of arrangements, questions, decisions, and yet more congratulations. As Dillon had predicted, Flick herded them straight to Horatia’s to spread the news.
Within half an hour, the Cynster ladies were gathering, all eager to assist in organizing the engagement ball Horatia had immediately claimed the right to host.
Dizzying mayhem ensued, principally feminine, although some of the men, like George, Horatia’s husband, looked in to congratulate them and shake Dillon’s hand-then glance around at the company, and quietly escape. Dillon, Rus, and Pris’s father all remained for some time, but once their agreement to the principal event had been elicited, they became largely redundant.
Pris wasn’t surprised when Dillon touched her shoulder, then murmured, “Your father, Rus, and I are going to my club. I have a business meeting this afternoon-I’ll join you for dinner.”
She smiled. “Yes, of course.” She squeezed his hand, let him kiss her fingers and go.
Squelching the errant thought that she would much rather be escaping with him, she turned back to the ladies and surrendered to the inevitable with good grace.
Their engagement ball was held four evenings later at Horatia’s house in Berkeley Square. A formal dinner preceded it, during which the announcement of their engagement and impending wedding was made to a glittering gathering of over fifty guests.
Pris gave thanks for the hours of training she’d endured at the hands of various governesses. “Just as well I
Beside her, Dillon snorted. “You’d have coped.” She felt his gaze briefly caress her bare shoulders. “That damn gown alone tips the scales your way-the ladies are almost as distracted as the gentlemen.”
As the extremely haughty Countess Lieven had just bestowed her exceedingly haughty approval, her gaze lingering on Pris’s stunningly designed gown, Pris hid a smile at his growl, and murmured back, “One has to make the most of the weapons one is born with.”
Lord Carnegie reached them at that moment, forcing Dillon to let that comment lie.
His lordship’s dazzled reaction only buoyed Pris’s confidence more. Her gown was one of the few details that the ladies had left entirely to her, judging, correctly, that they could safely leave sartorial matters in her already experienced hands. The creation that graced her person, in figured silk of her favorite shade of emerald green, was an exercise in simplicity and illusion. It didn’t just flatter her figure; while entirely decorous, the tightly fitted, low- cut bodice overlaid with gossamer silk of the same shade and print teased the imagination. The skirts were cut in the latest fashion, slender and sheathlike in front, gathered and spreading at the back.
With Dillon in black and crisp white beside her, they appeared the very epitome of a tonnish couple at their engagement ball.
She could barely wait for their first waltz, for the ball to get under way, to move on and ahead with their lives, but the receiving line stretched as far as she could see. Keeping her delighted smile in place, she shook hands, curtsied, and received the guests’ congratulations.
Somewhat to her surprise, many ladies with daughters in tow seemed quite sincere in their avowals.
“I’m so
Grasping a momentary hiatus as an old friend paused to chat with Horatia and George, Pris leaned closer to Dillon, and murmured, “Your father told me we’d pleased all the matchmakers by becoming engaged to each other.” She tipped her head at Lady Hendricks. “It seems he was right.”
“Apparently,” Dillon murmured back, “we’d attained the status of ‘too dangerous’-the ladies are delighted we’ve removed ourselves from the lists. With us gone, they hope to get their charges refocused on the main chance.”
Pris laughed and turned back to dazzle the Montagues.
The General had arrived the day before; she’d been touched when he’d spent most of the afternoon with her, both calming and distracting her with talk of Hillgate End, of Dillon’s mother, of his happiness that she would soon be there with Dillon. The simple family life he’d painted had not just appealed to her, but ensnared her; his gentle words had filled her with both expectation and longing, stirring her usual impetuous wildness to seize the moment and act.
She wanted to be there, at Hillgate End, its mistress, wanted, with Dillon, to grasp the life there and live it.
Impatience was building; she’d harnessed it, lecturing herself that this ball, and all the rest leading up to their wedding in a few weeks’ time, was the necessary prelude to that-to gaining all her heart desired.
As they chatted and welcomed and responded to congratulations, she reviewed her mental lists, her preparations for that life ahead, scanning for anything she’d missed or left undone. Any potential cloud that might dim their path, any potential hurdle that might get in their way.
One small item nagged. Barnaby had returned to London, apparently with no news of Mr. X. Amid all the distractions, she’d had no time to hear the whole story, only the conclusion; they’d reached a dead end in trying to identify their villain.
All the men seemed to have shrugged and accepted that what ever financial damage Mr. X had sustained would have to stand as sufficient retribution. She wasn’t so easily appeased, but from what little she’d heard, there was nothing more they could do. That seemed an unsatisfying end to their adventure; she made a mental note to dance with Barnaby and make him tell her the details of his search.
“Lady Cadogan.” Pris curtsied. “How delightful to see you.”
Dillon smiled and bowed over her ladyship’s hand. A twinkle in her eye, Lady Cadogan rapped his knuckles with her fan and advised him to keep his eye on his bride-to-be. He assured her he had every intention of doing so, then watched as her ladyship gathered her husband from the web of Pris’s loveliness and bore him away.
To Dillon’s relief, the stream of incoming guests eased, then the musicians struck up a brief prelude.
As he turned to Pris, took her hand, bowed, and led her to the steps leading down to the ballroom floor, he felt not the slightest tremor of nervousness or hesitation; what he felt was possessiveness and a driving need to have done with all the outward trappings, to have her wed, and his, at home in Newmarket.
It was she who hesitated at the top of the steps, he who, her hand in his, caught her eyes, her entire attention, and, holding it, led her down, out onto the floor as the guests fell back, led her into their engagement waltz.
She came into his arms light as air, a magical Irish maiden. As he drew her close, and the rest of the room dissolved in a whirl around them, he murmured, “You’ve captured me-you know that, don’t you? My heart, my soul, they’re yours forever.”
Emerald eyes, jewel-bright, smiled into his. “You’re the only man I see-that I’ve ever seen. I don’t know why that is, but it’s so.”
They said nothing more; anything else would have been redundant. They revolved around the ballroom, alone as far as they and their senses knew. Other couples joined them; others laughed and smiled. They remained oblivious, unaware.
Nothing beyond their cocoon could break the spell.
When the music ended, it took effort to wrench their minds from their private world and return to the mundane, to the hundreds waiting to chat and claim their company. They both did it because they had to, but just a glance, a touch of gazes, was enough to emphasize just how alike in that, too, they were.
Soon, their eyes said. A promise both were committed to keeping.
Turning aside, they let their well-wishers claim them. Eventually, they were forced to part.
Dillon accepted the necessity, but before leaving Pris’s side, he glanced up, and found her father waiting nearby to assume the duty of watching over her.
With a nod, he passed the baton to the earl, and allowed the crowd to come between him and Pris. The earl, the General, and Rus were all on hand, primed to ensure that what ever might happen, Pris remained safe, that regardless of any threat that might materialize, she would be neither a target nor able to involve herself in any willful, reckless way.
As for him…glancing around, he made his way to where Barnaby stood by the side of the room.
“Becoming inconspicuous was never so hard,” Dillon grumbled as he joined Barnaby. He looked over the sea of
