He’d spun around and now stared at her, an absolutely stunned, totally incredulous look on his face.

She stared back for an instant, drinking in her last sight of his dramatic male beauty, then hauled in a quick breath. “I hope you have a fulfilling life.”

Without me.

His expression changed; she didn’t wait to see to what. Opening the door, she rushed out; shutting it behind her, she picked up her skirts and ran toward the ballroom.

Behind her, she heard a bellow, then he opened the door-called “Pris! Damn it-come back!”-but then she turned a corner, and heard no more.

In the doorway to the parlor, Dillon stared down the corridor, but she didn’t reappear. For a long moment, he just stood there. It was the-what? third time?-she’d left him feeling like she’d taken a plank to his head.

Turning back into the room, he shut the door. Frowning, he crossed to the well-padded sofa and slumped down on it. And tried to sort out his feelings.

That she didn’t want him feeling forced to marry her was all well and good, but that she’d never at any time thought of marrying him…

He wasn’t sure what to do with that-couldn’t see how it fitted with what he’d thought was going on, with what he’d thought had grown between them. Until she’d said that, he would have sworn that she was…as emotionally enmeshed with him as he was with her.

Yet when he’d tried to correct her view that marriage hadn’t been any part of their arrangement, she’d been adamant. Clearly, it hadn’t been in her mind, even if it had, from the first, been in his. And she’d just as clearly been planning to bid him a fond farewell-affectionate, perhaps, but she’d made it clear her heart wasn’t involved. Hadn’t been touched.

Unlike his.

He was suddenly very aware of that organ constricting. Leaning his head against the sofa back, he looked up at the ceiling, and swore.

And heard a rustle behind him, and a familiar little “Humph!”

Swinging around, up on one knee, he peered over the back of the sofa. And goggled. “Prue!”

She looked up at him; not one whit discomposed, she wrinkled her nose, and got to her feet.

“What the devil are you doing there?”

Calmly smoothing down her robe, she cinched it tight. “My bedchamber is above the ballroom. Mama and Papa said if it got too loud, I could come down here and read or sleep.”

Sinking back onto the sofa, Dillon realized all the lamps had been lit.

“I was reading.” A book in her hand, Prue climbed into one of the armchairs by the fire. “Then I heard someone coming, so I hid.”

Rapidly reviewing all she must have heard, Dillon narrowed his eyes at her. “You hid so you could eavesdrop.”

She looked superior. “I thought it might be instructive.” Her blue eyes-bluer than her father’s, sharper than her mother’s-fixed on his face. “It was. That will probably be the poorest attempt at a proposal I’ll ever hear.” She frowned. “At least, I hope it will be.”

He spoke through his teeth in his most menacing voice, “You will forget everything you heard.”

She sniffed. “All that gammon about you offering for her hand because you’d found out she was an earl’s daughter. I can’t see what else you expected. She was quite restrained, I thought, at least for her. She has a fabulous temper, hasn’t she?”

Dillon ground his teeth. He remembered the emotions lighting Pris’s eyes-temper, yes, but also something else, something that had bothered him, distracted him, and slowed him down. “That wasn’t why I proposed.”

The words had slipped out, a statement of fact, more to himself than anyone else. Realizing he’d spoken aloud, he glanced up and found Prue watching him, a pitying light in her eyes.

“It’s what she thinks that matters, and she thinks you offered because you feel obliged to. She asked why, and you let her think that, more fool you.”

“It wasn’t only that.”

“No, indeed. One minute you’re roaring at her-you did realize you were roaring, didn’t you? Then you don’t ask, but tell her-order her-to marry you. Huh! In her shoes, I would have sent you to the right about, too.”

Dillon stared at Prue, at her direct, scathingly unimpressed expression, for a full minute, then, jaw setting, he hauled himself to his feet and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Hand on the door knob, he looked back to see Prue opening her book. She looked at him inquiringly. He met her gaze, and smiled dangerously. “I’m going to find her, drag her off somewhere where there will be no one listening, and explain the truth to her in simple language impossible to misconstrue.”

Hauling open the door, he went out and shut it with a definite click.

18

The following afternoon, a mix of frustration, exasperation, and uncertainty riding him, Dillon turned his blacks into the Carisbrook house drive, not at all sure what he would face when he finally ran Pris to earth, or what he would do when he did.

Last night he’d returned to the ballroom only to discover her nowhere in sight. He’d eventually found Humphries, Demon’s butler, and learned that Lord Kentland’s party had left some ten minutes before, Lady Priscilla having been taken unwell.

In his mind he’d heard one of Prue’s unimpressed snorts, but Pris running away had left him uneasy. If she’d been defiantly angry, she would have stayed and flirted with every gentleman willing to fall victim to her charms; there’d been enough of those present to have made her point.

Instead…if she’d pleaded illness and run, she must have been upset.

That was what had distracted him in the parlor-the hurt he’d glimpsed in her eyes. She distracted him in any case, but her being hurt in any way what ever was the ultimate in distraction. His mind seemed instantly to realign, to focus on finding what had upset her and eradicating it. Even if it was him.

According to Prue, Pris believed he’d offered for her only from a sense of moral obligation. Tooling his curricle on, he frowned. Regardless of her view of things, moral obligation did play a part-or would have if he hadn’t already intended to marry her.

He was what he was; honor was a part of his character, not something he could deny, could pretend didn’t matter. He might also be reckless and wild, but that didn’t preclude him behaving honorably. Nevertheless, in this instance, honor and moral obligation were entirely by the by; they weren’t why he wanted to marry her.

A long night of thinking-easy enough when tossing and turning alone in his bed-had forced him to concede that he’d made a mistake, a major one, in even for an instant allowing Pris to think that moral obligation had played any role what ever in prompting his proposal. In even for a heartbeat contemplating using that to hide his real reason.

He’d been a fool for all of ten seconds-far less than a minute-and look where it had landed him.

Prue, he was certain, would, with withering scorn, point out the implication.

Which was why he was looking for Pris, prepared and determined to make a clean breast of it regardless of his sensibilities. He’d tried to think of words, to rehearse useful phases; horrified by what his mind had suggested, he’d stopped, and given up.

Sufficient unto the moment the evil thereof, the words he might be forced to utter. Dwelling on them ahead of time wasn’t helpful.

Especially as, lurking around his heart, was a cold and murky cloud of uncertainty. What if he’d been wrong? What if, regardless of all he’d thought they’d shared, she truly viewed him as nothing more than her first fling? As her first lover only, not her last?

The cold cloud intensified; he pushed the thought away. The house neared; he checked his team, then guided them into the stable yard.

Patrick came out of the stable. He nodded and walked to where Dillon halted the curricle. “Morning, sir. If you’re looking for Lady Pris, I’m afraid you’re too late. They left after an early lunch.”

He managed to keep his expression impassive, to not let any of the shock he felt show. “I see.” After a blank moment, he had no choice but to ask, “Left for where?” Ireland?

“Why, up to London.” Moving to the restive horses’ heads, Patrick glanced at him. “I thought Mrs. Cynster would have told you.”

Dillon blinked. What did Flick have to do with this? “I…haven’t caught up with my cousin after the ball.”

But he would. She’d kissed his cheek and sent him off last night-and had said not a word about Pris and her family fleeing to the capital.

“Aye, well, they were going to stay at Grillons, but Mrs. Cynster said she was just itching for an excuse to go up to town.” Patrick was admiring the horses, stroking their long noses. “She invited the whole party-Lord Kentland, Lady Fowles, Miss Adelaide, Lady Priscilla, and Lord Russell-to stay at her house in town. In Half Moon Street, it is.”

Dillon nodded. He usually stayed there when he went to London.

Patrick nodded at the house. “I’m just seeing things packed up here, then I’ll be following. Lady Pris was keen to get off as soon as they could.”

Dillon met Patrick’s eyes, wondered how much he’d guessed. “I see.”

“Seemed a trifle under the weather, she did, but hell-bent on getting on the road and away.”

Dillon inwardly frowned. She was running, still. A question he hadn’t asked himself before swam into his mind. If she was running, she was upset. But why was she upset?

He could comprehend anger; she’d thought he’d thought she’d schemed to force him to offer for her, and was understandably incensed. She’d seen the notion as a slur on her integrity; although he hadn’t thought any such thing, he could appreciate her point. But what was behind her…he didn’t have the words to describe her emotions; he could sense them, but the turmoil inside her-pain, hurt, regret-what else?-it all came under the heading of “upset.”