What Price Love? by Stephanie Laurens
“Never having done this before, I’m not sure of the best approach, but I can’t see that going down on one knee is going to help.”
“It won’t.” Her voice was noticeably tight, a touch breathless.
“In that case…” He took her hand in his, gently tugged off her glove, tossed it in her lap, then clasped her hand palm to palm in his. He looked across the courtyard at the ancient walls—as old as time, a fitting setting for them. In some ways they were “old souls,” too, more pagan than most.
“We’re not like other people, other couples, you and I.” He glanced at her; he had her full attention. “I knew that the instant I set eyes on you, on the steps of the club. You were…so unlike any other woman I’d ever met, ever seen. You saw me, the real me. Not through a veil but directly. And I saw you in exactly the same way. I knew then, and I think you did, too. But for both of us, the concept didn’t fit what we’d thought would be, so…we prevaricated.”
His lips curved; he looked down at her hand, tightened his about it. “You more than me, I think, but then came the confusion of why I’d offered for you, and that was my error. I knew why all along, but fate’s intervention and a moment’s hesitation meant you weren’t sure. I’ve since told you something of my reasons, but I haven’t told you all. I’ve told you what I feel for you—that you’re the woman who makes me feel whole and complete, the natural other half of me—but I haven’t told you why you…are so precious to me.”
Her eyes on his profile, Pris gripped his fingers, from her heart softly said, “Isn’t that implicit?”
She saw his lips curve, then he shook his head.
“No more prevarications. The truth is, if I hadn’t met you that day on the steps of the Jockey Club—if you hadn’t been there, searching for Rus—then I seriously doubt I would ever have come to this point. I don’t think I could ever have married, not because I don’t wish to, but because marriage to a woman who couldn’t see me, who could never truly know me, would be…”
“Something very like prison.”
He nodded. “Yes—you see that. But few others ever would.” He glanced at her, lips still curved, yet with seriousness and honesty in his dark eyes. “The truth is, you’re my savior. If you’ll accept me as your husband, if you’ll take my hand and be my wife, you’ll be freeing me, replacing the specter of that prison with a chance to live the life I would, if I could, choose.”
His eyes locked with hers, he shifted to face her. “And my chosen life would be to live with you, to renew Hillgate End as a home with you, to have children with you, and grow old with you.”
He paused, then, his eyes still on hers, he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed. “Will you marry me, Pris? Will you be my savior and take my hand, and be my goddess forever?”
It took effort not to let her tears well to the point where they would fall. She had to take a moment to find her voice, conscious, even through that fleeting instant, that he was watching her, that the tension in him rose a notch even though he had to know how she would reply.
He embodied everything she wanted, all she needed. Drowning in his dark eyes, in the steady light that shone there, she had no doubt of her answer, yet he deserved more than a bare acceptance. She drew in a not quite steady breath, held it for an instant, then said, “Yes, but—” She held up her other hand, staying him as he drew her nearer. “If we’re to speak truth here, then my truth is that you’re my savior, too. Perhaps I would have married, but what are the chances I would have found another gentleman who not only recognizes but appreciates my ‘wild and reckless ways’?”
She looked into his eyes. “The truth is, if I hadn’t found you, I would have suppressed that side of myself, and it would have been like a slow death. But if I marry you—if you marry me—I won’t have to. I can simply be me, become the best me I can be, for the rest of my life.”
Her heart leapt, then soared at the prospect. Her lips curved irrepressibly as joy filled her, steady and sure.
He studied her eyes, her dawning smile; to her surprise, he remained sober. Then he drew in a breath, tightened his hand about hers. “I have a caveat to make.”
It was her turn to study his face. “A caveat?”
“Your ‘wild and reckless ways’…do you think you could promise to indulge in them only when I’m with you?” He was serious and uncomfortable, uneasy in making the request.
She blinked. “Why?”
Jaw setting, he looked down at her hand, trapped in his, then looked up and met her eyes. “Because”—his expression had changed to one she knew well, all arrogant, domineering male—“losing you is the one risk I will never take.”
You are my life. You mean too much to me.
That message was blazoned in his eyes, etched in the hard planes of his face, carried in the defined lines of muscles that had tensed. She felt that reality, unequivocal and unyielding, reach out to her; she hesitated, breath caught, but then she closed her eyes and let it wrap about her.
Accepted it. Accepted him.
As he was. As she needed him to be.
Wild and reckless, passionate—and possessive.
That was the real truth of him. Of them. Of us.
She opened her eyes, looked into his, still burning with possessive heat. “Yes. All right.”
He wasn’t sure whether to believe her, to put his trust in the bright joy in her eyes. He hesitated, then asked, “All right? Just like that—all right?”
She considered, then nodded. Decisively. “Yes. Yes to everything.” Rescuing her glove from her lap, she stood. Happiness was welling, flooding through her, threatening to spill over; better they left before it did.
Dillon rose with her, retaining his hold on her hand. “So you agree not to take any risks—any risks at all—unless I’m with you?” Feeling a trifle off-balance, he tried to see her face as they walked back to the chapel door.
“Yes! Well, as far as I can.” Reaching the door, she halted and faced him, met his eyes directly. “And no, I am not pleased to have to make such a promise, but…” Tilting her head, she searched his eyes. “You won’t rest unless I do, will you?”
He’d forgotten she saw straight into his soul. He looked into her eyes, saw all the joy he could wish for, along with too much understanding to deny, and surrendered. “No.”
She nodded. “Precisely.” She turned to the door. “So I’ll try my best—”
“Please tell me you’ll do more than try.”
“—to accommodate you.” She glanced sideways at him, caught his eye. “Isn’t that what wives are supposed to do?”
There was a subtle smile on her lips, a light in her emerald eyes—more than teasing, an outright challenge—another element of her understanding.
His gaze fastened on those distracting lips.
She stiffened. “No. Not in a cathedral. This was your plan. You have to live with it.”
He closed his eyes, groaned, and opened the door for her. He followed her into the church, now as eager as she to leave, and mildly amazed that the deed was done, that despite all, their path was set and agreed.
She glanced at the altar as they went past, then looked at him as he took her arm. “Have you given any thought as to when we should wed?”
The point didn’t require thought. “How about as soon as humanly possible? Most of your family’s here—we could send for your younger brothers and sisters.” He hesitated. “Unless you want to marry in Ireland?”
“No.” Pris shook her head. That would make it too hard for many of her new friends to attend, and besides, there was nothing for her there; her future lay…she glanced at Dillon. “Let’s marry in Newmarket.”
He met her gaze as they emerged through the main doors, into brilliant sunshine lancing through the broken clouds. “If you’re happy with that?”
“Yes.” Smiling delightedly, she felt her heart soar; all their decisions felt unequivocally right.
They stopped on the porch. Dillon signaled to the tiger to br
Eagerness gripped her. Impatience welled. The instant they were in the curricle and Dillon had set his horses pacing, she asked, “Where should we go first?”
“First?”
“Where should we go to start the arrangements? Our wedding isn’t simply going to happen, not without a great deal of discussion and organizing.”
Dillon grimaced, but didn’t take his eyes from his blacks. “I’ll make a deal with you—you make the arrangements, tell me where to be when, and I’ll be there. Just don’t ask me for an opinion on anything.”
She laughed; the sound curled around his heart and warmed it.
“Done.” She leaned lightly against his shoulder, then straightened. “So where should we call first, to tell them our news?”
“Flick’s, or she’ll never forgive me, and Eugenia and Adelaide will be there, too. I suspect they won’t have gone out yet.” They’d be waiting to see what had transpired, he had not a doubt. “And no doubt Flick will then rush us around to Horatia’s.”
Pris happily agreed.
Dillon tooled the curricle through the city streets, reassured that he could safely leave her in the Cynster ladies’ company, especially in the throes of planning a wedding. All attention would be focused on her; she would be the center of the gathering.
With her safety assured, he could turn his mind to his latest risk—one last throw of the dice to flush out Mr. X, and ensure that Pris and he did not remain at the mercy of a vengeful villain, possibly for the rest of their lives.
That shared life had now taken shape in his mind; with Pris, he would make it a reality. And there was very little he wouldn’t risk to make it safe, to protect it, and her.
22
Rus was the first person Pris set eyes on as they entered Flick’s front hall. Her smile exuberant, she flung herself into his arms. “You’re going to have a brother-in-law. I’m going to marry Dillon.”
Rus’s face creased in a smile to match her own. “Excellent!” He swung her around and around; Pris laughed, eyes alight.
Adelaide and Eugenia appeared in the drawing room doorway, followed by Flick, all eager to learn what was going on.
With his habitual charm, his eyes on Pris, Dillon told them.
Adelaide shrieked and hugged him wildly. Eugenia beamed, patted his arm, then kissed his cheek. Flick’s smile held a touch of gloating as she lined up to do the same. His smile easy yet arrogantly proud, Dillon received and responded to their congratulations and eager questions.
Pris turned to Rus, eyed him accusingly. “You knew.”
He grinned. “Of course. You were both so obviously in love, you can’t expect us not to have noticed. Even Papa noticed after just one ball.”
She frowned. “How? What did we do that was so revealing?”
He studied her, confirmed her question was serious. “It’s the way you look at each other, react to each other. I’ve seen you with any number of gentlemen, some nearly as striking as Dillon, and you behave as if they’re mere ciphers. You see, smile, talk, even dance with them, yet it’s as if you’re not truly aware of them, as if they’re too weak to impinge on your consciousness. With Dillon…if he’s in the same room”—Rus grinned as her gaze drifted Dillon’s way—“you’re aware of him. Your attention instantly focuses on him. He doesn’t have to do anything to claim your regard—he simply has it.”
Rus squeezed her hand. “And he’s the same, if not more so, with you. For instance, if you tried to slip away, he’d know and look up before you managed to leave his sight.”
Still puzzled, she asked, “And that’s enough for you—and Papa—to be sure he loves me?”
Rus laughed. “Trust us—for a man like him, it’s an infallible sign.”
Pris wondered what he meant by “like him.”
“I’m more than delighted you’ve found him,” Rus went on. “You’ve done so much to make my life right—to give me what I need to be happy—it’s only right that along the way, you found your happiness, too.”
She snorted. “You make Dillon sound like my reward.”
Rus’s eyes twinkled. “If the shoe fits…”
Before she could think of some pithy retort, Flick came rustling up to embrace her, then Eugenia and Adelaide were there, and before she and Dillon could do more than exchange a glance, they were swept up in a giddy whirl of arrangements, questions, decisions, and yet more congratulations. As Dillon had predicted, Flick herded them straight to Horatia’s to spread the news.
Within half an hour, the Cynster ladies were gathering, all eager to assist in organizing the engagement ball Horatia had immediately claimed the right to host.
Dizzying mayhem ensued, principally feminine, although some of the men, like George, Horatia’s husband, looked in to congratulate them and shake Dillon’s hand—then glance around at the company, and quietly escape. Dillon, Rus, and Pris’s father all remained for some time, but once their agreement to the principal event had been elicited, they became largely redundant.
Pris wasn’t surprised when Dillon touched her shoulder, then murmured, “Your father, Rus, and I are going to my club. I have a business meeting this afternoon—I’ll join you for dinner.”
She smiled. “Yes, of course.” She squeezed his hand, let him kiss her fingers and go.
Squelching the errant thought that she would much rather be escaping with him, she turned back to the ladies and surrendered to the inevitable with good grace.
Their engagement ball was held four evenings later at Horatia’s house in Berkeley Square. A formal dinner preceded it, during which the announcement of their engagement and impending wedding was made to a glittering gathering of over fifty guests.
Pris gave thanks for the hours of training she’d endured at the hands of various governesses. “Just as well I am an earl’s daughter,” she whispered sotto voce to Dillon as they stood in the receiving line just inside the ballroom. “How else I would have coped with this I shudder to think.”
Beside her, Dillon snorted. “You’d have coped.” She felt his gaze briefly caress her bare shoulders. “That damn gown alone tips the scales your way—the ladies are almost as distracted as the gentlemen.”
As the extremely haughty Countess Lieven had just bestowed her exceedingly haughty approval, her gaze lingering on Pris’s stunningly designed gown, Pris hid a smile at his growl, and murmured back, “One has to make the most of the weapons one is born with.”
Lord Carnegie reached them at that moment, forcing Dillon to let that comment lie.
His lordship’s dazzled reaction only buoyed Pris’s confidence more. Her gown was one of the few details that the ladies had left entirely to her, judging, correctly, that they could safely leave sartorial matters in her already experienced hands. The creation that graced her person, in figured silk of her favorite shade of emerald green, was an exercise in simplicity and illusion. It didn’t just flatter her figure; while entirely decorous, the tightly fitted, low-cut bodice overlaid with gossamer silk of the same shade and print teased the imagination. The skirts were cut in the latest fashion, slender and sheathlike in front, gathered and spreading at the back.
With Dillon in black and crisp white beside her, they appeared the very epitome of a tonnish couple at their engagement ball.
She could barely wait for their first waltz, for the ball to get under way, to move on and ahead with their lives, but the receiving line stretched as far as she could see. Keeping her delighted smile in place, she shook hands, curtsied, and received the guests’
Somewhat to her surprise, many ladies with daughters in tow seemed quite sincere in their avowals.
“I’m so very glad you’ve both made your choice.” Lady Hendricks, her niece behind her, smiled graciously, shook their hands, then swept into the ballroom, intent on assessing likely victims.
Grasping a momentary hiatus as an old friend paused to chat with Horatia and George, Pris leaned closer to Dillon, and murmured, “Your father told me we’d pleased all the matchmakers by becoming engaged to each other.” She tipped her head at Lady Hendricks. “It seems he was right.”
“Apparently,” Dillon murmured back, “we’d attained the status of ‘too dangerous’—the ladies are delighted we’ve removed ourselves from the lists. With us gone, they hope to get their charges refocused on the main chance.”
Pris laughed and turned back to dazzle the Montagues.
The General had arrived the day before; she’d been touched when he’d spent most of the afternoon with her, both calming and distracting her with talk of Hillgate End, of Dillon’s mother, of his happiness that she would soon be there with Dillon. The simple family life he’d painted had not just appealed to her, but ensnared her; his gentle words had filled her with both expectation and longing, stirring her usual impetuous wildness to seize the moment and act.
She wanted to be there, at Hillgate End, its mistress, wanted, with Dillon, to grasp the life there and live it.
Impatience was building; she’d harnessed it, lecturing herself that this ball, and all the rest leading up to their wedding in a few weeks’ time, was the necessary prelude to that—to gaining all her heart desired.
As they chatted and welcomed and responded to congratulations, she reviewed her mental lists, her preparations for that life ahead, scanning for anything she’d missed or left undone. Any potential cloud that might dim their path, any potential hurdle that might get in their way.