Exchanging glances and raised brows, the other ladies departed, all except Celeste and her friend, who was artfully rerouging her lips.
“You have heard, have you not,” Celeste’s friend murmured, “the rumors that he’s to wed?”
“Hmm,” Celeste purred. In the mirror, her eyes sought Flick’s. “But why should that worry me? I don’t want to marry him.”
Her friend snickered. “We all know what you want, but he might have other ideas—at least once he marries. He is a Cynster after all.”
“I do not understand this.” Celeste had a definite accent, one Flick couldn’t place; it only made her purring voice more sensual, more evocative. “What matter his name?”
“Not his name—his family. Not even that, but . . . well, they’ve all proved remarkably constant as husbands.”
Celeste made a moue; she tilted her head—from beneath half-closed lids, her eyes glinted. Deliberately, she leaned toward the mirror, trailing her fingers tantalizingly across the full curves and deep cleavage thus revealed. Then she straightened, gracefully lifting her arms and half turning to examine her bottom, superbly displayed by her satin gown. Then her gaze locked with Flick’s. “I suspect,” she purred, “that this case will prove an exception.”
Feeling more ill than when she’d entered, Flick rose. Summoning strength from she knew not where, she crossed to the table by the door. Shakily, she set the glass down—the click drew the attention of Celeste’s friend. As she slipped through the door, Flick glimpsed a horrified face and heard a moaned “Oh, Lord!”
The door closed; Flick stood in the dim corridor, the impulse to flee overpowering. But how could she leave? Where could she go? Drawing in a huge breath, she held it and lifted her chin. Defying the sick giddiness that assailed her, refusing to let herself think of what she’d heard, she headed back to the ballroom.
She’d gone no more than three paces when a figure materialized from the shadows.
“There you are, miss! I’ve been chasing you for hours.”
Flick blinked—into the pinched features of her Aunt Scroggs. Clinging to the tattered remnants of her dignity, she bobbed a curtsy. “Good evening, Aunt. I hadn’t realized you were here.”
“No doubt! You’ve been far too busy with those young blighters that surround you. Which is precisely what I want to speak to you about.” Wrapping thin fingers about Flick’s elbow, Edwina Scroggs looked toward the withdrawing room.
“There are ladies in there.” Flick couldn’t bear to go back, much less explain why.
“Humph!” Glancing around, Edwina drew her to the side, hard against the tapestry-covered wall. “This will have to do then—there’s no one about.”
The comment sent an unwelcome chill through Flick; she was already inwardly shivering. Lady Horatia had helped her locate her aunt; she’d visited her early in her stay. There was, however, nothing more than duty between them—her aunt had married socially beneath her and now lived as a penny-pinching widow, despite being relatively affluent.
Edwina Scroggs had been paid by her parents to take her in for the short time they’d expected to be away. The minute news of their deaths had arrived, Mrs. Scroggs had declared she couldn’t be expected to house, feed and watch over a girl of seven. She’d literally flung Flick onto the mercy of the wider family—thankfully, the General had been there to catch her.
“It’s about all these youngsters you’ve got sniffing at your skirts.” Putting her face close, Edwina hissed, “Forget them, do you hear?” She trapped Flick’s startled gaze. “It’s my duty to steer you right, and I’d be lacking indeed if I didn’t tell you to your face. You’re staying with the Cynsters—the word around town is that the son’s got his eye on you.”
Edwina pressed closer; Flick’s lungs seized.
“My advice to you, miss, is to make it his hands. You’re quick enough—and this is too good a chance to pass up. The family’s one of the wealthiest in the land, but they can be high in the instep. So you take my advice and get his ring on your finger the fastest way you know how.” Edwina’s eyes gleamed. “Seems Cynsters are prime ’uns, always ready to take what they can get. That house is monstrous enough—no difficulty to find a quiet room to—”
“No!” Flick pushed past her aunt and fled down the corridor.
She stopped just outside the swath of light spilling from the ballroom. Ignoring the surprise in the little maid’s eyes, she pressed a hand to her chest, closed her eyes and struggled to breathe. To hold back the silly tears. To still the pounding in her head.
Cynsters are prime ’uns, always ready to take what they can get.
She managed two breaths, neither deep enough, then heard her aunt’s heels tapping, tapping, nearer . . .
Sucking in a breath, she opened her eyes and plunged into the ballroom.
And collided with Demon.
“Oh!” She managed to mute her cry, then ducked her head so he couldn’t see her face. Reflexively, he caught her, his hands firm about her arms as he steadied her.
In the next heartbeat, his grip tightened. “What’s wrong?”
His tone was oddly flat. Flick didn’t dare look up—she shook her head. “Nothing.”
His grip tightened, his fingers iron shackles about her upper arms. “Dammit, Flick—!”
“It’s nothing.” She squirmed. Because of his size, and because they were standing just inside the door, thus far they’d attracted no attention. “You’re hurting me,” she hissed.
Immediately, his grip eased. His hands remained on her upper arms, holding her away from him but sliding soothingly up and down, warm palms to her bare skin, slipping beneath the silk folds that formed her sleeves. His touch was so evocative—so tempting; she was wracked by the urge to sob and launch herself into his arms—
She couldn’t do that.
Stiffening her spine, she hauled in a breath and lifted her head. “It’s nothing,” she restated, looking past his shoulder to where couples were milling on the dance floor.
Eyes narrowed, Demon stared over her head, into the shadows of the corridor. “What did your aunt say to upset you?” His voice was even—too even. It sounded deadly, which was precisely how he felt.
Flick shook her head. “Nothing!”
He studied her face, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She was as white as a sheet and . . . fragile was the word that leapt to mind. “Was it one of those puppies—the ones yapping at your heels?” If it was, he’d kill them.
“No!” She shot him a venomous look; her chin set. “It was nothing.”
The effort she was making to pull herself together was visible. He didn’t move—while he stood before her, she was screened from curious eyes.
“It was nothing,” she repeated in a steadier voice.
She was trembling, more inside than outwardly—he could sense it. His impulse was to drag her off to some quiet room where he could wrap her in his arms, wear down her resistance and learn what was wrong—but he didn’t trust himself alone with her. Not in his current state. It had been bad enough before. Now . . .
He drew in a breath and seized the moments she needed to calm herself to steady his own wracked nerves. And reshackle his demons.
The cross he’d fashioned and willingly taken up was proving much heavier than he’d expected. Not spending any time with her—even by her side in a ballroom—was eating at his control. But he’d set the stage; now he had to play his part and stick by the script he’d written.
For her good, for her protection, he had to keep his distance.
That sentence was hard enough to bear—he didn’t need anyone adding to his burden. Bad enough that he’d had to force himself to swallow every instinct he possessed and watch as she waltzed with other men. Until she agreed to marry him and they made a public announcement, he didn’t dare waltz with her in public. And, given who he was—a much older, infinitely more experienced rake—and the fact that she was transparently innocent, they could never be private, not until they w
ere formally engaged.
Straightening, he let his arms fall—she shivered at the loss of his touch. Jaw clenching, he drew in a patient breath and waited.
How long he could wait, he didn’t know. Every night, the ordeal of the waltz grew worse. Those who’d previously been his partners had tried to tease him onto the floor, but he had no desire to waltz with them. He wanted his angel and only her, but he’d used the others for distraction—not his, but the ton’s.
Tonight, it had been Celeste—he’d almost managed to distract himself by giving the salacious countess her congé in no uncertain terms, for she’d proved she understood nothing else. Miffed, she’d peeled herself from him and swanned off in a snit, from which he sincerely hoped she never recovered. For one moment, he’d felt good—buoyed by success. Until he’d glanced up and seen Flick in that puppy Bristol’s arms.
Half-turning, his gaze raked the dance floor. Couples were forming sets for the next country dance, the second of the dances he permitted himself with Flick. As far as he could tell, all her puppies were somewhere on the floor. So who had upset her?
He looked back at her; she was calmer—a touch of color had returned to her cheeks. “Perhaps we should stroll, rather than dance.”
She shot him a startled look. “No! I mean—” Shaking her head wildly, she looked away. “No, let’s dance.”
She sounded suddenly breathless; Demon narrowed his eyes.
“I owe you a dance—it’s on my dance card.” Gulping in a breath, she nodded. “That’s what you want from me, so let’s dance. The music’s starting.”
He hesitated, then, using his grace to camouflage her state, he bowed and led her to the nearest set.
The instant he took her hand in his, he knew he’d been right to acquiesce—she was so brittlely tense, so fragile, that if he pressed her she’d shatter. She was holding herself together by sheer force of will—all he could do was support her as best he could.
It was just as well he was there. He could perform any dance with his eyes closed, but she’d only learned the steps in the last weeks. She needed to concentrate, but that was presently beyond her. So he guided her as if she was a nervous filly with his hand on her reins. For most of the dance, their hands were locked—by squeezing her fingers, this way or that, he directed her through the figures.
He’d never seen her clumsy before, but she nearly stumbled twice, and bumped into two other ladies.
What the devil was wrong?
Something had changed, not just tonight but gradually. He’d been watching her closely; he wasn’t mistaken. There’d been a joy in her eyes, a delight in life, that had, over the past days, slowly faded. Not the sensual glow he fought to avoid eliciting, but something else—something simpler. It had always been there, vibrant, in her eyes. Now, he could barely detect it.
The music ended with a flourish; the dancers bowed and curtsied. Flick turned from the floor and drew in a breath—he knew it was one of relief. He hesitated, then took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “Come,” he said, as she looked up at him. “I’ll take you to my mother.”
She, too, hesitated, then acquiesced with a small nod.
He didn’t let her go until he’d planted her beside the chaise where his mother was chatting. Horatia looked up fleetingly, noting Flick’s return, but turned back to her conversation immediately. Demon would have said something to her, if he could have thought of what to say. He glanced down at Flick; she still wouldn’t meet his eyes. She was still very tense—he didn’t dare press her.
Girding his loins for the inner battle he fought each time he left her, he stiffly inclined his head. “I’ll leave you to your friends.” Then he moved away.
Her court gathered around her almost instantly. Retreating to the wall nearby, Demon studied the group but could detect no reaction on Flick’s part; he could discern no threat from any one of her admirers. Indeed, she seemed to treat them as the puppies he’d labelled them, managing them with an absentminded air.
He wanted to stride back and disperse them, but it was hardly acceptable behavior. His mother would never forgive him and Flick might not, either. He couldn’t even join her circle; he’d be too utterly out of place within her youthful court, a wolf amidst so many sheep.
The evening, thank God, was nearly over.
Stifling a grunt, he forced himself to stroll farther away, and not stand there staring quite so hungrily at her.
Fate had one last trial in store for him that evening.
He was propping up the wall, minding Flick’s business, when a gentleman, every bit as languidly elegant as he, caught sight of him, smiled, then strolled over.
Demon ignored the smile. Grimly, he nodded. “Evening, Chillingworth.”
“One would never imagine it a good one from your expression, dear boy.” Glancing over the intervening heads to where Flick was passing the time with an enjoyment more apparent than real, Chillingworth’s smile deepened. “A tasty little morsel, I grant you, but I never thought you, of them all, would saddle yourself with this.”
Demon decided not to understand. “This what?”
“Why—” Chillingworth turned his head and met his eyes. “This torment, of course.”
Demon held back a glare, but his eyes narrowed; Chillingworth grinned and looked again at Flick. “Devil, of course, was doomed to run the full race, but the rest of you had far greater latitude. Vane had the sense to avail himself of it and marry Patience away from the ton. Richard—I always considered him the most sane—married his wild witch in Scotland, as far from the mad whirl as it’s possible to get. So—” Pondering Flick, Chillingworth mused, “I have to ask myself why—why you’ve put yourself in line for such punishment.” Amused understanding in his eyes, he glanced at Demon. “You must admit it’s hardly comfortable.”
Demon was not about to admit anything, and certainly not that. That his inner demons were howling with frustration. That he was hardly sleeping, barely eating, and as physically uncomfortable as it was possible to be. He met Chillingworth’s gaze steadily. “I’ll live.”
“Hmm.” Chillingworth’s lips curved into a full smile. “Your fortitude leaves me quite . . .” Turning, he studied Flick. “Envious.”
Demon stiffened.
“As you know,” Chillingworth murmured, “young innocents have never been my cup of tea.” He glanced back and met Demon’s stony stare. “However, I’ve always been in remarkable accord with your family’s taste in women.” He looked back at Flick. “Perhaps—?”
“Don’t.”
The single word rang with lethal warning. Chillingworth’s head snapped around; he met Demon’s eyes. For one instant, despite their elegance, the scene turned primitive, the force resonating between them both primal and violent.
Then Chillingworth’s lips curved; triumph gleamed in his eyes. “Perhaps not.” Smiling, he inclined his head and turned away.
Inwardly cursing, Demon was damned if he’d let him escape unmarked. “If Devil was doomed, and he was, then so will you be.”
Chillingworth chuckled as he strolled away. “Oh, no, dear boy.” His words floated back. “I do assure you, this will never happen to me.”
“Thank you, Highthorpe.” After handing over his gloves and cane, Demon strode down the corridor and swung into his parents’ dining room.
And came to a dead halt.
His mother’s brows rose. “Good morning. And what brings you out this early?”
Surveying the empty chairs about the table, Demon inwardly grimaced. He’d asked for his mother, assuming Flick would be with her. Returning his gaze to Horatia’s face, he raised his brows. “Felicity?”
Horatia studied him. “Still abed.”
It was past ten. Flick, Demon was certain, would be up at the crack of dawn, regardless of how late she’d been up the night before. She was used to riding early—morning stables started at dawn.
The impulse to ask Horatia to check on her gnawed at him. He resisted only because he couldn
’t think of any reason for such a peculiar request.
Horatia was watching him, waiting to see if he’d do anything revealing. He actually considered letting her guess. It wouldn’t take much to have her leap to the right conclusion; she knew her sons well. But . . . there was no guarantee, regardless of how understanding she might be, that she wouldn’t, however unintentionally, pressure Flick into accepting him. And he didn’t want her to be pressured.
Lips compressing, he nodded curtly. “I’ll see you this evening.” He was supposed to escort them to a party. He swung on his heel—then paused, and looked back. And met Horatia’s eye. “Tell her I called.”
Then he left.
He stopped on the pavement, drew in a deep breath, then looked down and pulled on his gloves. In the wee hours, when he’d been lying in bed wracking his brains, he’d remembered Flick’s “that’s what you want from me.”
They’d been talking about a dance—at least, he had. So what had she meant? He didn’t want her for a dance partner—at least, not primarily—not for that sort of dance.
He sighed and looked up, tightly gripping his cane. His mind was running hard in predictable grooves. Restraining his impulses, his instincts, never stronger than where she was concerned, was proving harder, more debilitating, day by day. Just how close to the edge of control he was had been demonstrated last night—he’d overheard two of her youthful swains referring to her as “Their Angel.” He’d nearly erupted—nearly kicked them and the other yapping puppies away from her skirts, and told them to go find their own angel. She was his.
Instead, he’d forced himself to grit his teeth and bear it. How much longer he could manage to do so he really didn’t know.
But he couldn’t stand on the pavement outside his parents’ house for the rest of the day.
Grimacing, he reached into his coat pocket and hauled out the list Montague had drawn up for him in between searching for clues left by the money. Checking the addresses on the list, he set out for the closest.
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