Her dancing eyes assured Pris the compliment was genuine.
“I wonder…” Turning her blue eyes on Eugenia, and Adelaide standing quietly beside her, then glancing again at Pris, Mrs. Cynster raised her brows. “I would love to introduce you to local society-I understand you’ve recently come to stay at the Carisbrook house, but it will never do to hide yourselves away. Besides, although it’s never the first topic of conversation with the local ladies, many of us know a great deal about horse racing.” She looked at Eugenia. “You will certainly be able to learn more.”
A smiling glance included Pris and Adelaide. “I’m hosting a tea this afternoon. I’d be delighted if you could attend. I’m sure some of us would be able to learn more details for you from our husbands if we knew what most interested you. Do say you’ll come.”
Eugenia looked at Pris. She had only a heartbeat in which to decide; smiling, she nodded fractionally.
Eugenia returned her attention to Mrs. Cynster. “We would be honored to accept, my dear. I must say, all research and no play is rather wearying.”
“Excellent!” Beaming, Mrs. Cynster gave them directions, confirming she was indeed the chatelaine of the Cynster racing stud.
Which meant her husband would most likely know what details had to be supplied to enter a horse in the Breeding Register.
Pris’s smile was quite genuine; anticipation rose, hope welled.
Mrs. Cynster took her leave of them, then summoned her daughter. “Come, Prue.”
Pris glanced at the young girl, an easy smile on her lips.
And met a pair of blue eyes-not the same as her mother’s but harder and sharper; the expression on the girl’s face was one of delighted expectation.
Pris blinked; Prue only smiled even more, turned, and followed her mother away between the bookcases. Pris caught the final, delighted glance Prue threw her before the shelves cut her off from sight. “Well!” Eugenia straightened her shawl, then turned to leave, too. “The social avenue sounds a great deal more promising than these books. Such a lucky meeting.”
Following Eugenia and Adelaide, Pris murmured her agreement, her mind elsewhere. Why had Prudence Cynster looked so expectant?
Pris had younger sisters, had been at that stage herself not so long ago. She could remember what topics most excited girls of that age.
Stepping out into the sunshine in Eugenia and Adelaide’s wake, she decided that, while attending Mrs. Cynster’s afternoon tea was the obvious way forward, a degree of caution might be wise.
5
Four hours later, Pris was reasonably satisfied with her entrance into Newmarket society. She’d adopted a “severe bluestocking” persona; garbed in a simple gown of gray-and-white-striped twill with her hair restrained in a tight chignon, she worked to project a quiet if not studious appearance.
The Cynster gathering had proved larger than she’d expected; a host of young ladies and a surprising number of eligible gentlemen strolled the lawn beside the house under the watchful eyes of a gaggle of matrons and older ladies, seated comfortably beneath the encircling trees.
“Thank you, Lady Kershaw.” Pris bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.” With a light smile, she parted from the haughty matron.
Invitations to dinners and parties were an inevitable consequence of attending such an event, but having discovered most here had some connection to the racing industry, she was at one with Eugenia in accepting what ever invitations came their way. Who knew from whom they might learn the crucial fact? Until they found it, they would press forward on every front. She and Eugenia were earls’ daughters, and Adelaide had moved all her life in similar circles; dealing with Newmarket society posed no great challenge.
Once the introductions had been made they’d gone their separate ways. Adelaide had joined the younger young ladies; charged with seeing if she could discover any word of derelict stables or the like from her peers, she was happily applying herself to the task.
Eugenia, meanwhile, was pursuing the register with duly eccentric zeal. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to talk solely of that; when Pris had last drifted past, Eugenia had been exchanging views on the latest London scandal.
Pausing by the side of the lawn, Pris scanned the guests. Her task had been to engage the not-quite-so-young ladies as well as the gentlemen, to see what she could learn. She’d steadfastly adhered to her role of bluestocking, responding to the usual sallies her beauty provoked with blank if not openly depressing stares. Her attire hadn’t helped as much as she’d hoped, but her attitude had carried the day. Her reputation was now going before her; the sallies were becoming less common, and more young ladies viewed her with interest rather than incipient jealousy.
That was rather refreshing; she was enjoying the greater freedom the role allowed her to interact with others on a plane beyond the superficial. She’d always found people interesting, but over the last eight and more years, her beauty had become a wall, prohibiting easy, unstilted discourse.
Now, however, completing her scan of the gathered multitude and confirming she’d chatted to them all, she felt her real self stir, felt the prick of rising impatience.
A movement within the drawing room caught her eye. The doors to the lawn stood open; with the bright sunlight streaming down, the interior was full of shadows. As she watched, one moved-with a predatory grace that set mental alarms ringing.
She’d remained on guard until she’d assured herself neither Caxton nor his friend Adair were lurking among the guests. Now, senses focused, watching the shadow resolve into the shape of a man, watching him stroll out onto the sunlit steps-seeing his dark locks and sinfully dark elegance revealed-she swore.
His gaze had already fixed on her.
Pris turned and rejoined a group of guests.
Dillon watched her merge with the crowd. He hesitated at the edge of the lawn, debating his best avenue of attack.
He’d spent the last three days thinking of little else but the lovely Miss Dalling, and while many of those thoughts had revolved about her potential role in any racing scam, some had been a great deal more private. While he understood, even agreed in principle with Demon’s suggestion that given the seriousness of the situation, the potential damage to the racing industry, then using more personal persuasions to gain her trust and learn all they needed was justified, he felt strangely reluctant to pursue her in that way…or, at least, for those reasons.
After their last meeting, he was not at all sure he wished to reengage with her personally at all.
He’d warned her off. Never before had he even thought of such a thing, yet with her he’d been moved to it, for one compelling reason. No other woman had ever tempted him as she had. She’d cut through his control effortlessly, as if it hadn’t been forged in the steamy hot house of ton affairs, tested by the most experienced and never before found wanting, and left him facing a side of himself he hadn’t, until that fraught moment in the wood, known he possessed.
No matter how he’d made it sound, his warning had been driven by self-preservation. His, not hers.
He’d always regarded himself as sensually aloof, passionate maybe yet always in control, never at the mercy of his appetites, never driven by a need that raked and clawed. She’d shown him he’d been wrong, that with the right female, the right temptation, he could be just as driven as others-as Demon, as Gerrard, as the other Cynster males he’d spent most of the last decade around.
That was not a comforting thought, especially as it seemed he needed to “persuade” her to tell him her secrets. Getting that close to her, tempting her, dallying as far as he needed to, was going to severely strain his until-now-vaunted control, already, with her, seriously weakened.