A moment passed, then he stirred, impatient to act, wishing she’d dismiss all the others and come his way.
She started edging from her admirers. He straightened. Watching more intently, he noted her sudden nervousness, the way she sidled to keep the shoulders of her attentive swains between her and someone farther up the ballroom.
Dillon scanned the guests. Lady Swaledale had assembled a small multitude, all the locals of note as well as many owners who belonged to the ton. He glanced again at Pris; to his educated eye, panic was rising beneath her glib surface, but who was inciting it was impossible to guess.
He was about to quit his sanctuary when she acted. Brightly smiling, she dismissed two gentlemen; the instant they left, she excused herself to the remaining three-judging by the wilting hand she raised to her brow, unimaginatively claiming a sudden indisposition.
The three were disheartened, but in her hands so malleable. They bowed; with what Dillon knew would be perfectly sincere thanks, she left them and headed his way.
She walked purposefully, casting swift, sharp glances up the room, taking good care to remain screened from that direction. She drew near the alcove, then to his surprise, stepped into the shadowed opening, simultaneously beckoning a nearby footman to attend her.
The footman came hurrying to bow before her. “Ma’am-miss?’
“I’m Miss Dalling. I wish you to take a message to my aunt, Lady Fowles. She’s seated on a chaise at the top of the room. She’s wearing a pale green gown and has ostrich feathers in her hair. Tell Lady Fowles that I’ve been called away and am returning home. I would rather she remain and enjoy the evening-she shouldn’t return early on my account. Please convey that to her immediately.”
Pris listened while the footman repeated the message, and nodded.
“Do you wish me to summon your carriage, miss?”
“No, thank you. Just deliver my message.” She bestowed a brilliant smile on the footman; he bowed and all but charged off on his quest. She glanced up the room, drew in a breath, and slipped out of the shadows.
Quickly, as unobtrusively as she could, she tacked through the guests at this end of the room and slipped out through a secondary door. The corridor beyond was presently empty, but the ball was barely an hour old; guests were still trickling in through the main ballroom doors farther down the corridor, near the front hall.
Those main ballroom doors were propped wide; she couldn’t risk walking past them-couldn’t risk Lord Cromarty seeing her. The last glimpse she’d had of him he’d been standing with a group of similar gentlemen, unfortunately facing those doors.
Until he’d walked in, it hadn’t occurred to her that in going about in Newmarket society she risked meeting him. Cromarty had met her, exchanged a few words with her; Rus had been with her at the time, less than a year ago.
There were drawbacks to being so physically notable; it made her very recognizable. She couldn’t risk Cromarty getting even a glimpse.
She hadn’t forgotten a single word of Rus’s letter; if he’d found anything untoward in what Harkness was doing, Rus would have gone to Cromarty. While she wasn’t going to jump to conclusions regarding Cromarty, neither was she willing to endanger Rus by letting Cromarty know she was there.
If Cromarty was involved, he’d know she’d either find Rus, or he’d find her. All Cromarty needed to do was watch her, and eventually he’d have Rus.
Partly hidden by a tall lamp, she hovered in the hallway until another footman crossed to the ballroom. Stepping into plain sight, she beckoned imperiously. “My cape, if you please. It’s lavender velvet, waist-length, with gold frogging.”
The footman blushed, stammered, but quickly fetched the cape. She allowed him to set it about her shoulders, then dismissed him, giving the impression she was waiting for someone.
The instant the footman passed into the ballroom, she turned and hurried down the corridor, away from the ballroom and its lurking danger, deeper into the body of the house.
At the end of the corridor, she found a secondary staircase; descending to the ground floor, she peered out of a window and saw a side garden with paved paths leading away toward a band of trees.
Swaledale Hall was only a mile or so from the Carisbrook house. She knew the direction; the moon was rising, shedding enough light for her to see her way.
Who knew? She might even bump into Rus; she knew her twin was out there somewhere. Alone.
The thought cut at her. Finding a door to the garden, she pushed it open and stepped outside.
She glanced around, but there was no one else about. Closing the door, she took her bearings. A cool breeze ruffled the creeper that grew on the walls. Selecting the most likely path from the five that led from the door, she set out, walking along the silvered flagstones toward the shelter of the trees.
In the open, less than halfway to the trees, a sudden premonition that there was someone behind her washed like an icy wave down her spine.
Even while her mind was reassuring her that she was imagining things, she was turning to look.
At the man who was sauntering silently in her wake.
A scream rose to her throat-she struggled to swallow it as the moonlight revealed who he was.
Her relief was so profound, she fleetingly closed her eyes-then snapped them open; she’d stopped walking-he hadn’t.
He eventually halted with a single pace between them.
By then her temper had flown. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, following me?
What wits were left to her; at least half were fully occupied drinking in his presence-the width of his shoulders, the lean tautness of his chest, the long, strong lines of his rider’s legs, his brand of masculine grace even more pronounced when cloaked in the crisp black-and-white of evening dress. A lock of dark hair showed ink black against his forehead; in the sharp contrast created by the moonlight, he appeared a dark and dangerous creature, one conjured from her deepest fantasies and rendered in hot muscle and steel.
He was tempting enough in daylight; in the light of the moon, he was sin personified.
Her accusations had sounded shrill, even to her ears.
He’d tilted his head, studying her face. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
If she’d thought he was laughing at her, she’d have verbally flayed him, but there was sincerity in his tone, a touch of honesty she knew was real. She humphed and crossed her arms. With effort refrained from tapping her toe while she waited for him to say something, or better still, turn around and leave her.
When he simply stood there, looking down at her, she hauled in a breath, nodded regally, and swung around once more. “I’ll bid you a good night, Mr. Caxton.”
She started walking.
From behind her, she heard a sigh. “Dillon.”
She didn’t need to look to know he was following her.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. The Carisbrook place.”
“Why?”
She didn’t reply.
“Or”-the tenor of his voice subtly altered-“more to the point, who arrived in the ballroom that you didn’t want to meet?”
“No one.”
“Priscilla, allow me to inform you that you’re a terrible liar.”
She bit her lip, told herself he was deliberately goading her. “Whom I choose to meet is none of your damned business.”
“Actually, in this case, I suspect it is.”
They’d reached the trees. She didn’t fear him, not in the sense that he wished her harm, but she, and her nerves, were not up to the strain of marching through a dark wood with him prowling at her heels. Tempting fate was one thing-that would be madness.
Halting, head high, she turned, and tried to stare him down-difficult given she had to look up to meet his shadowed eyes. “Good night, Dillon.”
