“I’m enjoying the town well enough. It’s an interesting place.”
“And the occupants? You appear to have made quite a few conquests.”
Something in his suave tone, a hint of steely displeasure, struck a nerve. She sniffed disparagingly. “But they’re so easily conquered.”
She heard the catty dismissiveness, the underlying rancor, and inwardly sighed. “I apologize, that wasn’t fair. I daresay they’re nice enough, but…” She shrugged, and kept her gaze fixed ahead.
“But you’d rather they didn’t fall at your feet.” Cynical empathy laced the words. “No need to apologize. I understand perfectly.”
She glanced at him, but they were moving through the shadows; she couldn’t read his expression. Yet she’d seen him in the ballroom, dodging the importunings of a small army of young ladies; later he’d disappeared, and she’d known a pang of envy that she hadn’t been able to do the same.
He did understand.
That was such an odd situation, to meet a man who faced the same problem she routinely did, the same problem that drove Rus demented. As they walked through the shrouding dark, it seemed possible to ask, “Why do they do it? I’ve never understood.”
He didn’t immediately answer, but as the stable appeared before them, he softly said, “Because they don’t see us clearly. They see the glamor, and not the person.” They paused at the edge of the gravel court before the stable. Through the moonlight, he caught her gaze. “They don’t see who we are, nor what we really are, and as we’re not as inhumanly perfect as we appear, that’s a very real problem.”
A groom came out of the stable; Dillon turned his way. “Wait here. I’ll get my curricle.”
In a matter of minutes, he was handing her into a stylish equipage, drawn by a pair of blacks that took her breath away.
Oh, Rus-if only you could see…
Joining her on the box, he glanced at her; sitting beside her, he gathered the reins. “You appreciate horses.”
Not a question. “Yes. I have a brother who’s horse-mad-who lives and breathes and even dreams of horses.”
“I see.” There was a smile and real understanding in his tone. “You’ve met Flick-Felicity Cynster, my cousin. She was horse-mad from infancy, and her husband, Demon, who I’ve known as long, is even worse.” They rattled down the drive. “I don’t think you’ve met him yet.”
“No.” She hung on to the curricle’s rail as he turned out into the lane in style. “It’s a form of obsession, I think.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that.”
The rattle of the wheels, counterpointed by the sharp clop of hooves, settled to a steady beat. The night about them was quiet and still, the breeze nothing more than a gentle caress.
“Are you going to tell me who you’re running from to night?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because I can’t. Because I don’t dare. Because it isn’t my secret to share. She shifted on the seat, very conscious of him close beside her, the warm solid reality of him. His sleek elegance disguised how large he was; he was taller, broader, much heavier than she, much stronger, much more powerful.
Seated side by side on the curricle’s narrow seat, his presence surrounded her.
What she couldn’t understand was why it made her feel safe, when she knew beyond doubt that he was the biggest threat to her-to herself, to her peace of mind-that she’d ever faced.
“The man who tried to break into the Jockey Club.” She turned her head to view him as they rolled briskly along. “Have you found him yet?”
She needed to keep her mind on her goal and not allow him to distract her, to lure her to trust when it might prove too dangerous.
Dillon glanced briefly at her, then looked back at his horses. “No.” He considered the opening, decided to offer more. “He’s Irish-just like you.”
“Is he?”
She didn’t even bother to pretend she hadn’t known. He glanced at her again. She caught his gaze, opened her eyes wide. “How difficult could it be to find one Irishman in Newmarket?”
Despite her attempt to make the question a taunt, he knew it was real-she actually wanted to know.
Lips curving cynically, he looked to his horses. “As you’ve no doubt discovered, Priscilla, finding an Irishman in Newmarket is no problem at all. But finding one particular Irishman? Given the number of Irish lads and jockeys working here, let alone those over for the racing, locating any particular one is like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
She didn’t reply. He shot her a glance, and found her expression serious, almost brooding.
“Who is he?” The question was out before he’d thought. She looked at him; he added, “Perhaps I could help.”
She held his gaze for an instant, then shook her head and faced forward. “I can’t tell you.”
He checked his blacks for the turn into the Carisbrook drive. At least she’d stopped pretending she wasn’t looking for some Irishman. He’d suggested brother, and she’d denied it. If not brother, then…lover?
He didn’t like the thought, but forced himself to examine it. She was gently bred, of that he was sure, but she wouldn’t be the first gentleman’s daughter to lose her heart to some charismatic horse fancier. Against that, however, stood her aunt’s involvement. Lady Fowles was simply too familiar a type of lady for him to believe she would ever be a party to Pris chasing after some dissolute, or even merely unsuitable, lover.
It came back to a brother.
Or a cousin. Flick, after all, had stood by him, had done things that even now gave him nightmares in order to help him break free.
“I was once involved in a race-fixing swindle.”
Her head swung around so fast her ringlets flew. “What?”
He met her stunned gaze, then, glancing around, slowed his horses. The drive was a long one; they were only halfway to the house. If he was going to reveal even that to persuade her to trust him, they needed somewhere to talk. If he remembered aright…
He found the track a little way along, almost grassed over. Turning the horses onto it, he set them walking.
“Where…?” She was peering ahead, over the lawn to where a line of trees crossed their path.
“Just wait.”
Guiding the blacks through the trees, he drove them up to the summer house standing beyond the end of the elongated ornamental lake before the house.
Reining in, he stepped down. Playing out the reins, he tethered the pair so they could stand and graze. The curricle rocked as Pris clambered down; he glimpsed slender ankles amid a froth of skirts.
She walked to him, puzzlement in her face. “What did you say?”
He waved to the summer house. “Let’s go inside.”
She led the way, plainly familiar with the wide, open room tucked under the domed roof. Of painted white wood, the summerhouse was simply furnished with a wicker sofa and one matching armchair, both liberally padded, placed to look down the vista of the lake to the distant house.
Pris sat in one corner of the sofa. She was not just intrigued but captured, not just eager but urgent to hear what he’d meant. And what he intended-why he’d volunteered to speak of such a thing.
But she needed to see his face, so the safety of the armchair wasn’t an option. Outside, the moonlight cast a pearly sheen, but within the summer house, it was considerably dimmer. At her wave, he sat beside her. She studied his face; she could discern his features, but not the emotions in his eyes.
“I can’t believe you-the Keeper of the Breeding Register-were ever involved in anything illicit. At least not about racing.”
He met her gaze. After a moment, asked, “Can’t you?”
It was as if he’d deliberately let his glamor fall, completely and utterly, so that she was suddenly looking at the real man, without any protective screen at all. She looked, examined; gradually it came to her.