Quickly, as unobtrusively as she could, she tacked through the guests at this end of the room and slipped out through a secondary door. The corridor beyond was presently empty, but the ball was barely an hour old; guests were still trickling in through the main ballroom doors farther down the corridor, near the front hall.
Those main ballroom doors were propped wide; she couldn’t risk walking past them-couldn’t risk Lord Cromarty seeing her. The last glimpse she’d had of him he’d been standing with a group of similar gentlemen, unfortunately facing those doors.
Until he’d walked in, it hadn’t occurred to her that in going about in Newmarket society she risked meeting him. Cromarty had met her, exchanged a few words with her; Rus had been with her at the time, less than a year ago.
There were drawbacks to being so physically notable; it made her very recognizable. She couldn’t risk Cromarty getting even a glimpse.
She hadn’t forgotten a single word of Rus’s letter; if he’d found anything untoward in what Harkness was doing, Rus would have gone to Cromarty. While she wasn’t going to jump to conclusions regarding Cromarty, neither was she willing to endanger Rus by letting Cromarty know she was there.
If Cromarty was involved, he’d know she’d either find Rus, or he’d find her. All Cromarty needed to do was watch her, and eventually he’d have Rus.
Partly hidden by a tall lamp, she hovered in the hallway until another footman crossed to the ballroom. Stepping into plain sight, she beckoned imperiously. “My cape, if you please. It’s lavender velvet, waist-length, with gold frogging.”
The footman blushed, stammered, but quickly fetched the cape. She allowed him to set it about her shoulders, then dismissed him, giving the impression she was waiting for someone.
The instant the footman passed into the ballroom, she turned and hurried down the corridor, away from the ballroom and its lurking danger, deeper into the body of the house.
At the end of the corridor, she found a secondary staircase; descending to the ground floor, she peered out of a window and saw a side garden with paved paths leading away toward a band of trees.
Swaledale Hall was only a mile or so from the Carisbrook house. She knew the direction; the moon was rising, shedding enough light for her to see her way.
Who knew? She might even bump into Rus; she knew her twin was out there somewhere. Alone.
The thought cut at her. Finding a door to the garden, she pushed it open and stepped outside.
She glanced around, but there was no one else about. Closing the door, she took her bearings. A cool breeze ruffled the creeper that grew on the walls. Selecting the most likely path from the five that led from the door, she set out, walking along the silvered flagstones toward the shelter of the trees.
In the open, less than halfway to the trees, a sudden premonition that there was someone behind her washed like an icy wave down her spine.
Even while her mind was reassuring her that she was imagining things, she was turning to look.
At the man who was sauntering silently in her wake.
A scream rose to her throat-she struggled to swallow it as the moonlight revealed who he was.
Her relief was so profound, she fleetingly closed her eyes-then snapped them open; she’d stopped walking-he hadn’t.
He eventually halted with a single pace between them.
By then her temper had flown. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, following me? And, what’s more, in a manner guaranteed to scare me out of my wits!”
What wits were left to her; at least half were fully occupied drinking in his presence-the width of his shoulders, the lean tautness of his chest, the long, strong lines of his rider’s legs, his brand of masculine grace even more pronounced when cloaked in the crisp black-and-white of evening dress. A lock of dark hair showed ink black against his forehead; in the sharp contrast created by the moonlight, he appeared a dark and dangerous creature, one conjured from her deepest fantasies and rendered in hot muscle and steel.
He was tempting enough in daylight; in the light of the moon, he was sin personified.
Her accusations had sounded shrill, even to her ears.
He’d tilted his head, studying her face. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
If she’d thought he was laughing at her, she’d have verbally flayed him, but there was sincerity in his tone, a touch of honesty she knew was real. She humphed and crossed her arms. With effort refrained from tapping her toe while she waited for him to say something, or better still, turn around and leave her.
When he simply stood there, looking down at her, she hauled in a breath, nodded regally, and swung around once more. “I’ll bid you a good night, Mr. Caxton.”
She started walking.
From behind her, she heard a sigh. “Dillon.”
She didn’t need to look to know he was following her.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. The Carisbrook place.”
“Why?”
She didn’t reply.
“Or”-the tenor of his voice subtly altered-“more to the point, who arrived in the ballroom that you didn’t want to meet?”
“No one.”
“Priscilla, allow me to inform you that you’re a terrible liar.”
She bit her lip, told herself he was deliberately goading her. “Whom I choose to meet is none of your damned business.”
“Actually, in this case, I suspect it is.”
They’d reached the trees. She didn’t fear him, not in the sense that he wished her harm, but she, and her nerves, were not up to the strain of marching through a dark wood with him prowling at her heels. Tempting fate was one thing-that would be madness.
Halting, head high, she turned, and tried to stare him down-difficult given she had to look up to meet his shadowed eyes. “Good night, Dillon.”
He looked down at her for a long moment-long enough for her to have to deliberately will her senses to behave-then he looked past her, toward the trees. “You do know it’s more than a mile to the Carisbrook place?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin higher. “I might prefer to ride a horse, but I’m not unaccustomed to using shank’s mare.”
His lips twitched; he glanced at her. She got the impression he was about to say something, then thought better of it. Said instead, “More than a mile cross-country. Through the fields.” He looked down all the way to her hem. “You’re going to ruin that new gown, and your slippers.”
She was, and was inwardly cursing the necessary sacrifice.
“I drove here in my curricle. Come to the stable, and I’ll get my horses put to and drive you home.”
He made the offer evenly, straightforwardly, as if it were simply the gentlemanly thing to do. She stared at his face, but couldn’t read it; the light was too weak. Crossing the fields alone in the dark, or sitting beside him in his curricle for the few minutes required to travel a mere mile-which was the more dangerous?
Eyes on his face, she willed him to promise not to bite. When he simply waited, unmoved, she stifled a sigh and inclined her head. “Thank you.”
He didn’t gloat, but elegantly waved to another path following the tree line. “We can reach the stable that way.”
She set out, and he fell in beside her, adjusting his long strides to her shorter ones. He made no attempt to take her arm, for which she was grateful. Their last meeting, and the manner of their parting, was high in her mind, combining with her memories of their encounter previous to that, when he’d tried to blind her with passion. Hardly surprising that her nerves had stretched taut, and her senses were jangling.
She felt it when he glanced at her.
“Are you enjoying your stay here?”
The words were diffident; he might have been making polite conversation, yet she sensed he wasn’t.