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
The General consulted his memory, then shook his head. “Nothing material.”
“How about
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.
A futile endeavor, but it was impossible to explain that to them, or indeed, anyone; Pris had to smile and let them drone on.
About them, Lady Trenton’s ballroom was filled with the gay, the witty, the wealthy, and the influential, along with a large contingent of hopeful young ladies and gentlemen. The next few weeks were the last in the year in which society congregated in London; once Parliament rose in November, the ton would retire to their estates, and all matchmaking activity would become confined to the smaller, more select house parties that would fill in the months until March, when everyone would return to town again.
For those interested in making a match, these next weeks would be crucial in determining whether they would further their aims through the winter months or have to bide their time until spring.
In originally suggesting they visit London, Pris hadn’t realized how frenetic the search for suitable mates would be, much less how high on the list of eligibles she would feature. Now she knew, and was quietly aghast, but there was nothing she could do but smile. And pretend the gentlemen who flocked around had some chance of winning her hand.
Of course, they had even less chance of accomplishing that than they had of fixing her wandering attention. The man who succeeded in winning her hand would first have to win her heart-that was a vow she’d sworn years ago, when following her come-out she’d realized the reality of many matches in her circle. A temperate union, based on affection and trust at best, would never do for her; worse, such a marriage would potentially be dangerous, inviting trouble. Her emotions, her temperament, were too strong, too intense; she would never find peace in a passionless existence.
Such had been her thoughts before she’d met Dillon Caxton.
And lost her heart to him.
The gentlemen who pursued her could not win from her something she no longer possessed. Forcing a smile in response to Lord Camberleigh’s tale, she tried not to think of the yawning emptiness inside her.
It was her third night in the capital. Flick had prevailed on Pris’s father to accept her hospitality at her house in fashionable Half Moon Street. As soon as they’d assembled there, Flick had taken them under her wing and introduced them to her wider family, the other Cynster ladies, both of Flick’s generation and the one before. A more formidable collection of ladies Pris had never encountered; somewhat to her surprise, they’d welcomed her, Eugenia, and Adelaide warmly, and set about assisting them into the ton.
She’d allowed herself to be swept along, to be presented to this lady, that
They were all so…weak. Pale. Insignificant. Lacking sufficient strength to impact on senses grown accustomed to the darkly dramatic, to the decisive, the dangerous, and the wild.
Yet she didn’t regret refusing Dillon’s suit-
During all her time in Newmarket, through all they’d done, all they’d shared, her only regret, an abiding regret, was that she’d allowed the fiction that she’d given herself to him as an inducement to view the register to stand.
Aside from her name, that was the one other lie she hadn’t corrected for him. It was a big lie, a serious lie, but the situation between them meant she’d never be able to address it.
If she confessed she’d seduced him, had first taken him into her body purely because she’d wanted him, and had repeated the exercise because she’d craved the closeness, the connection, he’d see the truth, that she’d been in love with him from the first, and feel even more compelled to marry her.
So she wouldn’t tell him, and the lie would stand.
She told herself it didn’t matter, that in the wider scheme of things she’d accomplished all she’d set out from Ireland to do. Rus was safe and free, and the racing world was now his oyster, her father and he had reconciled, and her family was once again whole.
She should be grateful; her heart should be light.
The yawning emptiness within her grew colder and ached.
A squeak from a distant violin broke through her thoughts, made her blink and refocus on Mr. Barton, who’d been laboring through a description of the latest play at the Theatre Royal. The three gentlemen shot glances at one another. She dragged in a breath, dragooned her wits into action-anything to avoid an invitation to waltz. “What was your sister’s opinion of the play, sir?”
Mr. Barton put great store in his sister’s opinions; chest inflating, he was about to launch forth when something behind her caught his eye.
He blinked. Mouth open, his words dying on his tongue, he stared.
Pris glanced at the other two; they’d followed the direction of Barton’s fixed gaze and were now staring, apparently dumbstruck, too.
It would be rude, and too obvious, to swing around and look, yet it appeared that whatever-whoever-was occasioning the gentlemen’s consternation was approaching, drawing nearer.
Then she felt it-a ruffling of her senses, like a hand stroking the air a mere breath from her skin.
Felt the touch, the burning caress of his gaze on her nape, fully exposed by her gown and upswept hair.
