explained that the recent artifacts from Egypt had caused quite a stir.
She mentally shook herself as he drew his blacks to a halt before the steps to Flick’s door. Tossing the reins to the tiger, he climbed down and came around to lift her to the pavement. As usual, when his hands closed about her waist, her breathing suspended, but she was growing used to the effect, enough to disguise it. She smiled up at him. For an instant, as his eyes met hers, held hers, he seemed to sober, to look deeper…her heart gave an unexpected flutter, but then he returned her light smile. Releasing her, he escorted her to the door.
Reaching the porch, he rang the bell, then turned to her. Raising her hand, he caught her eyes, brushed her fingertips with his lips, then, smile deepening, he turned her hand and, her gaze still trapped in his, pressed a hotter, distinctly more intimate kiss on the inside of her wrist.
His deep, rumbling tone reverberated through her, an evocative wave that left a sense of empty yearning in its wake.
Releasing her hand, with an elegant nod, he turned as the hackney carrying Rus and Adelaide drew up behind his curricle. Descending the steps, he made his farewells to them, then leapt to the curricle’s box seat, took the reins, glanced her way, smiled and saluted her, then gave his horses the office.
The door at her back had opened. Pris dragged in a breath, turned, and walked into the hall, lecturing her unruly senses to behave and subside.
She listened with half an ear to Adelaide’s bright chatter as together they climbed the stairs. As they gained the gallery, she murmured, “It’s Lady Hemmings’s musicale to night, isn’t it?”
“Yes! I’ve never been to such an event-Aunt Eugenia said there’s to be an Italian soprano, and a tenor, too. Apparently they’re all the rage.”
Pris smiled noncommittally; she parted from Adelaide at Adelaide’s door, then walked on to her own, at the end of the hallway.
An Italian soprano and a tenor; that didn’t sound like the sort of entertainment at which gentlemen of Dillon’s ilk would be found. Given the state of her treacherous heart, that was undoubtedly just as well.
Are you truly enjoying this caterwauling?”
Pris started, then turned; she only just managed to keep her jaw from dropping as Dillon sank into the chair beside hers, then struggled to arrange his long legs beneath the chair in the row in front. Flicking open her fan, she raised it, and hissed from behind it, “What are you doing here?”
His dark eyes slid sidelong to meet hers. “I would have thought that was obvious.”
When she raised her brows even higher, he nodded to the front of the room where the Italian soprano had launched into her next piece. “I couldn’t miss the chance to hear the latest sensation.”
“Shhhh!” The lady in front turned and scowled at them.
Pris shut her lips, held back her disbelieving snort. There were a total of five males present, aside from the tenor and the harried accompanist. Of those five, four were clearly fops. And then there was the gentleman beside her.
Not even Adelaide had been able to convince Rus that he should attend.
She glanced at Dillon, mouthed, “Where’s Rus?” She’d thought her brother was with him.
He pointed to the lady in front, and mouthed, “Later.”
She possessed her soul with very little patience until the soprano had ended her piece.
“He’s with Vane at the club,” Dillon answered without waiting for her to ask again. “He’s safe.”
He turned his head and smiled at her, and she wondered if she was.
She summoned a frown. “I thought gentlemen like you never attended”-she glanced at the buxom singer at the front of the room, shuffling sheets of music with the pianist-“‘caterwauling’ sessions such as this.”
“You’re right. We don’t. Except on certain defined occasions.”
She fixed her eyes on his face. “
“When we’re endeavoring to impress a lady with the depth of our devotion.”
She stared at him. After a moment, somewhat faintly asked, “You choose the middle of a recital to say something like that?” She had to fight to keep her tone from rising.
He smiled-that untrustworthy smile she was coming to recognize; catching her hand, he fleetingly raised it to his lips. “Of course.” He lowered his voice as the pianist rattled the keys. “Here, you can’t argue, nor can you run.”
The soprano gave voice again. Pris faced forward. He was right. Here, he could say what he wished, and she… in the face of his presence, it was very hard to argue.
Assuming she wished to argue. Or run.
Her head was suddenly whirling, and it had nothing to do with the musical contortions the soprano unerringly performed. She’d refused his offer, dictated by honor as it had been. He’d followed her to London, refusing to let her go. Now…
Her entire day snapped into sharper focus. The entire day in which he’d remained by her side, demonstrating to everyone who’d seen them-the better part of the ton’s ladies-just how intent, how committed he was to having her…
Temper surged. Leopards didn’t change their spots; apparently jaguars didn’t either. He hadn’t changed his mind about marrying her; he’d simply changed his line of attack.
Before her, the soprano shrieked. Pris’s eyes narrowed, unseeing; she set her lips. She wasn’t going to be bullied into marrying him because he thought she should-because he thought it right and proper-even if the ton, her family, and everyone else thought so, too.
That wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. Not enough to hold her, or him.
The singing finally ended; the ladies rose-all noting Dillon’s presence, all alert and intrigued. And approving; she saw that in one glance. There was not one person in the entire room who would support her in avoiding him.
No point taking him to task-not there-and she couldn’t dismiss him, either, not unless he chose to be dismissed.
She treated him with unreserved iciness; he saw, smiled, and refused to react. Appropriating her hand, then gathering Adelaide, he led them to Eugenia, remained chatting politely, then escorted them downstairs, joined them in the carriage-where he and Eugenia discussed the Egyptian treasures-and ultimately saw the three of them into Flick’s house.
Eugenia and Adelaide thanked him for his escort, bade him good night, and started up the stairs.
Pris watched them go, waited until they were out of sight before turning, grimly determined, to face him.
“I’m off to the club to roust your brother.” He smiled at her. “I’ll make sure he gets safely home.”
That smile was the one she didn’t trust-the one that reminded her of a hunting cat. And his gaze was serious, direct, and far too intent for her peace of mind. She drew herself up, clasped her hands before her, drew in a breath-
His lashes lowered; he tweaked his cuffs. “What room has Flick given you-the one at the end of the wing?”
She blinked, effectively distracted. “Yes…how did you know?”
Dillon raised his brows. “A lucky guess.”
A predictable guess. When he’d reached Horatia’s house, there’d been a packet waiting, addressed to him in Flick’s neat hand. It had contained a key-one he’d looked at, puzzled; he’d had a key to Flick’s front door for years. Seeing his confusion, Horatia had informed him that Flick had left the key to make amends for whisking the Dalloways to London; she’d believed it would prove useful.
The truth had dawned. The key was to Flick’s side door-the one beside the stairs at the end of the wing.
He’d been shocked, especially when Horatia had seen his comprehension and smiled. They were shameless, the lot of them, but…
It was his turn to smile shamelessly-at Pris. “I’ll see you later.”
With a nod, he turned to the front door.
“What…? Wait!”
Glancing around, confirming they were alone, Pris started after him, reaching to catch his sleeve. “What do you mean-later?”
