What Price Love? Read online

  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…as his bride!

  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.

  And he’d gained her father’s and her twin’s approval—and Eugenia’s, and everyone else’s who mattered. The scales fell from her eyes with a resounding crash, and she suddenly saw it all.

  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?”

  He halted, and looked at her. “Later to night.”

  She frowned at him. “Later to night where?”

  His brows rose; his eyes smiled—laughed—down at her, but there was an intentness behind the expression that had been growing sharper with each hour that passed. “In your room. In your bed.”

  Shocked speechless, she simply stared at him. She finally managed to get her tongue to work. “No.”

  Lifting her hand from his sleeve, he kissed her fingertips and released them. “Yes.” Turning, he walked to the door; hand on the latch, he looked back. “And don’t bother to lock your door.”

  With a nod, he let himself out, leaving her staring at the closing door. When it snapped shut, she shook her head—shook her wits into place, shook her resistance back to life.

  “No.” She narrowed her eyes at the door. “No, no, no.”

  Swinging on her heel, she marched up the stairs and headed off to barricade her door.

  She was not going to allow him to “persuade” her into marriage.

  Standing to one side of the closed and definitely locked window in her bedchamber, Pris looked out at the dark night and wished he wasn’t so determinedly honorable, that he’d accepted her refusal, heaved a sigh of relief, and let her go. That would have been so much easier.

  Regardless, his determination was only making her even more adamant, even more sure of her mind, heart, and soul. It was love—wild, reckless, passionate, and unbounded—or nothing. Love was the only bond she would accept.

  It was the only one he should accept, too.

  They were who they were. One way or another, he was going to have to face that fact.

  She glanced at her door. It was closed; she’d tried to lock it only to discover that while it had a lock, the lock sported no key. She could hardly go and ask Flick for it, especially not at that hour, and even then, what excuse could she give?

  Looking out once again at the garden below, poorly lit by the waning moon, she drew the shawl she’d thrown over her nightgown tighter and wondered how long she might have to wait…wondered where he was. She’d heard Rus come in a little while ago. Had Dillon brought him home? Was he down there, cloaked in the shadows, shifting as the bushes threshed in the stiffening wind?

  A storm was rolling in, heavy clouds swelling, darkening the sky. The wind shrieked and rushed around the eaves. She smiled. She liked storms. She glanced down again. Did he?

  Pressing closer to the glass, she peered out and down.

  The footfall behind her was so soft, she almost missed hearing it.

  Whirling, disbelief swamped her when she saw Dillon prowling halfway across the room.

  He halted at the foot of the bed, shrugged out of his coat, tossed it onto a nearby chair, then calmly sat on the end of the bed, and glanced at her. “What are you doing over there? Did you imagine some Romeo and Juliet encounter?”

  Eyes narrowing, she folded her arms, and walked closer. “Far from it. I wasn’t going to open the window.”

  Dillon’s fleeting smile as he shrugged out of his waistcoat was quite genuine. Looking down, he reached for his boots. “How farsighted of Flick,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  Glancing up, he saw confusion and rapid calculation in Pris’s eyes. “Nothing.” Setting aside one boot, he reached for the other, but kept his gaze on her. He was closer to the door than she. Even though she didn’t glance that way, he sensed her tensing. “Trust me—you won’t make it.”

  She looked at him and glared. Then she threw her hands in the air and turned away. “This is ridiculous! I am not going to change my mind and marry you simply because you and society deem I should. This”—pacing before him, she gestured, including the bed behind him—“won’t work.”

  He lowered his second boot to the floor.

  She dragged in a breath. Folding her arms, eyes spitting green fire, she halted before him, her fine nightgown whispering about her legs. “Why don’t you just ask me again, and then I can refuse you, and then you can leave—”

  Pris swallowed a shriek as he grabbed her, as his hands clamped about her waist and he lifted her, tossed her—suddenly she was lying on her back in the middle of her bed, and he was leaning over her.

  “No.”

  She stared up into his shadowed face. She’d left a single candle burning on the nightstand, but it was screened by his shoulders, leaving his face unlit—mysteriously male, impossible to read. She frowned direfully up at him, valiantly ignoring her thudding heart, her already racing pulse. “No what?”

  His concentration shifted to the tiny buttons closing the front of her
nightgown. “No, I won’t ask you to marry me again—not yet. Not until you won’t refuse me.”

  The words were even, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing some business strategy as he steadily slipped buttons free. “And as for leaving you…” He’d unbuttoned the gown to her navel; raising a hand to her shoulder, he pushed the material aside, baring one breast. He studied it; his features set. “That’s not going to happen.”

  Bending his head, he took the furled nipple between his lips—and she forgot how to breathe. His tongue knowingly swirled, and she gasped and arched beneath him.

  Beneath his hard frame, her body came alive, responding to his nearness, to the wicked temptation he was, to the illicit desires he so consummately stirred.

  Her own wild desires; she knew that any second they would rise to his call—to his touch, his nearness—and sweep her senses away, leaving her wits struggling to cope, to control…something uncontrollable. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—let that happen.

  Lids at half-mast, she focused on him, and was caught. By the expression on his face as he drew her nightgown down to her waist, baring her other breast, then reverently caressed both ivory mounds with fingertips that burned. His gaze was pure flame; his intent concentration had only one name. Devotion. Selfless worship beyond question.

  Her voice shook, weak and breathless as she forced herself to plead, “Just ask me again.”

  His dark gaze flicked up to her eyes, then returned to his obsession. Sexually pleasing her, pleasuring her. “No.” After a moment, he added, as she gasped and closed her eyes, as she felt him draw her nightgown farther down until it pulled taut across her hips. “That wouldn’t be fair.”

  Fair? His hand splayed across her naked stomach, then pressed, and slid lower…

  “Fair to whom?” She forced open her lids, forced herself to look at him, but he wasn’t looking at her face. He was watching his hand as he slid it beneath the band her nightgown had formed, as his fingers reached for and found her curls, stroked, gently played, then pressed on.

  And found her, already swollen and wet for him, heated and welcoming as he stroked, lightly caressed, then he shifted his hand, boldly pressing her thighs wide, and slid one finger into her.

  Then and only then did he look at her face.

  He stroked, watching her, and evenly replied, “Fair to us. Me and you.” He reached farther; she shuddered and closed her eyes.

  Felt him lean nearer, felt his breath washing over one aching nipple. Then his lips touched, closed; he suckled, and she fought to swallow a scream.

  She gripped his upper arms tight, hung on as he feasted and fed her rioting senses. As he swept her and them away as she’d known he would. She longed to rail at him, to tell him he was wrong—that there was no “us,” no him and her—but he was right.

  There was.

  No matter how hard she fought to deny it, he knew, and so did she. Knew that in passion they were not just alike, but somehow linked. Bound.

  He drew her gown away, replaced it with his hands, his mouth, his passion. Stroked her with flame until she burned. Until desire and need ignited, then he pushed her on until she shattered beneath his hands, until the sun and stars claimed her.

  She lay on the rucked coverlet, panting; through half-closed eyes, she watched him as he traced sensual patterns on her flushed skin.

  “This…” He spread his hand and traced a wide swath over one breast, through the curve of her waist to the swell of her hip—and watched her body’s helpless response. “Is what fascinates me—what holds me, binds me. Bids me.” His lips quirked, wryly self-deprecating. “Even commands me.”

  She blinked.

  “Beauty”—turning his hand, he brushed the backs of his fingers across her stomach, and made her breath catch, made her nerves shiver—“is transient, and as we both know, it’s no guarantee of anything, now or tomorrow. But this—” Raising his hand, he brushed the underside of her breast, and her shiver became a reality. “Is a promise of incalculable worth.”

  His dark gaze rose to meet hers, and there was no veil to screen his meaning, no guile to blur it. This was how he felt—about her, about them. “It’s the woman in you I love—the goddess in you I worship. Not the outward trappings, but the female within. That’s who I join with, that’s who I want to link my life to, who I want to live it with.”

  He paused, then, still holding her gaze, he lowered his head and placed a burning kiss just below her navel. “That’s who I covet. Who I serve.” His breath washed heat over her skin, sent warmth sinking through her belly. “Who I need. That’s the woman who makes me complete.”

  His lips touched again, and she closed her eyes against the words that had struck to her heart, to her core; she closed her eyes tighter still against the swirling sensations as he traced a path lower, his mouth branding her sensitive skin. Then his lips whispered over her curls as he spread her thighs, and…

  “Oh, God—Dillon!” She had to swallow her shriek, had to remember not to scream. Helpless, she moaned instead as he covered her with his mouth, then with his tongue claimed.

  One fist to her lips, smothering her moans, she tangled her other hand in his hair, gripped tight, shamelessly clung as he drove her mindless. Beneath the heat and passion, beneath the lash of his intimate ministrations, she writhed and panted.

  Heat filled every pore, then overflowed. Passion took its place, burning and consuming every shred of resistance until she surrendered, until she became the goddess he knew her to be, and welcomed him into her temple, until she embraced all he gave, all the passion and desire he brought to her—and gave him hers.

  Far beyond sanity, her world shook; reality tilted and quaked. Then existence itself fragmented, and glory poured through, filling her, buoying her—and yet she was waiting, hovering, yearning.

  He left her; she felt empty and lost. She wanted to protest, but couldn’t form the words. She cracked open her lids instead, and was reassured.

  He was dispensing with his remaining clothes. A naked god, he rejoined her on the rumpled coverlet. Settling between her thighs, he lifted and wound her legs about his hips, caught her heavy-lidded gaze, then thrust smoothly, forcefully into her, and joined them.

  Filled her, and linked them.

  He lowered his head and found her lips with his. Within seconds, they were rocking deeply, journeying again, rapidly pacing through that achingly familiar landscape, clinging, then desperately striving as the storms of their merged passions raged, raked, and swept them both away.

  And the wildness was back, infusing, feeding and driving them, compelling them, whipping them on to ever greater heights, ever higher peaks, until passion itself ruptured, and there was nothing but blinding light, and a heat and fire that sank to the soul.

  To their souls, both, welding, fusing, binding them ever more tightly.

  In some higher plane of her mind, she saw it, wished she could deny it but knew she could not.

  Knew, as she drifted slowly back to earth, her hands gently stroking the long planes of his back, that this was the real truth.

  Him and her together. Us.

  She didn’t know what to do with that revelation. Didn’t know how, couldn’t immediately see how us, even now, could come to be. Not with any certainty. Not in the real world—the world beyond her bed, beyond the circle of his arms.

  How could she ever be sure? How could she know all that he’d shown her—even that—wasn’t simply his too-knowing persuasions?

  She’d woken some time ago, her mind sliding back to reality with a disconcerting thud. The room was dark, the candle long since guttered; the house remained shrouded in its nighttime silence, but the pall of darkness beyond her window had started to lighten.

  Dillon lay behind her, spooned around her, warm and strong and strangely reassuring.

  Also distracting. His arm lay over her waist; one leg was tangled with hers. The unaccustomed rasp of hair-dusted limbs against her soft skin constantly tweaked her sense
s.

  She needed to think—to assess and reassess—to remember all he’d said, all he’d revealed. All she’d come to see and understand.

  She needed to know where she stood, whether anything had changed. Whether, as he believed, there was some way forward for us, or whether, as she feared, it was all a sham.

  Carefully, she edged toward the side of the bed, easing out from under his arm. She was about to slip free when his hand and arm flexed, and he yanked her unceremoniously back against him.

  “Where are you going?”

  She managed to draw a breath. “I need to think.”

  He sighed, his breath stirring the curls over her nape. “You don’t. That’s our problem—you think too much.”

  He shifted, sliding his other arm under and around her, then one big warm palm slid from her shoulder along her side, and down to fondle her bottom. She sucked in a breath and tried to wriggle away, but he splayed his other hand over her stomach and held her in place.

  “If you really must think…” He shifted closer; she felt his erection against her bottom. His lips traced the curve of her ear, while his fingers caressed the soft flesh between her thighs. “Then think of this. Who are you running from? Me, or you?”

  She bit her lip against a moan, and closed her eyes. She knew exactly who she was running from—who her logical mind was trying to pretend didn’t exist. The woman within, the her she became in his arms. The her she became with him and him alone. The woman inside her he made her see, the wild, reckless, freely passionate female that was all and everything she could be.

  The her he connected with, and who loved him, so deeply now she knew her heart would shatter if he didn’t love her back. Didn’t love her with the same mindless passion, the selfsame commitment and devotion.

  He lured her forth, with shockingly explicit caresses made her flower for him, then he filled her, joined with her, and that wild hoyden gloried.

  Eyes closed, she wished she could close her mind, but she couldn’t. Couldn’t not see the truth, acknowledge it as it blazed within her.