Every sense she possessed, every nerve, was still glowing in the aftermath.

She’d wanted, craved, excitement and thrills, and he’d given her that, and more.

He’d fulfilled her every illicit dream, did he but know it.

Her lips quirked. She was about to lift her head when his hand firmed over her hair, holding her momentarily in place.

“I’ll show you the register.”

It took an instant or three before she recalled what he was talking about.

A fact that spoke loudly of the rattled state of her brain and the sluggish operation of her wits. She rapidly flayed them to attention, tried to speak, and found she had to clear her throat. “I’ll call at the club tomorrow morning.”

“No.” He sighed; his hand slid from her hair. “That won’t work. I don’t show the register to anyone, and this week all the volumes are in use in the clerks’ room. If I fetch one to show you, even if no one actually sees you looking at it, it’s bound to cause comment.”

Lifting her head, she looked into his face. “Neither of us needs that.”

“No.” He met her eyes. “Tomorrow night there’s a party at Lady Helmsley’s-we’ll both be there. Helmsley Hall’s not far from the club. We can slip away, you can look at the register, then we’ll return to the party. There’s sure to be a crowd-no one will know.”

She looked into his dark eyes. “What about the guards you’ve set patrolling the club?”

“They won’t be surprised to see me. I can walk in, then let you in via the back door. They won’t see you.”

She studied his face, screamingly conscious of the hard body cradling hers, of the intimacy they’d shared and that still cocooned them. She moistened her lips. “Very well. Tomorrow night, then.”

Beyond her control, her gaze dropped to his lips. A moment passed, then she looked at his eyes, read in their steady gaze, in the sense of waiting that emanated from him, that his mind was following the same track as hers…that his inclination and hers were the same.

She’d already thrown her cap over the windmill; she no longer had anything to lose.

And having once supped from the cup of passion with him, she now knew precisely what she stood to gain.

She knew without asking, without him saying, that it was once again her choice.

Easing up, leaning on his chest, she drew his head to hers, drew his lips to hers.

And again called the wild and reckless man to share thrills and excitement with her.

9

Unlike the first time, he had taken charge.

The following evening, Pris stood by the side of Lady Helmsley’s drawing room surrounded by a coterie of admirers, and tried to stop her mind from dwelling on the latter events of the previous night.

A vain endeavor, given the poor competition from her attentive swains. Four gentlemen, along with Miss Cartwright and Miss Siddons, stood trading quips and nonsense; their inconsequential chatter couldn’t compete with her memories, with the images her mind now contained-of Dillon rising above her in the night, of him removing his remaining clothes, then hers, and showing her how much plea sure he could give her, to what degree he could make her body sing, to what rapturous heights he could take her on the way to that ultimate, soul-sating bliss.

Best of all had been those moments when she’d seen and known how much plea sure she gave him, how deeply she called to that wild and reckless man, how completely he enjoyed her, that joining with her satisfied him as thoroughly, as intensely and all-encompassingly as it did her.

The second act had been even more compelling, more fascinating, than the first.

In the end, they’d stirred, regathered their clothes, and dressed in the darkness, all shyness conspicuously lacking, then he’d driven her to the house. She’d been in her room, her candle out, when Eugenia and Adelaide had returned; she hadn’t wanted to talk of anything, hadn’t wanted to return to the world-all she’d wanted was to lie in her bed and dream.

“Will you be attending the race meet this week, Miss Dalling?”

She blinked, and summoned a smile for Lord Matlock, who’d been trying to impress her for the past half hour. “I suspect not, my lord. It’s a minor meeting. I doubt it will prove sufficiently interesting to tempt my aunt forth.”

“But what of you and the lovely Miss Blake?” Lord Matlock held her gaze appealingly. “Surely we can tempt you to join us? Cummings here will bring his sister, Lady Canterbury. We could make up a party.”

Too experienced to utter a bald no, Pris played the game and let them try to persuade her. Much of that involved making plans and arguing between themselves, giving her a chance to once again scan the room.

Lady Helmsley’s party was noticeably more select than Lady Kershaw’s event. Lord Cromarty wasn’t expected; Eugenia had inquired of Lord Helmsley when they’d arrived, citing the Irish connection to excuse her interest.

So Pris was safe for the evening, at least from that quarter.

Dillon had yet to appear; excitement thrummed through her as she surveyed the heads, impatient to see the register and learn what she could of Rus’s predicament-and also to see Dillon again, to again spend time alone with him.

Their interludes to date had been largely illicit-private meetings at night or in surroundings that freed them of social restraint. Perhaps that was why she felt such a thrill when she saw his dark head through the crowd.

Returning her gaze to Lord Matlock, she kept her attention fastened on him.

“My high-perch phaeton will do nicely as a viewing platform,” Matlock appealed to her. “What say you, Miss Dalling? Are you game?”

She lightly grimaced. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t see my aunt permitting it.” She softened the rejection with a smile. “If truth be told, Miss Blake and I are indifferent followers of the Turf.”

The gentlemen politely ribbed her, pointing out that no real lady truly followed the nags. Smiling, she returned their sallies, her gaze on them while her senses twitched and tugged her attention to Dillon, drawing steadily nearer.

And then he was there, bowing over her hand, claiming the position by her side. He bowed to Miss Cartwright and Miss Siddons, and nodded to the gentlemen. “Matlock. Hastings. Markham. Cummings.”

Immediately he became the focus of all attention. The young ladies, predictably, hung on his every word, but the gentlemen’s reactions were more revealing; in their eyes, Dillon, a few years older, with his aura of hardness, of experience, was an enigma, but one they admired.

Given the figure he cut in the austere black-and-white of evening dress, his dramatic handsomeness only more enhanced, Pris fully comprehended the admiration of both male and female. Visually speaking, he was a pattern card depicting all an aristocratic gentleman should be.

The other men were exceedingly polite, respectful as they asked his opinion of certain runners in the upcoming races.

“I say, is there any truth in the rumor that some race here a few weeks ago was…” Mr. Markham had spoken impulsively; belatedly realizing to whom he spoke, he glanced at the others, color rising in his cheeks. “Well,” he rather lamely concluded, “in some way suspect?”

Suspect? Pris looked at Dillon’s face; his polite, faintly aloof expression told her nothing.

“I really can’t comment at this point.” Summoning a distant smile, Dillon reached for Pris’s hand. “If you’ll excuse us, I’ve been dispatched to fetch Miss Dalling to meet Lady Amberfield.”

“Oh. Ah…yes, of course.” Lord Matlock bowed, as did the other gentlemen.

Once Pris had taken leave of them and the young ladies, Dillon led her into the crowd.

Lady Helmsley’s L-shaped drawing room was large, but the number of guests crammed into the space made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. He guided Pris through the throng, grateful that the crush limited people’s view of them. She was eye-catching, as always, despite the severe style of her figured silk gown. The color matched her eyes and was an excellent foil for her black hair, to night wound high at the back of her head; the style should have looked austere, but instead evoked fantasies of the mass unraveling. The silk clung lovingly to her figure, the heart-shaped neckline displaying her breasts and the deep cleft between as well as the seductively vulnerable line of her exposed nape.

Again, she’d done her best to mute the effect with a heavily fringed, jade-and-black-patterned silk shawl; again, it hadn’t worked.

His eyes feasting, he wondered at his sudden susceptibility to such heretofore undistracting feminine charms. Cynically resigned, he steered her to the end of the shorter arm of the room.

She glanced around. “Who’s Lady Amberfield?”

“A local gorgon.”

Pris frowned. “Why does she want to meet me?”

“She doesn’t.” Tacking through the last of the crowd, he halted her before a minor door in the end wall.

She considered the door. “Ah. I see.”

He opened it; without a word, she slipped through, into a long, unlit corridor. Glancing briefly at the guests-all otherwise engaged-he followed, closing the door on the noise.

Through the dimness, he met her eyes. “I don’t think anyone saw us leave. Are you willing to risk disappearing for an hour or so?”

She raised her brows. “To see the register? Of course.”

He stared at her for a moment, then waved her on. “We can cut through the gardens. It’s not far to the back of the club.”

He was familiar with the house and gardens; once outside, they walked briskly through the shrubbery, through a door in the garden wall, out onto a stretch of cleared land, screened from the High Street by the backs of other properties and a line of trees; across the open stretch lay the wood at the back of the Jockey Club.