Showed her, as the wind raged overhead but left them untouched, cocooned in the long grass, protected by the shrubbery, to what depths passion could descend, to what heights it could reach-to what bliss it could lead.

Clothes…he shed them, his, and hers, until she lay naked beneath him, until their bodies met, brushed, touched, and caressed without restriction. His hands, his mouth, his lips and tongue played upon her beauty, possessed her, claimed her anew. She was his, became his in even more wondrous ways as about them the night deepened and cooled, while in the drifting, shifting shadows of the grassed court they burned with incandescent fire.

With heat, with longing, with a bone-deep raging need.

She cried out as with lips and tongue he sent her reeling over the edge, over the precipice of sensual abandon into the abyss of exploded sensation. Cried again as he drove her further, sobbed as he spread her thighs and settled between, gasped when he lifted her long legs, wound them about his hips, then drove into her.

Again, and again.

Pris writhed beneath him, clutched tight and sobbed, let her body beg and caress and drive him on. Drive him to take more, to seize and possess to the limit of his nature, to the depths of his passionate soul, to give all she wanted, to surrender and be hers-to be all she needed in this, their last moment out of time.

Reaching beneath her, he tipped her hips to his, and thrust deeper, harder, more brutally explicit as he claimed her, exactly as she wanted, exactly as she wished.

She arched, desperate to match the undulations of her body to the plundering rhythm of his, to appease and be fulfilled, to gather all that was her due, and reach her sensual limit, too.

To find where that was, and go beyond, with him.

He bent his head and his lips found the furled peak of her breast. The wind caught her scream and whipped it away, greedily gathered every sob and moan, every sound of her surrender, and hoarded them. Gloated over them as beneath him, breathless with ecstasy, she shattered again, but he still wasn’t content, wasn’t finished with her.

Wasn’t yet ready to cede and be vanquished.

But it was his turn now.

His turn as he rose above her in the dark night, a primal figure, some primitive god, arms braced, holding himself above her, looking down on her, passion deeply etched in the hard lines of his face as he watched her body rise to each powerful thrust, as with total abandon she took him deep within her, as he lost himself in her.

She couldn’t see his eyes, but could feel their fire, knew when he closed them, knew when the power caught him, when it whirled through her, through him, and without mercy fused them.

Under that sensual, physical assault she shattered anew; this time, with a guttural groan, he went with her. Joined with her as their bodies danced, as their senses spun and coalesced, as their hearts thundered, attuned, their souls aware, in concert.

They simply let go, both of them. Even though they were blind, as one, they simply knew-simply reveled in the wild winds that buffeted them, in the unremittingly untamed release that swept through them, that caught them, buoyed them, lifted them free of passion’s fire, propelled them high.

Then let them fall.

Let them feel.

Every heartbeat as they fell back to earth.

Back to the sharp scent of crushed grass, to the mingled musky scents of their sated bodies, to the softness, the hardness, the warmth, and the wetness. The heat that still held them, cradled them, soothed them. The night that enveloped them in comforting dark as their lips met, and held.

And the moment lingered.

Caught at the cusp between reality and the ephemeral.

Filled with the indescribable joy of being one.

As one.

Him and her. Wild, reckless, and true.


Dillon’s head was still spinning when, hours later, he swung up onto Solomon’s back and turned the black gelding for Hillgate End.

She’d blindsided him. Again.

She’d wanted and needed with a passion as dark and as turbulent as his own; he hadn’t been able to deny her-hadn’t even been able to slow her down enough to learn what he’d gone there to discover-what she was thinking.

God knew, when she was like that, thinking was the last thing on either of their minds. He wasn’t even sure his brain was functioning properly now.

Him, them, their future-her thoughts on those points were what he’d intended to probe. Preferably subtly, but if that hadn’t worked, he’d been prepared to simply ask-to say the words, no matter how vulnerable that left him. He had to know.

Then again…eyes narrowing he stared sightlessly into the night, and wondered if, perhaps, she’d already told him. Perhaps, like him, she found words inadequate. They were, after all, very alike.

Whether it was that similarity that made him so sure she was the one, or what followed from that, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that she understood him, the real him, better than anyone else ever had. Anyone. Not his mother, not his father, not even Flick understood him as she did. Because she was largely the same.

Because the demons she possessed-the wild and reckless passions inside her-were of the same type, the same caliber.

Her comprehension not just allowed but encouraged him to be…all that he could be. To not hold back, not suppress his passions and keep them in check, their exercise a danger to be guarded against, but to allow them free rein, to let them flow and give him strength and insight, trusting that he, the rest of him, was strong enough, sane enough to guide and harness them.

With her, he was one. One being, one whole person. When she was with him, he was so completely himself, such an integrated whole-no reservations, no part of him guarded and held back-it sometimes came as a shock. She gave him a strength that without her he couldn’t wield-his own nature.

And while he needed and wanted her, if to night was any guide, she needed and wanted him, too. Perhaps all they had to do was to take the next step? To trust enough in what was already between them and go forward?

The clop of Solomon’s hooves as they reached the road brought him back to his surroundings. The gelding headed down the last stretch to the manor, to the warmth of his stall. Dillon thought of his bed, cold and empty, and grimaced. The conclusion was clear enough.

What he should do was, therefore, clear enough. As for the when…

Flick always threw a major ball for all the luminaries of the sport of kings who were in Newmarket for the week. As usual, her ball would be held tomorrow night, after the last day of the meeting, and, of course, Lady Fowles and her house hold would be present.

With Rus rescued and restored, with the substitution scam unraveled and no more, tomorrow night seemed tailor-made for his purpose.

Turning Solomon in at the gates of Hillgate End, Dillon made a firm vow. Tomorrow night, he’d ask Pris to marry him.


Everybody at Flick’s ball seemed intent on plea sure, on enjoying the moment knowing all was right in their world. Pris couldn’t share their enthusiasm. To her, the end seemed nigh, looming nearer with every passing minute.

But she hadn’t forgotten her manners. Smiling delightedly, she followed Eugenia into the ballroom built out from one side of the Cynsters’ house, and gaily greeted Demon and Flick.

Flick pressed her hand, then surveyed her guests-a glittering crowd that would have done credit to any tonnish London ballroom. “I know Dillon’s here somewhere, but I’d advise you to avoid as many of the racing fraternity as you can. They become a trifle tedious when discussing their obsession.”

Pris laughed. “I’ll bear that in mind.” She moved on in Eugenia’s wake, with Rus and Adelaide behind her.

They’d spent the afternoon making plans. They’d told her father they would spend time in London; now Rus was free and his immediate future settled, Eugenia had declared that to London they should go, even if for only a few weeks. The autumn session of Parliament was under way, and the so-called Little Season, the social round occasioned by the return to London of many of the ton, likewise in full swing. A few weeks in London would give them plenty to report, and many would see them.

Rus had surprised them by insisting he would accompany them. He’d been adamant, certain Demon and Flick would agree that his place was with them during their stay in the capital; his new job could wait. As Demon had dropped by to have a word with Rus and had unequivocally agreed, Rus was now a part of their London jaunt.

Pris didn’t know whether to be relieved or perturbed. Having Rus about would keep Eugenia’s and Adelaide’s attention from her, but there was little she could do to hide her less-than-joyous state from her twin.

And as she most definitely could not explain why she felt as she did-as if an enthralling challenge that had fulfilled her in ways she’d never imagined could be was over-then having Rus watching her, concerned, was yet another cross to bear. Especially when he was so happy himself.

She hated putting a damper on his spirits, yet come tomorrow, she had a strong suspicion she was going to feel as if she were in mourning.

For to night, however, she was determined to keep her smile bright, to seize as much of Dillon’s company as she might, although doubtless he’d be a focus of interest for the many notables from the racing world attending. What ever time he could give her, she’d take, and be glad. It would be the last time she would see him; they’d decided to leave for London in the morning, and his duties at the ball would surely claim him until the small hours.

Somewhere, sometime to night, she would have to find a moment in which to say good-bye.