being hurt in any way what ever was the ultimate in distraction. His mind seemed instantly to realign, to focus on finding what had upset her and eradicating it. Even if it was him.

According to Prue, Pris believed he’d offered for her only from a sense of moral obligation. Tooling his curricle on, he frowned. Regardless of her view of things, moral obligation did play a part-or would have if he hadn’t already intended to marry her.

He was what he was; honor was a part of his character, not something he could deny, could pretend didn’t matter. He might also be reckless and wild, but that didn’t preclude him behaving honorably. Nevertheless, in this instance, honor and moral obligation were entirely by the by; they weren’t why he wanted to marry her.

A long night of thinking-easy enough when tossing and turning alone in his bed-had forced him to concede that he’d made a mistake, a major one, in even for an instant allowing Pris to think that moral obligation had played any role what ever in prompting his proposal. In even for a heartbeat contemplating using that to hide his real reason.

He’d been a fool for all of ten seconds-far less than a minute-and look where it had landed him.

Prue, he was certain, would, with withering scorn, point out the implication.

Which was why he was looking for Pris, prepared and determined to make a clean breast of it regardless of his sensibilities. He’d tried to think of words, to rehearse useful phases; horrified by what his mind had suggested, he’d stopped, and given up.

Sufficient unto the moment the evil thereof, the words he might be forced to utter. Dwelling on them ahead of time wasn’t helpful.

Especially as, lurking around his heart, was a cold and murky cloud of uncertainty. What if he’d been wrong? What if, regardless of all he’d thought they’d shared, she truly viewed him as nothing more than her first fling? As her first lover only, not her last?

The cold cloud intensified; he pushed the thought away. The house neared; he checked his team, then guided them into the stable yard.

Patrick came out of the stable. He nodded and walked to where Dillon halted the curricle. “Morning, sir. If you’re looking for Lady Pris, I’m afraid you’re too late. They left after an early lunch.”

He managed to keep his expression impassive, to not let any of the shock he felt show. “I see.” After a blank moment, he had no choice but to ask, “Left for where?” Ireland?

“Why, up to London.” Moving to the restive horses’ heads, Patrick glanced at him. “I thought Mrs. Cynster would have told you.”

Dillon blinked. What did Flick have to do with this? “I…haven’t caught up with my cousin after the ball.”

But he would. She’d kissed his cheek and sent him off last night-and had said not a word about Pris and her family fleeing to the capital.

“Aye, well, they were going to stay at Grillons, but Mrs. Cynster said she was just itching for an excuse to go up to town.” Patrick was admiring the horses, stroking their long noses. “She invited the whole party-Lord Kentland, Lady Fowles, Miss Adelaide, Lady Priscilla, and Lord Russell-to stay at her house in town. In Half Moon Street, it is.”

Dillon nodded. He usually stayed there when he went to London.

Patrick nodded at the house. “I’m just seeing things packed up here, then I’ll be following. Lady Pris was keen to get off as soon as they could.”

Dillon met Patrick’s eyes, wondered how much he’d guessed. “I see.”

“Seemed a trifle under the weather, she did, but hell-bent on getting on the road and away.”

Dillon inwardly frowned. She was running, still. A question he hadn’t asked himself before swam into his mind. If she was running, she was upset. But why was she upset?

He could comprehend anger; she’d thought he’d thought she’d schemed to force him to offer for her, and was understandably incensed. She’d seen the notion as a slur on her integrity; although he hadn’t thought any such thing, he could appreciate her point. But what was behind her…he didn’t have the words to describe her emotions; he could sense them, but the turmoil inside her-pain, hurt, regret-what else?-it all came under the heading of “upset.”

What was going on inside her head?

What, when it came down to it, did she truly want? Him? Or not?

Not in the way she’d believed he’d meant, that much he knew, but did she truly not want him what ever his motives?

His frown materialized. His head had started to ache. Jaw clenching, he met Patrick’s eyes and caught a hint of grim sympathy.

“It is so damn complicated,” he ground out, gathering the blacks’ reins, “trying to think like a woman!”

“Amen!” Patrick’s grin flashed as he stepped back and saluted. “I’ve never yet managed it myself.”

With a curt nod, Dillon whipped up the blacks and headed back to Hillgate End.

One sleepless night, one brooding, restless god-awful day when he could think of nothing, concentrate on nothing, convinced him he couldn’t simply sit and wait-and even less could he let Pris go. Let her slip out of his life without trying his damnedest to get her back in it.

He wasn’t even sure he could live without her-whether his life, whether he, had any meaningful future without her; his mind seemed already to have arranged his entire future life around her, with her at its center-if she wasn’t there, where she belonged, everything would fall apart.

How that had happened, why he was convinced it was so, he didn’t know-he only knew that was how he felt.

In his heart. In his soul. Where she and only she had ever touched.

He had to get her back; he had to get her married to him. What he needed to work out was how to achieve that.

It was the middle of the autumn racing season, but the major Newmarket meeting was behind them, and the substitution scam was no more. For the rest of the season, matters ought to run smoothly, enough for him to leave the reins in someone else’s hands, at least for a week or so.

He waited until that evening, when he and his father were sitting quietly in the study. Eyes on the port in the glass he was twirling, he said, “Despite it being the middle of the season, I’m thinking of spending a few weeks in London.”

He looked up to see his father’s eyes twinkling.

“That’s hardly a surprise, m’boy. Of course you must go up to town. We’d all be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He blinked. His father went on as if everything had already been arranged. “I’ll take over for you here. Indeed, I’m looking forward to getting back to things for a while, knowing it won’t be for long. Demon will lend a hand if necessary. I know all the clerks-we’ll hold the fort while you go after Pris.”

Dillon frowned. “How did you know?”

The General’s smile turned wry. “Flick dropped a word in my ear at the ball, then looked in yesterday on her way to town. She said when you finally bestirred yourself and followed, to tell you Horatia would have a room ready and be expecting you.”

Everything had already been arranged…he stared at his father. “Did Flick say anything else?”

The General consulted his memory, then shook his head. “Nothing material.”

“How about immaterial?”

At that, his father chuckled. “The truth is, everyone who knows you both thinks you deserve each other. More, that you’re right for each other, and that no one better is likely to exist for either of you. Consequently, the collective view is that you should hie yourself to London and convince Pris to marry you as soon as may be. Quite aside from there being no sense in wasting time, there’s the other side of the coin to consider.”

He was lost. “What other side, and of which coin?”

His father met his gaze, his eyes shrewd and wise. “The side that will make Pris a target for every rake and fortune hunter in town. It won’t be just her appearance, nor just her temperament, but also the simple fact of you not being there.”

An iron-cold chill touched Dillon’s heart; he could see all too well the tableau his father was painting. “Right.” He drained his glass and set it aside. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Excellent.” The General smiled approvingly. “I was told to inform you that should you require any assistance what ever, you only need ask. The ladies will be most happy to assist you.”

By “the ladies,” he meant the Cynster ladies and their cohorts-a body of the most powerful females in the ton. Although warily grateful, Dillon was bemused. “Why?”

The twinkle returned to the General’s eyes. “As it’s been put to me, by marrying Pris you’ll earn the undying gratitude of all the ton’s hostesses as well as all the mamas-not just those with marriageable daughters, but also those with marriageable sons. Dashed inconvenient, the pair of you, it seems-you distract the young ladies, and Pris distracts the gentlemen, and everyone forgets who they’re supposed to be focusing on. The consensus is that the sooner you and she marry, and take yourselves off the marriage mart, the better it will be for the entire ton.”

Dillon stared. “Flick actually said that?”

The General smiled. “Actually, she said a great deal more, but that was the gist of it.”

Dillon was thankful to have been spared. One thing, however, was now clear. “I’d better drive up to London first thing.”

Oh-thank you, Lord Halliwell.” Pris accepted the glass of champagne she’d forgotten she’d sent Viscount Halliwell to fetch, and bestowed a grateful smile.

Patently basking in such mild approval, the viscount rejoined Lord Camberleigh and Mr. Barton, all vying for her interest, all doing their damnedest to engage it.