Read Online What Price Love? by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online

excellent imagination.”
    â€œMy dear Miss Dalling, what do you imagine will happen if we deliver you to the constable and tell him we discovered you, dressed as you are, hiding in the wood behind the Jockey Club, just as a man seeking to break into the club fled the scene?”
    Once again, she opened her eyes wide; this time, a gentle, subtly mocking smile played about her mobile, thoroughly distracting lips. “Why, that the poor constable will curse his luck and be made to feel terribly uncomfortable, for as we’ve already established, skulking about in the woods is no crime, your assertion that I know the man is pure conjecture, conjecture I absolutely deny, and as for being dressed as I am, I believe you’ll discover that, too, is not against the law.”
    The poor constable would be mesmerized by her voice. If she spoke more than two phrases, it required a conscious exercise of will not to fall under her spell. And, of course, in this case, she spoke the unvarnished truth. Sitting back in his chair, Dillon studied her, deliberately let the moment stretch.
    She met his gaze; her lips curved, just a little—enough for him to know she knew what he was attempting, that she wasn’t susceptible, wasn’t going to feel compelled to fill the silence.
    Despite his intention not to shift his gaze, he found himself glancing at her attire. In a town like Newmarket, the sight of ladies in breeches, while not socially acceptable, was hardly rare. An increasing number of females—Flick being one—were involved in one way or another with preparing race horses, and riding such animals in skirts was simply too dangerous. When he called on Flick, he was as likely to find her in breeches as in skirts.
    It was his familiarity with ladies’ breeches that prodded his mind. Miss Dalling’s weren’t made for her; they didn’t fit well enough, beinga touch too big, the legs a trifle long. Likewise the jacket; the shoulders were too wide, and the cuffs fell across the backs of her hands.
    Her boots were her own—her feet were small and dainty—but the clothes hadn’t been hers originally. Most likely a brother’s…
    Lifting his gaze, he captured hers. “Miss Dalling, can you tell me you don’t know this man—the man Mr. Adair attempted to apprehend?”
    Her fine brows arched haughtily. “My dear Mr. Caxton, I have no intention of telling you anything at all.”
    â€œIs he your brother?”
    Her lashes flickered, but she held his gaze, direct and unflinching. “My brothers are in Ireland.”
    Her tone had gone flat. He knew he’d hit a nerve, but he’d also hit a wall. She would tell him nothing more, at all. Inwardly sighing, he rose, with a wave gestured to the door. “I would thank you for assisting us, Miss Dalling, however…”
    With a look of cool contempt, she rose. Turning, she paused, studying Barnaby. “I’m sorry you were injured, Mr. Adair. Might I suggest ice packs would help with those bruises?”
    She accorded him a regal nod, then, lifting her head, walked to the door.
    Dillon watched her, noting the swaying hips, the supreme confidence in her walk, then he rounded the desk and went after her.
    Even now, especially now, he wasn’t about to let her wander the corridors of the Jockey Club alone.
    Â 
    D amn it, Rus, where are you?”
    Holding her frisky bay mare on a tight rein, Pris scanned the gently undulating grassland that formed Newmarket Heath. Here and there between the scattered trees and copses, strings of horses were being put through the daily round of exercises that kept them in peak condition. Horsey breaths fogged in the crisp morning air. Dawn had just broken; it was cold and misty. Beyond the practicing strings, wholly absorbed with their activities, the Heath was largely empty; other than herself, there were few observers about.
    More would gather as the sun rose higher;