wonderful map showed only buildings currently in use. She’d suspected as much, yet still it was a blow.
Patrick had confirmed that Rus hadn’t caught any coach, nor hired one. Her twin was as striking as she; no ostler would have forgotten him. So Rus was, as she’d thought, still in the vicinity, hiding and in danger not just from Harkness himself but from all who might think to secure the offered reward.
Someone in Newmarket, among the many they would meet socially, had to know what she needed to learn. Moving through the guests, she exchanged greetings with those she remembered from Mrs. Cynster’s afternoon tea, allowing them to introduce her to others.
She’d built on her image of a serious if beautiful bluestocking, disguising her dashing gown of dark green silk by draping a black knitted silk shawl over her bare shoulders and tying it between her breasts. The long fringe hid much of her figure; the dark mesh dimmed the jewel hue of the gown. Long dark gloves added to the impression of repressive severity; her bountiful hair was once again restrained in a tight chignon.
Her social experience combined with her years allowed her the status of still-eligible yet in de pen dent spinster, one who no longer needed to remain under her chaperone’s eye.
Smiling, chatting, she circulated, paying most attention to the gentlemen; she was a dab hand at using her looks to prompt older men into trying to impress her, in this case with their understanding of the racetrack.
Although the ladies who’d heard of her aunt’s obsession steered the conversation to the register, she’d realized it might behoove her to widen her inquiries. Caxton’s comments on the subject had been brief, but he had revealed one pertinent point; she encouraged any who could to describe what occurred at the end of races, how the winning horses were treated, what the rules were, what checks were made.
After an hour of steady application, with a delighted smile she turned from two portly gentlemen who had finally told her of the race stewards and their role in verifying winning horses.
“The stewards won’t tell you anything-don’t bother to ask.”
With a squeak, barely stifled, she very nearly jumped back-away from
All because of the waft of his breath over the edge of her ear.
Dragging in a breath, she lifted her chin and fixed him with a look designed to slay.
He met her eyes and smiled.
She felt like blinking, managed not to, but that smile…it wasn’t one of his practiced gestures, but genuine and sincere.
For some ungodly reason, she amused him.
She elevated her nose farther. “You were eavesdropping.”
His smile deepened; he reached out and took her arm.
Why she didn’t twist free and storm off she had no idea.
Twining her arm in his, he met her gaze. “I told you more than I should have yesterday. You had that far too easily. If you want to know more, you’ll have to work harder.”
“Yesterday I wasn’t even-” She broke off. Glanced at him.
He caught the glance, returned it with a knowing, faintly arrogant smile.
She blinked and looked ahead. Last afternoon she might not have been trying to extract-seduce-information from him, yet he’d told her something. Apparently deliberately.
Was he really willing to divulge the register’s secrets in return for…?
Was she in any position to ignore the possibility that he might?
Was Rus?
She was about to turn to him-how did one embark on such an “exchange”?-when his hold on her arm tightened. He steered her to the dance floor as the musicians at the end of the room started playing.
“Come and dance.”
She inwardly shrugged, happy enough to put off the uncertain moment. They were playing the introduction to a waltz; she turned into his arms before she’d thought.
His fingers closed about hers; his palm settled, warm, hard, and shockingly strong in the middle of her back. She sucked in a breath, felt her senses quake, determinedly forced them to behave and not betray her sudden sensitivity. Fixing her gaze beyond his shoulder, she fought to concentrate on the revolutions of the dance, then realized that wasn’t helping at all.
He was sweeping her effortlessly, powerfully around the room, her traitorous senses happily caught in his spell. In the shift and sway, in the seductive shush of her skirts against his trousers, in the sudden heat that flared as his hard thigh parted hers and he spun her into the turn.
Her lungs seized. She shifted her gaze to his face.
He met her eyes, read them, then smiled. That seductive, wholly genuine smile that sent her wits careening.
She couldn’t drag her gaze from his, couldn’t free her senses from his hold, from the sensual web the dance had become.
His dark eyes slowly heated. The hard planes of his face subtly shifted, as if he, too, felt it, as if he, too, were conscious of the tightening grip of sensation, the burgeoning craving the dance evoked.
Not the dance. Them dancing.
Never before had she considered the waltz a sensual experience, yet when the music faded and he whirled her to a halt, she felt exhilarated. Keyed up, nerves on edge, as she’d felt only once before.
When he’d kissed her in the wood and nearly ravished her.
Something must have shown in her face. His dark eyes raced over her features; when his gaze fixed on her lips, they throbbed.
He muttered something, his tone low, harsh. Instead of releasing her, his hand closed more tightly about hers; his arm fell away reluctantly as, head rising, he scanned the room.
She moistened her lips. Her wits seemed to be working unusually slowly.
She had a strong suspicion that if they’d been functioning normally, they’d be urging her to flee. Something else was keeping her rooted to the spot, wholly focused on a man who was the personification of danger.
“This way.” Dillon looped her arm in his, with his other hand trapped her fingers on his sleeve. Lady Fowles had noticed them dancing; smiling benignly, she’d returned to her conversation. It was helpful that Miss Dalling had established herself as in de pen dent; no brows would be raised if he escorted her beyond the ballroom’s walls.
Rather than head for the terrace, as a number of other couples were, he steered her to a door that gave onto a corridor, presently deserted.
He’d been visiting the Kershaws since he was in short coats; he knew the house and all its nooks well. The rarely used conservatory, down the corridor and out of sight of the ballroom, was the perfect place in which to pursue Miss Dalling-in which to encourage her to pursue him.
Guiding her down the corridor, ignoring her weak, “What…? Where are we going?” he halted before the glassed conservatory doors, set one swinging wide, and whisked her through.
“Mr. Caxton-”
“Dillon. If we’re going to be engaging in personal persuasions, it seems only reasonable to be on first-name terms.” Tacking down a narrow corridor between masses of leafy shrubs, towing her behind him, he halted and turned to look at her. “What’s your first name?”
She frowned, narrowed her eyes. “Priscilla.”
His lips twitched. “What does your brother call you?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he guessed. “Pris?”
She didn’t deny it. She looked around, then back, realizing they were out of sight of the corridor or anyone coming through the door. There were no lamps burning, but the moonlight poured through the glassed roof, providing steady illumination, enough to see by. She glanced toward the gardens beyond the glassed walls, but dense foliage screened them from that direction, too.
Her frown grew more definite. “Mr. Caxton, I don’t know what ‘persuasions’ you think to employ, but regardless, I’ll thank you to escort me back to the ballroom.”
Clearly holding her hand was insufficient contact. Dillon sighed, let her hand fall, reached for her, and neatly jerked her into his arms.
