What Price Love? (3 page)

Barnaby softly snorted. “It certainly has that feeling.”

They turned to the club's front door. Both paused as through the central glass pane they glimpsed the club's doorman, inside, hurrying to reach for the latch.

Sweeping the doors wide, the doorman bowed obsequiously, almost tripping over his toes as he stepped aside to allow a lady to pass through.

Not just any lady. A vibrant vision in emerald green, she halted on the top step, taken aback at finding herself facing a masculine wall.

Her head, crowned with a silky tumble of blue-black curls, instinctively rose. Eyes, an even more intense emerald than her elegant gown, rose, too; widening, they locked with Dillon's.

Barnaby murmured an apology and stepped back.

Dillon didn't move.

For one incalculable moment, all he could see—all he knew of the world—was that face.

Those eyes.

Brilliant green, glinting gold, they lured and promised.

She was of average height; standing two steps up, her glorious eyes were level with his. He was dimly aware of the classical symmetry of her heart-shaped face, of perfect, very white skin, fine, almost translucent, of delicately arched brows, lush black lashes, a straight little nose, and a mouth a touch too wide. Her lips were full and blatantly sensual, yet instead of disrupting the perfection of her beauty, those distracting lips brought her face alive.

Like a callow youth, he stood and stared.

Wide-eyed, Pris stared back and tried to catch her breath. She felt like one of her brothers had punched her in the stomach; every muscle had contracted and locked, and she couldn't get them to relax.

Beside her, the helpful doorman beamed. “Why, here's Mr. Caxton, miss.”

Her mind whirled.

To the gentlemen, he said, “This lady was asking after the register, sir. We explained she had to speak with you.”

Which one was Caxton? Please don't let it be
him.

Tearing her gaze from the dark eyes into which she'd somehow fallen, she looked hopefully at the Greek god, but fickle fate wasn't that kind. The Greek god was looking at his sinfully dark companion. Reluctantly, she did the same.

His dark, very dark brown eyes that before had appeared as startled as she felt—she doubted he often met ladies as dramatically beautiful as he—had now hardened. As she watched, they fractionally narrowed.

“Indeed?”

The precise diction, the arrogantly superior tone, told her all she needed to know of his social rank and background. The flick of inherent power brought her head up, brought the earl's daughter to the fore. She smiled, assured. “I was hoping to view the register, if that's possible?”

Instantly, she sensed a dramatic heightening of their interest—a focusing that owed nothing to the quality of her smile. Her gaze locked on Caxton, on the dark eyes in which, unless she was sorely mistaken, suspicion was now blooming, she mentally replayed her words, but could see nothing to explain their reaction. Glancing at the Greek god, she saw the alert look he sent Caxton…it was her accent that had triggered their response.

Like all the Anglo-Irish aristocracy, she spoke perfect English, but no amount of elocution lessons would ever remove the soft burr of her brogue, the stamp of Ireland on her tongue.

And Rus, naturally, was the same.

Tamping down the sudden surge of emotion—trepidation and expectation combined—she looked again at Caxton. Meeting his eyes, she arched a brow. “Perhaps, now you've returned, sir, you could help me with my inquiries?”

She wasn't going to let his beauty, or her unprecedented reaction to it, get in her way.

More to the point, his reaction to her gave her a weapon she was perfectly prepared to wield. She would do anything, absolutely anything without reservation, to help Rus; running rings around an Englishman and tying him in knots barely rated.

Dillon inclined his head in acquiescence and gestured for her to reenter the building—his domain. Her distracting smile still flirting about her even more distracting lips, she swung around, waiting for the doorman to step back before passing through the portal and into the foyer.

Climbing the steps, Dillon followed her in. He'd noted the calculation that had flashed through those brilliant eyes, was duly warned. An Irish lady asking to see the register? Oh, yes, he definitely would speak with her.

Pausing in the foyer, she glanced back at him, an innately haughty glance over her shoulder. Despite the dictates of his intellect, he felt his body react, yet as he met those direct and challenging eyes, he had to wonder if she, her actions, her glances, were truly calculated or simply instinctive.

And which of those options posed the bigger danger to him.

With a distant, noncommittal smile, he gestured down the corridor to the left. “My office is this way.”

She held his gaze for a heartbeat, apparently oblivious of Barnaby at his shoulder. “And the register?”

The suggestion in her tone had him fighting a grin. She wasn't just fabulously beautiful; she had wit and a tongue to match. “The latest volume is there.”

She consented to walk down the corridor. He followed by her shoulder, half a stride behind. Far enough to be able to appreciate her
figure, her tiny waist and the curvaceous hips the prevailing fashion for slightly raised waistlines did nothing to disguise, to imagine the length of leg necessary to run from those evocatively swaying hips to the surprisingly dainty half boots he'd glimpsed beneath the hems of her emerald green skirts.

A small flat hat sporting a dyed feather sat amid the thick curls at the back of her head. From the front, only the tip of the feather was visible, curling above her right ear.

He knew enough of feminine fashion to identify both gown and hat as of recent vintage, almost certainly from London. Whoever the lady was, she was neither penniless nor, he suspected, his social inferior.

“The next door to the right.” He was looking forward to having her in his office, in the chair before his desk, where he could examine and interrogate her.

She halted before the door; he reached past her and set it swinging wide. With a regal dip of her head, she moved into the room. He followed, waving her to the chair facing his desk. Rounding the wide desk set between two tall windows, he took the chair behind it.

Barnaby quietly closed the door, then retreated to an armchair set to one side, opposite the bookcase in which the latest volume of the Breeding Register resided. Briefly meeting Barnaby's eyes, Dillon understood he intended being the proverbial fly on the wall, leaving the questions to him, concentrating instead on watching Miss…

Returning his gaze to her, he smiled. “Your name, Miss…?”

Apparently at ease in the straight-backed chair, comfortably padded with arms on which she'd rested hers, she smiled back. “Dalling. Miss Dalling. I confess I've no real idea of, nor interest in racing or race horses, but I was hoping to view this register one hears so much about. The doorman gave me to understand that you are the guardian of this famous tome. I'd imagined it was on public display, like the Births and Deaths Register, but apparently that's not the case.”

She had a melodic, almost hypnotic voice, not so much sirenlike as that of a storyteller, luring you to believe, to accept, and to respond.

Dillon fought the compulsion, forced himself to listen dispassionately, sought, found, and clung to his usual aloof distance. Although uttered as statements, he sensed her sentences were questions.
“The register you're referring to is known as the Breeding Register, and no, it's not a public document. It's an archive of the Jockey Club. In effect, it's a listing of the horses approved to run on those racetracks overseen by the club.”

She was drinking in his every word. “I see. So…if one wished to verify that a particular horse was approved to race on such tracks, one would consult the Breeding Register.”

Another question parading as a statement. “Yes.”

“So it
is
possible to view the Breeding Register.”

“No.” He smiled, deliberately a touch patronizingly, when she frowned. “If you wish to know if a particular horse is approved to race, you need to apply for the information.”

“Apply?”

At last a straight, unadorned question; he let his smile grow more intent. “You fill out a form, and one of the register clerks will provide you with the required information.”

She looked disgusted. “A form.” She flicked the fingers of one hand. “I suppose this is England, after all.”

He made no reply. When it became clear he wasn't going to rise to that bait, she tried another tack.

She leaned forward, just a little. Confidingly fixed her big green eyes on his face, simultaneously drawing attention to her really quite impressive breasts, not overly large, yet on her slight frame deliciously tempting.

Having already taken stock, he managed to keep his gaze steady on her face.

She smiled slightly, invitingly. “Surely you could allow me to view the register—just a glance.”

Her emerald eyes held his; he fell under her spell. Again. That voice, not sultry but something even more deeply stirring, threatened, again, to draw him under; he had to fight to shake free of the mesmerizing effect.

Suppressing his frown took yet more effort. “No.” He shifted, and softened the edict. “That's not possible, I'm afraid.”

She frowned, the expression entirely genuine. “Why not? I just want to look.”

“Why? What's the nature of your interest in the Breeding Register, Miss Dalling? No, wait.” He let his eyes harden, let his deepen
ing suspicions show. “You've already told us you have no real interest in such things. Why, then, is viewing the register so important to you?”

She held his gaze unwaveringly. A moment ticked by, then she sighed and, still entirely relaxed, leaned back in the chair. “It's for my aunt.”

When he looked his surprise, she airily waved. “She's eccentric. Her latest passion is racehorses—that's why we're here. She's curious about every little thing to do with horse racing. She stumbled on mention of this register somewhere, and now nothing will do but for her to know all about it.”

She heaved an artistic sigh. “I didn't think those here would appreciate a fluttery, dotty old dear haunting your foyer, so I came.” Fixing her disturbing green eyes on him, she went on, “And that's why I would like to take a look at this Breeding Register. Just a peek.”

That last was said almost tauntingly. Dillon considered how to reply.

He could walk over to the bookcase, retrieve the current volume of the register, and lay it on the desk before her. Caution argued against showing her where the register was, even what it looked like. He could tell her what information was included in each register entry, but even that might be tempting fate in the guise of someone allied with those planning substitutions. That risk was too serious to ignore.

Perhaps he should call her bluff and suggest she bring her aunt into his office, but no matter how intently he searched her eyes, he couldn't be sure she was lying about her aunt. It was possible her tale, fanciful though it was, was the unvarnished truth. That might result in him breaking the until-now-inviolate rule that no one but he and the register clerks were ever allowed to view the Breeding Register for some fussy old dear.

Who could
not
be counted on not to spread the word.

“I'm afraid, Miss Dalling, that all I can tell you is that the entries in the register comprise a listing of licenses granted to individual horses to race under Jockey Club rules.” He spread his hands in commiseration. “That's really all I'm at liberty to divulge.”

Her green eyes had grown crystalline, hard. “How very mysterious.”

He smiled faintly. “You have to allow us our secrets.”

The distance between them was too great for him to be sure, but he thought her eyes snapped. For an instant, the outcome hung in the balance—whether she would retreat, or try some other, possibly more high-handed means of persuasion—but then she sighed again, lifted her reticule from her lap, and smoothly rose.

Dillon rose, too, surprised by a very real impulse to do something to prolong her visit. But then rounding the desk, he drew close enough to see the expression in her eyes. There was temper there—an Irish temper to match her accent. It was presently leashed, but she was definitely irritated and annoyed with him.

Because she hadn't been able to bend him to her will.

He felt his lips curve, saw annoyance coalesce and intensify in her eyes. She really ought to have known just by looking that he wasn't likely to fall victim to her charms.

Manifold and very real though they were.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Caxton.” Her tone was cold, a shivery coolness, the most her soft brogue would allow. “I'll inform my aunt that she'll have to live with her questions unanswered.”

“I'm sorry to have to disappoint an old lady, however…” He shrugged lightly. “Rules are rules, and there for a good reason.”

He watched for her reaction, for some sign, however slight, of comprehension, but she merely raised her brows in patent disbelief and, with every indication of miffed disappointment, turned away.

“I'll see you to the front door.” He went with her to the door of his room, opened it.

“No need.” Briefly, she met his eyes as she swept past him. “I'm sure I can find my way.”

“Nevertheless.” He followed her into the corridor.

The rigidity of her spine declared she was offended he hadn't trusted her to go straight back to the front foyer if left to herself. But they both knew she wouldn't have, that if he'd set her free she'd have roamed, trusting her beauty to extract her from any difficulty should she be caught where she shouldn't be.

She didn't look back when she reached the foyer and sailed on toward the front doors. “Good-bye, Mr. Caxton.”