What Price Love?

took you leaving to bring me to my senses. I had a long talk with Albert. Rus and I…well, we’ll work out some arrangement.” He glanced at the company, many of them of the haut ton. “I now see I was overly hasty in forming my opinion of Rus’s chosen path.”

Turning back to her, he smiled, then glanced at Dillon. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. My daughter and I will have plenty of time to catch up later. I daresay you wish to dance…?”

The musicians had just started up again. Dillon smiled-a smile she read as a warning-inclined his head to her sire, and reached for her hand. “Thank you, sir.” He looked at her, and arched a brow. Opening his mouth, he caught himself, then evenly enunciated, “Lady Priscilla?”

She smiled a touch weakly, bobbed a curtsy in acceptance, fleetingly touched her father’s arm, then allowed Dillon to draw her away. Her father and his amazing appearance weren’t the reasons her heart was thumping. When, reaching the floor, Dillon swept her into the dance, straight into a powerfully controlled turn, she sensed just how high his temper had flown, how hard he was riding it, reining it in.

Before she could say anything-even think what to say or do, where to start-he asked, his voice hard, his consonants sharply clipped, “I’m not currently au fait with the Irish peerage.” His gaze remained fixed on the dancers he was steering them through. “Assist me, if you would. Kentland. Would that be the Earl of Kentland?”

“Yes.” Pris struggled to draw breath into suddenly tight lungs. “Of Dalloway Hall, County Kilkenny.”

“Dalloway?” His jaw clenched; a muscle jumped along the stony line. Dark eyes filled with roiling anger swung down and locked on hers. “Is that your surname-your real surname, then?”

A huge weight pressed down on her chest. She couldn’t speak, simply nodded.

A second passed, then his chest swelled as he drew in a breath that seemed every bit as tight as hers.

“Always nice to know the name of the lady I’ve been-”

Pris shut her eyes, wished she could shut her ears, but she still heard the word he used. She knew what it meant, knew what men meant when they used it.

He swung her into a viciously tight turn, one that brought her body up hard against his. She fought to stifle a gasp. A second later, he softly swore.

She opened her eyes, but she couldn’t meet his. Yet if he continued to waltz with her so intensely, people would notice.

He must have realized; he swore softly again. Then without a hitch, he whirled her to the edge of the floor, released her, seized her hand, and dragged her out of the room.

Before she could ask where he was taking her, he snapped, “The parlor, remember?”

She swallowed, trying to ease her heart down into its proper place. Desperately she tried to marshal her wits, but…she’d never expected this. She’d all but forgotten he knew her as Miss Priscilla Dalling-that although he knew her in every sense that counted, she hadn’t corrected that long-ago lie.

Hauling her down a distant corridor, taking her far from the ballroom, he threw open a door, stormed in, whisked her through, then, releasing her, slammed the door shut.

Pris swung to face him. This was definitely not how she’d intended to say good-bye.

But what she saw in his eyes, intent and fixed on her, erased every thought from her head.

“Lady Priscilla Dalloway-have I finally got that right?”

He took a step-a distinctly menacing step-toward her; she promptly took a step back. She nodded.

“An earl’s daughter.”

“Yes.” It hadn’t been a question, but, lifting her chin, she answered anyway; hearing her own voice rather than just his roaring, growling one helped.

He continued to advance as she retreated. The word that leapt to her mind was panther-or was it a jaguar she meant? Whichever was more lethal, that’s the one she meant.

That was what he reminded her of as he stalked her across the room, his dark eyes burning with an unholy fury-a temper she fully understood, but had absolutely no clue how to assuage.

“I…” She bit her lip; the words that came to her tongue were so pitiful.

“Forgot who you were?”

His tone pricked her on the raw. She halted, tipped her chin higher as he drew nearer, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, as it happens. In a manner of speaking, I did.”

Her temper swelled; she welcomed it, let it fill her. Let it give her the strength to meet him eye to eye. “When we first met, there was no reason you needed to know my real name, and Dalling-it’s a name Rus and I use when there’s reason to keep the family name apart from whatever’s going on. Naturally, I used it when we first met. Afterward…”

His smile held no humor. “Do let’s get to afterward.”

Leaning forward, she returned that smile with interest. “Afterward, it didn’t matter. Yes, I forgot about it-because my name is not who I am. It’s just a name, and me by any name is the same person! So yes, I forgot-and so forgot to correct what you knew. So I apologize for the shock you just had to endure, but as for anything else…”

Her voice had risen, gaining in strength. Flinging out her arms, she held his gaze, her own now scorching. “This is me. Pris. Whether it’s Dalling or Dalloway, whether there’s a lady in front of it, what the devil difference does it make?

“Why on earth should my being an earl’s daughter make any difference to us? To what happened, or where we are now? It certainly doesn’t change what’s to come.”

Dillon looked into her face, all blazing eyes and unwavering certainty-and realized she’d just told him all he wanted to know. Her name, her title, didn’t matter; she would marry him anyway. Good. Because he was definitely marrying her, and the sooner the better.

There was no reason he couldn’t offer for an earl’s daughter. His family was one of the oldest in the haut ton, connected to several of the principal families. His estate might be described as tidy, but his private fortune was immense, and his status as one of the select few elected to govern the sport of kings, a status their recent triumph had only elevated, ensured that Lord Kentland would have no reason to refuse his suit.

“Marry me.”

She blinked. Then, lips parting, she stared at him, her emerald eyes growing wide, then even wider. “Wh-what? What did you say?”

His jaw clenched; he spoke through gritted teeth. “I said: marry me. You heard me perfectly well.”

She drew back. Looked at him as if he were the strangest specimen of manhood she’d yet encountered, but then, as he watched, suspicion, then wariness, flooded her eyes. She drew a breath; her voice wobbled as she asked, “Why?”

“Why?” A host of answers flooded his incredulous brain. Because if she didn’t, soon, he’d go insane? Because he needed her in his life and she needed him? Because it was obvious? Because they’d been intimate and she might be carrying his child…the thought made him weak-kneed.

Very definitely weak-brained. “Because I want you to.”

Before she could demand “why?” to that, too, he leaned closer, bringing his face level with hers. “And you want to, too.”

He was one hundred percent sure of that.

To his astonishment, she paled. Her lips set, as did her expression. “No, I don’t.” She bit the words off.

It was his turn to stare. Equally disbelieving. Equally astounded.

Before he could say anything-before he could argue and press-Pris held up a restraining hand. Temper and sorrow, hurt and anger were a powerful mix, roiling and boiling and rising inside her. “Let’s see if I have this right.”

From the sudden hardening of his expression, she knew her eyes had flashed, that soaring emotion had again set them alight. She pointed toward the ballroom. “Ten minutes ago, a pleasant evening-our last evening together-was drawing to a civilized close. We were about to part amicably and, with fond farewells and Godspeeds, go our separate ways.” She folded her arms; chin high, she kept her eyes on his. “But then you learned I’m an earl’s daughter-that the young lady you’ve been dallying intimately with is a nobleman’s daughter-and you suddenly perceive that we need to marry.”