Two minutes was enough to assure her he had.

Adelaide, of course, beamed at Dillon, entirely content given she had Rus beside her. For his part, Rus had quickly realized that in this arena, he didn’t need to shield Adelaide, but she could, and would, shield him; he’d been quick to avail himself of her ser vices.

If Pris hadn’t had good reason to believe Rus’s interest, until now predictably fickle, was well on the way to becoming permanently engaged, she might have entertained some concern for Adelaide. As matters stood, the only one she was left feeling concerned about was herself. Astonishing though it was, even Rus and Adelaide seemed to believe that Dillon and she…

She would have to talk to Rus and explain the whole.

But before she could drag her brother aside, the damned musicians struck up. Rus turned to Adelaide, and with a certain glint in his eye, invited her to share a country dance with him.

Adelaide accepted, and with smiles they whisked off. Pris watched them go, a frown in her eyes. Her brother was…engrossed. Enthralled. Busy. Engaged in an enterprise she didn’t wish to interrupt, or disrupt.

She could, she was sure, regardless of how Dillon appeared to him, convince Rus that her best interests lay in avoiding him, but…did she really want to, just at this moment, focus her not-always-predictable twin on her less-than-happy state?

Dillon had remained beside her; she could feel his gaze on her face. He hadn’t asked her to dance, for which she was grateful. It was a Sir Roger de Coverly, involving lots of whirling in each other’s arms, and she knew beyond doubt that she’d be giddy-seriously giddy with her defenses in tatters-by the end of it. He would know that, too…she glanced suspiciously up at him.

He met her look blankly, and inclined his head down the room. “Your father’s over there.”

Her father? She couldn’t believe it, but had to find out. Regally accepting Dillon’s arm, she allowed him to steer her through the unrelenting crowd.

Lord Kentland turned from the gentlemen he’d been conversing with just as they came up. Seeing them, he beamed.

“Caxton!” He clasped Dillon’s hand, smiling delightedly as he shook it, then looked at Pris, his plea sure and pride in her-her appearance, her presence, everything about her-transparent.

Dillon hadn’t been sure how the earl would choose to play this scene. After a moment, Kentland glanced at him, a direct and challenging gleam in his eye. “Glad you’re here, my boy. Now you can watch over her.” He glanced around at the crowd, at the rakes, roués, and assorted wolves of the ton dotted among the ranks, all of whom had noticed Pris, then looked back at Dillon. “I’ve gray hairs enough.”

Dillon let his lips curve, but it wasn’t in a smile. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Kentland clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you will.”

He looked at his daughter; Dillon didn’t need to glance her way to know she was staring, all but openmouthed, incredulous and disbelieving, at her father. Stunned by his defection, or so she would view it.

Kentland, however, was made of stern stuff. Ignoring the incipient ire, and the Et tu, Brute? accusation flaring in her eyes, he smiled and nodded at her. “I’ll see you later. Enjoy your evening, my dear.” He looked up, and signaled to an acquaintance. “Yes, Horace, I’m coming.”

With a nod and a bow, the earl headed for the card room.

Dillon watched him go. From beside him came silence. Complete and utter silence.

As Pris no doubt now suspected, he’d had a busy day. After driving down from Newmarket, he’d left his bags and his horses in Berkeley Square, in Highthorpe’s, Horatia’s butler’s, care, and had gone posthaste to Half Moon Street. As he’d devoutly hoped, the ladies had been out at some luncheon, but Lord Kentland and his heir had been in. It was the earl with whom Dillon had requested an interview.

Adhering to the principle that the truth would serve him best, he’d given his lordship as much of it as was wise. While he hadn’t stated in so many words how close he and Pris had grown, the earl was man of the world enough to fill in the gaps-and as had quickly become clear, his lordship was well acquainted with his daughter’s character, with her wild, willful, and passionate ways.

That to the earl it was a relief to be able to hand his daughter into the care of someone who actually understood her had slowly dawned; by the time he’d left the study in which their discussion had taken place, Dillon had understood that the earl was counting on him to succeed in overcoming any and all resistance, to one way or another sweep his twenty-four-year-old headstrong daughter off her feet. The earl fully comprehended that his path to success might involve meetings of a nature of which society would not normally approve; assured of Dillon’s commitment and intent, his lordship had dismissed such risks as necessary to the cause.

Paternal approval and more, outright encouragement, were his.

He’d had his card taken up to Rus, who’d come quickly down to join him. The earl had passed them in the front hall. While his lordship headed to White’s, Rus had been eager to visit Boodle’s, of which Dillon was a member. Along the way, Dillon had explained the situation between himself and Pris, much as he had with their father. Even more forthrightly than his sire, Rus had accepted Dillon’s proposed suit for his sister’s hand and pledged his aid.

It was only later, when he’d been dressing for the evening, that Dillon had realized that Rus’s encouragement meant rather more than the norm. Rus and Pris shared that special link twins possessed, and Rus had been convinced, even before Dillon had spoken, that Pris belonged with him.

He’d set out to find her more confident of success than when he’d driven into town. The first necessary elements of his strategy were in place.

When laying siege, the first requirement was to cut off all escape.

Glancing down at Pris, he wasn’t surprised to discover a seriously black frown on her face; she slowly turned and aimed it at him, emerald gaze sharpening to twin arrow points as she narrowed her eyes.

A fraught moment passed, then with awful calm, she stated, “If you’ll excuse me?”

Glacial ice encased the words; with a distant nod, she turned away.

He reached out and shackled her wrist. Met the green fire of her furious glance as she swung back to face him, ready to annihilate him. “Where to?”

Lips thin, she drew in a breath, breasts rising ominously beneath the abbreviated bodice of her aqua silk gown. “To the withdrawing room.” She breathed the words on a rising current of seething anger.

It was the one place he couldn’t follow her.

Pointedly, she glanced down at his fingers, locked about her wrist. He uncurled them, released her.

Without another glance at him, she swished her skirts around and glided, with quite lethal grace, to the nearest door.

Dillon stood and watched her. As she passed out of the ballroom, his lips slowly curved-this time, in a smile.


Pris had no need to use the withdrawing room’s amenities, nor had she any torn flounce or trailing lace to pin up. There were a number of mirrors propped about the room; she stood before one, pretending to readjust the curls tumbling in artful disarray from the knot on the top of her head.

Pausing, she looked at her reflection-looked dispassionately, and considered what others saw. A lady of medium height, her features dramatic and arresting, her black hair gleaming, her full lips rosy red, her slender but distinctly curvaceous figure encased in aqua silk, the coruscating hues created with every movement reminiscent of the shifting sea.

Pulling a face at the sight, at her bosom mounding above the low-cut, tightly fitting bodice, she wished that, on coming to London, she’d thought to resurrect her bluestocking look. That might at least have spared her the most deadening aspect of her emergence into the ton’s ballrooms-the relegation to superficial young miss, to being nothing more than a face and a body in gentlemen’s eyes.

They certainly looked, but they didn’t see.

They looked at her face and saw only her perfect features. They looked at her figure and saw only her sumptuous breasts, the evocative and graceful lines of her hips and thighs, her long legs.

They didn’t see her. Not as Dillon saw her…

For a long moment she stared at the mirror, then, lips tightening, she turned away. She was not going to weaken in this; she wouldn’t alter her stance, not even for him. If she couldn’t find it in her to harden her heart against him, then she’d simply have to harden her head-and think faster and more quickly than he.

She caught a few glances from the other ladies, many of whom had entered after she had. She couldn’t hide here, and she was simply too noticeable to fade into the background, for instance in the card room.

An instant’s consideration warned that if she waited too long, Dillon would ask Adelaide to come and check on her. That would be embarrassing.

Resolutely she headed for the door. There had to be some other way.

The door closed behind her; pausing in the poorly lit corridor, she looked along it to where, twenty yards away, light and gaiety spilled through the ballroom doors giving onto the foyer at the head of the main stairs.

There was no one in sight. A situation that wouldn’t last long. She could hear ladies’ voices in the withdrawing room; soon, they’d step out and return to the ball.

She swung around. Beyond the withdrawing room the corridor was unlit. A little way along, it reached a corner, then turned down a wing.

Glancing back, she confirmed that she was still alone in the corridor. The sound of ladies approaching the door at her back decided her; lifting her skirts, she hurried away from the ballroom. The withdrawing room door opened, and a wash of chatter rolled out just as she slipped around the corner.