What Price Love?

She knew Caxton had considered it. Considered it, then deliberately backed away and spared her.

Recalling the moment, recalling how she’d felt-been reduced to feeling-she hissed through her teeth. “He should be outlawed. If he can do that to me, inured as I am to physical charms, what effect does he have on more susceptible young ladies?”

The mare snorted and walked on.

Pris humphed. Regardless, Caxton had given her a reprieve. Like the gentleman he was, he’d declined to take advantage of her sadly misjudged attempt to manipulate him. She should have known he would prove immune, the more cautious part of her had known he might be, but she’d had to try…the reason why returned to her.

Brows rising, she considered; if she hadn’t recalled why she’d kissed him until that moment, the chances were good that he’d forgotten entirely the string she’d been watching before she’d led him on their merry chase.

Good. Indeed, excellent! That was precisely what she’d set out to do, and she’d succeeded.

But she’d lost Cromarty’s string; she hadn’t even had time to see if Rus had been on one of the horses. Caxton’s fault; it was intensely annoying, especially given her increasing anxiety-blind but even more troubling for that-over Rus’s safety.

At least she now knew the area in which Cromarty’s string worked. She’d go out and locate them again, find Rus, and all would be, if not well, then a great deal better.

As for what came next, she sincerely hoped she’d be able to avoid Caxton, arrogant rake that he was. His warning irked; worse, her temper being what it was, her nature as it was, warning her not to do something invariably left her even more tempted to take the risk, regardless.

Reaching the manor, she turned the mare’s head toward the stable. There was something about Caxton’s warning that didn’t ring true. Replaying his words, his inflections, she tried to read the emotions beneath. His reined desire she recalled clearly.

She’d dismounted in the stable yard, absentmindedly handed over the mare and was striding to the manor’s side door when the discrepancy hit her.

He’d had no real reason to utter any warning.

He’d known she’d seen the danger. If he were as truly in command as she’d thought-as he’d pretended to be… as he’d allowed her to believe him to be?-if he were half as clever as she suspected he was, he should simply have let her go.

She halted.

If she couldn’t sway him sensually, why bother warning her off?

He wanted her to tell him what she knew; if he was impervious to her, why not let her try again and simply hold her off again, using the moment to get her to tell him what he wanted to know? Manipulation of that sort worked both ways, something he, of all men, beyond question knew.

She stood in the strengthening sunshine, turning over all the possibilities in her mind. Only one fitted.

He wasn’t nearly as impervious as he’d seemed.

He didn’t want her testing him again because, next time, she might succeed in holding him to a line that wasn’t so close to the edge of the sensual cliff, might succeed in gaining enough control to have the upper hand.

Or at least have some bargaining power.

“Well, well, well.” Eyes narrowing, she considered, then mentally nodded and walked on. That was certainly something to note and remember, especially if, as she greatly feared, avoiding him proved impossible.

She’d found Cromarty’s string, and had learned of one possible chink in Caxton’s otherwise formidable armor. All in all, her morning hadn’t been a complete waste.

4

This morning, she was obviously searching for one particular string.” Sprawled in an armchair in the family parlor of Demon and Flick’s home, Dillon described all he’d learned about Miss Dalling to Demon and Flick, attended by their two eldest children.

He and Barnaby, seated on the window seat, had met midmorning; after discussing their findings, they’d decided to seek Demon’s advice. Few knew the inner workings of the racing industry better, and there was no one whose judgment Dillon trusted more when it came to racing swindles.

“When she noticed me watching her, she rode off. I followed. Once she realized she couldn’t shake me, she returned to the Carisbrook house.”

An abbreviated account, but accurate in the essentials. Dillon glanced at Flick, perched on the arm of Demon’s chair. She wasn’t wearing breeches today; she’d been spending time with her offspring rather than her husband’s Thoroughbreds. The older two children, Prudence and Nicholas, had joined their elders in the parlor as if they had the right; Nicholas, eight years old, a miniature Demon in looks and sharp as a tack, was lolling on the window seat beside Barnaby, listening for all he was worth, while Prudence, known to all as Prue, the eldest at ten years old, in looks a Cynster although the stubborn set of her chin reminded Dillon forcibly of Flick, had claimed her place on Demon’s other side. Like her mother, she deemed anything that went on in her vicinity as much her interest as anyone else’s; she was fascinated by the tale Dillon had come to share.

“I seriously doubt Miss Dalling is directly involved in whatever’s going on,” he concluded, “but she definitely knows something, something more than we do. I think she’s protecting someone, very possibly her brother.”

“She certainly reacted when you suggested it was he I’d been wrestling with,” Barnaby put in, “and what you don’t know, because I forgot to mention it, is that the bounder did indeed look like her.”

Dillon blinked. Barnaby amended, “Well, a scruffy male version of her, at any rate. In fact, he looked like a down-on-his-luck cross between her and you.”

Flick had been avidly following their exchange. She opened her mouth to ask the obvious question.

Prue beat her to it. “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

They all looked at Dillon.

He hesitated, then admitted, “She’s not pretty. She’s the most stunningly, startlingly, strikingly beautiful young lady I’ve ever set eyes on. If she goes to town without a ring on her finger and doesn’t accept an offer inside a week, the matchmaking mamas will be sharpening their knives.”

Flick’s brows rose high. “Good gracious! And this goddess is haunting Newmarket?”

A speculative gleam lit Flick’s blue eyes. Dillon studied it, then glanced at Demon, wondering what tack his powerful brother-in-law would take. Demon had very firm views on Flick getting involved in anything dangerous. Against that, he allowed her to ride his horses, so his definition of dangerous was flexible. Flexible enough for him and Flick to have remained happily married for over ten years.

Demon hadn’t even had to look at Flick to know what she was thinking. He glanced at her. “Do you think you might be able to learn more from Miss Dalling by pursuing an acquaintance socially?”

Flick grinned. “Meeting her socially will pose no problem whatsoever. However”-her gaze returned to Dillon-“extracting the necessary information might require persuasion of a sort I’m not qualified to give.” Her smile grew. “We’ll see.”

Dillon didn’t appreciate the calculation he glimpsed in Flick’s cerulean blue eyes. “Her aunt has rented the Carisbrook place. She says the aunt’s an eccentric, presently fascinated by racing, thus excusing her interest in the register.”

“Hmm.” Flick looked thoughtful. “You met her out riding-how well does she ride?”

He smiled. “Not as well as you.”

That earned him long-suffering looks from Flick, Demon, Nicholas, and Prue. Flick was the best female rider in the land. She could give Demon a run for his money, and he, unquestionably, was the best there was. Saying Miss Dalling didn’t ride as well as Flick was saying nothing at all.

“She’s actually quite good.” He thought back, then raised his brows. “In fact, she was damned good, far better than the average lady rider.”

“So she does know horses?” Demon asked.

Dillon understood what he was suggesting. “Yes, but not as you mean. She understands horses as I do, not as the two of you do.”