The door at her back had opened. Pris dragged in a breath, turned, and walked into the hall, lecturing her unruly senses to behave and subside.

She listened with half an ear to Adelaide’s bright chatter as together they climbed the stairs. As they gained the gallery, she murmured, “It’s Lady Hemmings’s musicale to night, isn’t it?”

“Yes! I’ve never been to such an event-Aunt Eugenia said there’s to be an Italian soprano, and a tenor, too. Apparently they’re all the rage.”

Pris smiled noncommittally; she parted from Adelaide at Adelaide’s door, then walked on to her own, at the end of the hallway.

An Italian soprano and a tenor; that didn’t sound like the sort of entertainment at which gentlemen of Dillon’s ilk would be found. Given the state of her treacherous heart, that was undoubtedly just as well.


Are you truly enjoying this caterwauling?”

Pris started, then turned; she only just managed to keep her jaw from dropping as Dillon sank into the chair beside hers, then struggled to arrange his long legs beneath the chair in the row in front. Flicking open her fan, she raised it, and hissed from behind it, “What are you doing here?”

His dark eyes slid sidelong to meet hers. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

When she raised her brows even higher, he nodded to the front of the room where the Italian soprano had launched into her next piece. “I couldn’t miss the chance to hear the latest sensation.”

“Shhhh!” The lady in front turned and scowled at them.

Pris shut her lips, held back her disbelieving snort. There were a total of five males present, aside from the tenor and the harried accompanist. Of those five, four were clearly fops. And then there was the gentleman beside her.

Not even Adelaide had been able to convince Rus that he should attend.

She glanced at Dillon, mouthed, “Where’s Rus?” She’d thought her brother was with him.

He pointed to the lady in front, and mouthed, “Later.”

She possessed her soul with very little patience until the soprano had ended her piece.

“He’s with Vane at the club,” Dillon answered without waiting for her to ask again. “He’s safe.”

He turned his head and smiled at her, and she wondered if she was.

She summoned a frown. “I thought gentlemen like you never attended”-she glanced at the buxom singer at the front of the room, shuffling sheets of music with the pianist-“‘caterwauling’ sessions such as this.”

“You’re right. We don’t. Except on certain defined occasions.”

She fixed her eyes on his face. “What occasions?”

“When we’re endeavoring to impress a lady with the depth of our devotion.”

She stared at him. After a moment, somewhat faintly asked, “You choose the middle of a recital to say something like that?” She had to fight to keep her tone from rising.

He smiled-that untrustworthy smile she was coming to recognize; catching her hand, he fleetingly raised it to his lips. “Of course.” He lowered his voice as the pianist rattled the keys. “Here, you can’t argue, nor can you run.”

The soprano gave voice again. Pris faced forward. He was right. Here, he could say what he wished, and she…in the face of his presence, it was very hard to argue.

Assuming she wished to argue. Or run.

Her head was suddenly whirling, and it had nothing to do with the musical contortions the soprano unerringly performed. She’d refused his offer, dictated by honor as it had been. He’d followed her to London, refusing to let her go. Now…

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?”