In the end, they’d stirred, regathered their clothes, and dressed in the darkness, all shyness conspicuously lacking, then he’d driven her to the house. She’d been in her room, her candle out, when Eugenia and Adelaide had returned; she hadn’t wanted to talk of anything, hadn’t wanted to return to the world-all she’d wanted was to lie in her bed and dream.
“Will you be attending the race meet this week, Miss Dalling?”
She blinked, and summoned a smile for Lord Matlock, who’d been trying to impress her for the past half hour. “I suspect not, my lord. It’s a minor meeting. I doubt it will prove sufficiently interesting to tempt my aunt forth.”
“But what of you and the lovely Miss Blake?” Lord Matlock held her gaze appealingly. “Surely we can tempt you to join us? Cummings here will bring his sister, Lady Canterbury. We could make up a party.”
Too experienced to utter a bald no, Pris played the game and let them try to persuade her. Much of that involved making plans and arguing between themselves, giving her a chance to once again scan the room.
Lady Helmsley’s party was noticeably more select than Lady Kershaw’s event. Lord Cromarty wasn’t expected; Eugenia had inquired of Lord Helmsley when they’d arrived, citing the Irish connection to excuse her interest.
So Pris was safe for the evening, at least from that quarter.
Dillon had yet to appear; excitement thrummed through her as she surveyed the heads, impatient to see the register and learn what she could of Rus’s predicament-and also to see Dillon again, to again spend time alone with him.
Their interludes to date had been largely illicit-private meetings at night or in surroundings that freed them of social restraint. Perhaps that was why she felt such a thrill when she saw his dark head through the crowd.
Returning her gaze to Lord Matlock, she kept her attention fastened on him.
“My high-perch phaeton will do nicely as a viewing platform,” Matlock appealed to her. “What say you, Miss Dalling? Are you game?”
She lightly grimaced. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t see my aunt permitting it.” She softened the rejection with a smile. “If truth be told, Miss Blake and I are indifferent followers of the Turf.”
The gentlemen politely ribbed her, pointing out that no real lady truly followed the nags. Smiling, she returned their sallies, her gaze on them while her senses twitched and tugged her attention to Dillon, drawing steadily nearer.
And then he was there, bowing over her hand, claiming the position by her side. He bowed to Miss Cartwright and Miss Siddons, and nodded to the gentlemen. “Matlock. Hastings. Markham. Cummings.”
Immediately he became the focus of all attention. The young ladies, predictably, hung on his every word, but the gentlemen’s reactions were more revealing; in their eyes, Dillon, a few years older, with his aura of hardness, of experience, was an enigma, but one they admired.
Given the figure he cut in the austere black-and-white of evening dress, his dramatic handsomeness only more enhanced, Pris fully comprehended the admiration of both male and female. Visually speaking, he was a pattern card depicting all an aristocratic gentleman should be.
The other men were exceedingly polite, respectful as they asked his opinion of certain runners in the upcoming races.
“I say, is there any truth in the rumor that some race here a few weeks ago was…” Mr. Markham had spoken impulsively; belatedly realizing to whom he spoke, he glanced at the others, color rising in his cheeks. “Well,” he rather lamely concluded, “in some way suspect?”
Suspect? Pris looked at Dillon’s face; his polite, faintly aloof expression told her nothing.
“I really can’t comment at this point.” Summoning a distant smile, Dillon reached for Pris’s hand. “If you’ll excuse us, I’ve been dispatched to fetch Miss Dalling to meet Lady Amberfield.”
“Oh. Ah…yes, of course.” Lord Matlock bowed, as did the other gentlemen.
Once Pris had taken leave of them and the young ladies, Dillon led her into the crowd.
Lady Helmsley’s L-shaped drawing room was large, but the number of guests crammed into the space made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. He guided Pris through the throng, grateful that the crush limited people’s view of them. She was eye-catching, as always, despite the severe style of her figured silk gown. The color matched her eyes and was an excellent foil for her black hair, to night wound high at the back of her head; the style should have looked austere, but instead evoked fantasies of the mass unraveling. The silk clung lovingly to her figure, the heart-shaped neckline displaying her breasts and the deep cleft between as well as the seductively vulnerable line of her exposed nape.
Again, she’d done her best to mute the effect with a heavily fringed, jade-and-black-patterned silk shawl; again, it hadn’t worked.
His eyes feasting, he wondered at his sudden susceptibility to such heretofore undistracting feminine charms. Cynically resigned, he steered her to the end of the shorter arm of the room.
She glanced around. “Who’s Lady Amberfield?”
“A local gorgon.”
Pris frowned. “Why does she want to meet me?”
“She doesn’t.” Tacking through the last of the crowd, he halted her before a minor door in the end wall.
She considered the door. “Ah. I see.”
He opened it; without a word, she slipped through, into a long, unlit corridor. Glancing briefly at the guests-all otherwise engaged-he followed, closing the door on the noise.
Through the dimness, he met her eyes. “I don’t think anyone saw us leave. Are you willing to risk disappearing for an hour or so?”
She raised her brows. “To see the register? Of course.”
He stared at her for a moment, then waved her on. “We can cut through the gardens. It’s not far to the back of the club.”
He was familiar with the house and gardens; once outside, they walked briskly through the shrubbery, through a door in the garden wall, out onto a stretch of cleared land, screened from the High Street by the backs of other properties and a line of trees; across the open stretch lay the wood at the back of the Jockey Club.
“That way?” She pointed at the wood.
He nodded. Lifting her hems free of the short grass, she stepped out.
Instinctively scanning the shadows beneath the trees, he fell in beside her. “I’ll leave you at the back door, then go around and deal with the guards.”
“Do you often drop by late at night?”
“Occasionally. Sometimes things occur to me, especially after I’ve been talking with my father.”
“You said he was the Keeper of the Stud Book.”
“He was.” He glanced at her. “That’s part of the position I now hold. You could say it’s become a family interest. My grandfather was involved in developing the records of the racing industry back in his day.”
The outliers of the wood rose before them. He glanced at her feet and was relieved to see she was wearing proper shoes, albeit ones with a sizable heel. Flimsy dance slippers would have already been sodden, and traipsing through the wood…
Reaching for her arm, he halted her at the edge of the trees. He looked into the shadows, grimaced. “Briars.”
“Oh.” She glanced down at her skirts and the trailing fringe of her shawl.
He stepped back, stooped, and swung her up into his arms.
She swallowed a shriek, then muttered an Irish oath-one he knew.
Hiding a grin, he hefted her, settling her weight. “Gather up the shawl.”
Still muttering ungratefully, she piled the fringe in her lap.
Ducking under a branch, he carried her into the wood. There were no defined paths, but the undergrowth wasn’t dense; it was easy enough to tack around the few bushes in his path.
Although she said no more, he got the impression she chafed at being so much in his control, at being so dependent on him. At having to rely on him.