Stephanie Laurens - What Price Love?

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.”