Then he stepped closer, the movement so practiced, so polished, it shrieked of his experience.
Her eyes had widened. She stared at him-incredulous-for one fraught instant, then she glanced right and left, and realized where they were. Out of sight, alone.
Her gaze whipped back to him. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
An irritated demand; there was not the slightest hint of panic in her tone.
Her recalcitrance acted like a spur. Bending his head, he leaned in. Raising one hand, he twined a finger in a lush, black curl that had slipped loose from her too-severe chignon and now bobbed by her ear.
The sensation of warm silk wrapping about his finger momentarily distracted him. Gently, he tugged his finger free, then realized she’d stopped breathing. He glanced at her eyes, caught her stunned stare, hesitated, then gently, languidly, with the pad of his finger traced the fine skin of her jaw.
For one instant, desire swirled in those fabulous emerald eyes; she fought to quell a shiver-he sensed the flare of response, watched her lids flutter half-closed.
Only a saint wouldn’t have shifted closer still, until their bodies were a scant inch apart, until he could feel the heat of her, the beckoning delight of her, all along his body. He was definitely no saint; he reveled in the sensation.
He whispered his next words over her cheek. “I thought perhaps, obsessed as you are with the details of the register, you might like to persuade me to your cause?”
Her lids flew up. The eyes that locked with his weren’t hazy with desire; it was temper, steel-bright, that flashed at him. “What happened to”-her voice altered; she couldn’t match his tone, but she succeeded with his inflection-“‘I would suggest, Miss Dalling, that if you have the slightest sense of self-preservation, you will not again attempt to sway me using yourself as bait’?”
He held her irate gaze for two heartbeats, then shrugged. “I changed my mind.” He lowered his gaze to the delectable twin mounds showing above her scooped neckline. “I reconsidered in light of your charms. Obviously I spoke too hastily, in the heat of the moment.” Lifting his gaze, he met her eyes. “As it were.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits; she studied him for a long moment, then crisply stated, “Nonsense.” Raising both hands, she pushed at his shoulders.
Sheer bemusement had him stepping back. She whisked around and started back up the walk. Then she stopped, unsure, and glanced around. “Where are we?”
Feeling very like shaking his head, he strolled up to her, waving back at the buildings filling the end of the walk. “My brother-in-law’s stable. Given your aunt’s great interest in horse racing, I assumed the stable of the premier race horse breeder in England might be of some interest to you.”
She stared at the stable long enough for him to wonder if she might take him up on his offer, giving him more time with her in a more private, more enclosed space…but then she shook her head. “My aunt has only one highly specific obsession at present. I need to concentrate on satisfying that.”
Whirling, she marched back up the path.
Inwardly sighing, he fell in beside her. “I had thought that’s what I was suggesting.”
The look she threw him was scorching. “Do you seriously expect me to believe I have any chance of ‘persuading’ you-regardless of what time and energy I might devote to the task?”
They stepped back onto the lawn. He halted, caught her gaze as she paused beside him. He raised a brow, deliberately taunting. “How will you know unless you try?”
She held his gaze, her expression dismissive…but she thought about it. He remained unmoved, unaffected, challenging yet not threatening.
Eventually, she lifted her chin. “I’ll bid you a good day, Mr. Caxton.”
Her tone suggested she hoped he fell in a bog on the way home. He smiled and elegantly inclined his head. “Miss Dalling.” He waited until, head high, she turned away, before quietly adding, “Until next we meet.”
She froze, spine rigid, then, without acknowledging his words in any way, she walked away across the lawn.
Dillon watched her until she rejoined her aunt, saw her bend to speak into her ear. Before any other lady could capture him, he stepped back into the yew walk and beat a strategic retreat.
He didn’t take any chances. The next morning, he spoke with his clerks and race stewards, making it plain that their continued employment depended on them resisting any blandishments or temptations of any kind to divulge details of the Breeding Register, or the Stud Book.
Later, he reported to the Committee, the three gentlemen elected as stewards by the members of the club, modifying his warning accordingly, describing it as a precaution arising out of his ongoing investigations.
He didn’t mention Miss Dalling.
She was involved, but he didn’t yet know how, nor why she was after the register’s details. He was having increasing difficulty envisaging her, much less her aunt, as lending themselves in any way to any illicit enterprise.
His day passed in meetings with owners, trainers, and jockeys, with the town’s aldermen and various denizens of the turf.
He wondered when Barnaby would return, whether he and the Cynsters would be able to turn up firm information.
Time and again, his mind returned to Miss Dalling, to that brief and rather surprising interview in the yew walk. Although the thought made him sound like a coxcomb, experience had taught him few ladies could have broken from his spell, not at such close quarters, let alone snap into perfectly genuine ire.
Ire shouldn’t have been within her range of responses, not at that moment.
When he touched her, she responded, if anything more ardently, more acutely than others, yet if there were no direct contact, her mind remained incisive, her temper determined, her will strong-and she saw straight through him.
He found her unbelievably refreshing.
He caught himself wondering what waltzing with her would be like, how she might react…
Flick had been right. Miss Dalling might not be sweet, but she was definitely interesting. Having dangled his bait, he was looking forward to crossing her path again that night.
Surveying Lady Kershaw’s ballroom, Pris felt relief seep through her, felt oddly tense muscles ease as she detected no elegantly ruffled dark locks, no sinfully handsome gentleman waiting to waylay her.
Other gentlemen eyed her speculatively, but they barely registered; she didn’t fear them. She wasn’t even sure she feared Caxton so much as what he might tempt her to do. To risk. Especially given her increasing anxiety over Rus.
She’d returned to the lending library that morning; the woman behind the counter had confirmed that their wonderful map showed only buildings currently in use. She’d suspected as much, yet still it was a blow.
Patrick had confirmed that Rus hadn’t caught any coach, nor hired one. Her twin was as striking as she; no ostler would have forgotten him. So Rus was, as she’d thought, still in the vicinity, hiding and in danger not just from Harkness himself but from all who might think to secure the offered reward.
Someone in Newmarket, among the many they would meet socially, had to know what she needed to learn. Moving through the guests, she exchanged greetings with those she remembered from Mrs. Cynster’s afternoon tea, allowing them to introduce her to others.
She’d built on her image of a serious if beautiful bluestocking, disguising her dashing gown of dark green silk by draping a black knitted silk shawl over her bare shoulders and tying it between her breasts. The long fringe hid much of her figure; the dark mesh dimmed the jewel hue of the gown. Long dark gloves added to the impression of repressive severity; her bountiful hair was once again restrained in a tight chignon.
Her social experience combined with her years allowed her the status of still-eligible yet in de pen dent spinster, one who no longer needed to remain under her chaperone’s eye.