“There you are.”
A bright, brittle female voice.
Dillon turned and smiled—a carefully calculated smile that was warm enough to be courteous but not warm enough to be mistaken for an invitation. He’d learned that much before he left the school.
Either the light wasn’t sufficient or Lady Carron didn’t choose to acknowledge the meaning of the smile. She walked toward him in a way that should have made his body hum, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He kept his teeth clenched to stop her from giving him an open-mouthed, tongue-tangling kiss.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, pouting.
“Nothing’s the matter,” he replied.
“Then why are you being like that?”
“Like what?” Dillon tried to disengage, but her arms tightened around his neck, pushing her body more firmly against his. “Lady Carron, this isn’t appropriate.”
“I heard that you’re not a stickler for what’s appropriate. That you enjoy a good ride. Plenty of enthusiasm, if lacking the experience to be really good in bed. That’s what I heard.”
His stomach rolled. “You’re mistaken.”
Her smile had a knife-edge. “That’s not what my good friend Blyte told me. I know all about you, Lord Dillon.” She rubbed against him. “And if you don’t want everyone to know what Blyte told me about you, you’re going to be very nice—and very accommodating—to me.”
He went hot, then cold. Wasn’t it enough that Blyte’s betrayal had smeared his honor and caused a rift between him and his family? If Carron told other aristos whatever Blyte had said about him, he would never be granted an audience with a Queen’s Steward, would never be allowed to serve in a court, because a Queen wouldn’t consider an escort with a stained reputation, not when there were so many unsullied young men for her to choose from.
He had to do something—fast.
“Not here,” he said. “Not tonight.”
“Make it soon.”
He heard the threat behind the words.
Well, he would do something soon. Immediately, in fact.
Burning with a corrosive, careless anger, Dillon walked out of the nook, one hand mussing his russet hair in what looked like some attempt to tame it, while his other hand ran down the front of his evening jacket. His green eyes scanned the edges of the ballroom until he spotted Lord Foley, the acquaintance who might have become a friend. Folly, as he was sometimes called by those who insisted they had sharp wit, loved gossip and couldn’t keep a secret to save his life—something everyone in the aristo social circles knew about the young man. And that made Folly the perfect choice.
Dillon rushed up to Folly and pulled him aside. Not too far, not out of earshot of a sharp-eyed Warlord who looked at Dillon, then looked toward the nook where Carron had disappeared.
“Folly, you won’t believe this, but I’m going to handfast with Lady Carron!” Dillon kept his voice low, conspiratorial, but just loud enough for the other Warlord to also hear what he had to say.
“What?” Folly yelped. “You’re what?”
“I know! We’ve barely known each other a week, but she said she needs me to be her lover. So we’re going to handfast so that I can be her husband for a year. And she’ll be my wife. Isn’t that wonderful? But you can’t say anything yet, because she just asked me and I still need to place the notice into the weekly paper that prints these announcements.”
“B-but . . . ,” Folly stammered. “I heard Lady Carron’s father was negotiating a marriage contract with a Warlord from another aristo family.”
Bitterness welled up in Dillon. His eyes glittered. “Maybe she’s already tried horizontal dancing with the man and decided he wasn’t up to her standards since he was willing to oblige her before the contracts were signed.”
A flash of anger nearby told him his verbal knife had found its mark, and he wondered whether Lady Carron—had anyone else noticed her name sounded so much like “carrion”?—would have to find another potential husband or if the marriage contract currently on the table would become much more expensive.
“I have to go.” Dillon clapped a hand on Folly’s shoulder. “I want to write to my parents and send the news by special messenger first thing in the morning.” He raised his hand and held up a finger. “Remember. Not a word to anyone yet.”
Dillon moved swiftly, hoping the Warlord who might have been the intended husband didn’t follow him. He’d had some basic training in how to fight and defend—every escort knew that much—but he didn’t want to find himself cornered by a man who had more training and skill.
No one followed him. He slipped away and was heading back to his hotel room before Folly shook off the shock enough to start spreading the news—in confidence.
The summons from Lady Carron’s father arrived before breakfast, but the meeting was set for midmorning, a time carefully calculated. The balance of urgency and courtesy made Dillon wonder what Carron’s father had said to her last night—or what her intended husband had said to her father. Was a marriage still being negotiated? If her father offered him a contract to handfast with Carron . . .
Did he really want to spend a year of his life with her? No, he didn’t. Any girl who could be friends with Blyte would be a torment for him.
Nothing was said at first when Dillon was shown into the man’s study, but he knew the Warlord took in Dillon’s Opal Jewel, weighing that power against his own Summer-sky and making some adjustments in how this meeting would go.
“There was a misunderstanding last night,” the Warlord said, watching Dillon.
“Sir?” he replied politely.
“My daughter couldn’t have offered you a handfast. The man she’s chosen to be her husband and I have been negotiating the marriage contracts for the past two weeks, so she wouldn’t have offered you a handfast.”
“But . . .” Dillon looked painfully confused—an expression he’d practiced for an hour last night in anticipation of this meeting. “She asked me to have sex with her. Insisted that I oblige her.”
The Warlord’s face flushed. “Yes. Well. A young woman who has gone through her Virgin Night has . . . needs, and there is nothing wrong with her enjoying a lover.”
“You are, of course, correct, sir,” Dillon said. “But a young man doesn’t have the same freedom, and a young man who obliges before a formal contract is signed can be . . . misunderstood. That’s why, when Lady Carron insisted that I provide her with sex, I confirmed that she was asking me to enter into a formal contract, because I know she wouldn’t want a man to do anything dishonorable. After all, if she thought it was all right to use a man that way, then that would be like giving other girls permission to pressure her brother into providing them with sex. Wouldn’t it, sir?”
The older man’s face turned white and his eyes filled with fear at the mention of that potential danger to his son’s reputation.
Seeing that, Dillon thought that maybe, in time, he could forgive his father for caring more about his brothers’ reputations than about him.
“My daughter deeply regrets giving you the wrong impression.”
I’m sure of that, Dillon thought.
“I’m told you’ve recently come to town.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Warlord called in a thick envelope and held it out. “You’re a handsome young man, Lord Dillon, and temptation is easier to resist when a girl doesn’t see it every day. I’m hoping you will oblige me by . . . relocating. This should cover your expenses and be some compensation for the inconvenience my daughter caused.”