Mrs. Pemberton turned away; a second later, together with Mrs. March, she led the General away to where the older guests were gathering to chat and gossip.
"I say-have you lived in these parts long?"
Flick turned to find Henry March earnestly regarding her. His sister, too, lifting her gaze from a perusal of her blue silk gown, looked interested in the question.
Not so Avril Collins, who was brazenly looking interested in Demon.
"Most of my life," Flick answered, her gaze on Avril Collins's face. "I live with the General at Hillgate End, south of the racecourse."
Avril's pouting lips-they had to be rouged-lifted in a little smile. "I know," she said on a breathless giggle, one finger reaching out to tap Demon's coat, "that you live in London, Mr. Cynster."
Flick glanced at Demon's face. He smiled-not a smile she was used to, but one coolly, distantly polite.
"Actually, I live in London only part of the time. The rest of the time I live near Hillgate End."
"The General keeps a studbook, doesn't he?" Henry March appealed to Flick. "That must be exciting-do you help him keep track of the horses?"
Flick smiled. "It is interesting, but I don't help all that much. Of course, all the talk in the house is about horses."
Henry's eager expression suggested such a household was his idea of heaven.
"Oh, horses!" Avril wrinkled her nose and cast an openly inviting glance at Demon. "Don't you find them the most boring of creatures?"
"No." Demon met her gaze. "I breed them."
Flick could almost feel sorry for Avril Collins-Demon purposely let the silence stretch for one exceedingly uncomfortable instant, then turned to Henry March. "I own the stud farm to the west of the Lidgate road. Stop by some time if you're interested. If I'm not there, my foreman will show you around. Just mention my name."
"T-thank you," Henry stammered. "I'd l-like that immensely."
Mrs. Pemberton appeared with another group of young people. The fresh round of introductions allowed Kitty March to remove her unfortunate friend. Kitty tugged at her brother's sleeve, but he frowned at her, then returned to his open adoration of Flick.
In that pursuit he was joined by the two male members of the new group, both young gentlemen from nearby estates. Somewhat disconcerted by their soulful looks, Flick did her best to encourage rational conversation, only to be defeated by their patent silliness.
Their silliness, however, was nothing compared to their sisters' witlessness, their vapidity. Flick was not sure which she found more distracting.
"No." She drew a patient breath. "I don't watch every race. The Jockey Club sends all the results to the General."
"Do you get to name all the new foals?" One of the young ladies stared wide-eyed up at Demon.
Wearily resigned, he raised his brows. "I suppose I do."
"Oh! That must be so wonderful." The young damsel clasped her hands to her breast. "Thinking up sweet names for all those lovely little foals, staggering around on their shaky legs."
Flick immediately looked back at her group of swains. "Do any of you come to Newmarket to see the races?"
She struggled on, racking her brain for topics on which they might have more than two words to contribute. Most of such topics concerned racing, horses and carriages-within minutes, Demon insinuated a comment into their conversation. A minute later, he somehow managed to merge the two groups, which left the young ladies a trifle miffed, but they didn't move away.
Which was a pity, as Mrs. Pemberton arrived with another wave of admirers, both for her and Demon. Flick found herself facing five males, while Demon had his hands full, figuratively speaking, with six young girls. And one not-so-young, not-so-innocent young madam.
"What a delightful surprise, Mr. Cynster, to discover a gentleman of your standing at a gathering such as this. In case you missed my name, I'm Miss Henshaw."
The throaty voice had Flick quickly turning.
"I say-you ride that pretty little mare, don't you? The one with the white hocks."
Distracted, Flick glanced back at one of the new male additions. "Yes. That's Jessamy."
"Do you jump her?"
"Not especially."
"Well, you should. I've seen conformations like that around the traps-she'll do well, mark my words."
Flick shook her head. "Jessamy's not-
"Dare say you might not know, being a female, but take my word for it-she's got good legs and good stamina." The bluffly genial youth, the local squire's son, grinned at her, the epitome of a patronizing male. "If you like, I could organize a jockey and trainer for you."
"Yes, but-" one of her earnest admirers cut in. "She lives with the General-he keeps the stud records."
"So?" Bluff-and-genial raised a dismissive brow. "What's dusty old records got to do with it? This is horseflesh we're talking about."
A throaty laugh came from beyond Demon. Flick gritted her teeth. "For your information"-her tone stopped all argument and made Bluff-and-genial blink-"Jessamy is an investment. As a broodmare, she has arguably the best bloodlines in the country. You may be very certain I will not be risking her in any steeplechase."
"Oh," was all Bluff-and-genial dared say.
Flick turned to deal with the throaty-voiced Miss Henshaw-and saw a black-haired beauty, smiling and laughing, leaning close to Demon, her face tipped up to his. She was, Flick saw in that one chilling instant, a lot taller than she herself was-so her face, tilted up, was much closer to Demon's, her lips closer to his-
"Now, my dears!"
Every head in the room lifted; everyone looked to where Mrs. Pemberton stood, clapping her hands for attention. "Now," she reiterated, when everyone was silent, "it's time to find your partners for the first dance."
There was an instant of silence, then a rush as all the young men jockeyed for position. A chorus of invitations and acceptances filled the air.
Flick found herself facing three earnest young men-Bluff-and-genial had been shouldered aside.
"My dear Miss Parteger, if you will-
"I pray, kind lady, that-
"If you would honor me with this dance-"
Flick blinked at their youthful faces-they all seemed so young. She didn't need to look to know that the seductive Miss Henshaw was batting her long lashes at Demon. She didn't need to look, but she wanted to. She wanted to-
"Actually," a deep drawling voice purred just above her right ear, "Miss Parteger's first dance is mine."
Demon's hand closed firmly about hers; Flick looked up to see him smile with a shatteringly superior air at her youthful admirers. There was no chance in heaven they would argue.
The relief she felt was quite definite, the reasons for it less clear. Luckily, she didn't need to dwell on it. Demon glanced down at her and raised one brow. Gracefully, she inclined her head. He set her hand on his sleeve; the others fell back as he led her onto the rapidly clearing floor.
The dance was to be a cotillion. As Demon led her to a set, Flick whispered, "I know the theory, but I've never actually danced one of these in my life."
He smiled reassuringly. "Just copy what the other lady does. If you wander off in the wrong direction, I'll grab you."
Despite all, despite her dismissive humph, she found that promise comforting.
They took their positions and the music started; despite her worries, she quickly found the rhythm. The dips and sways and hand-clasped twirls were heavily repetitive; it wasn't that hard to keep her place. And Demon's touch was reassuring-every time his fingers closed about hers, he steadied her, even if she wasn't drifting.
As the dance progressed, she felt increasingly assured-assured enough to stop frowning and smile when her eyes touched his. She laughed up at him, over her shoulder, as he twirled her into their final pose, then she sank into an extravagantly deep curtsy as he bowed, equally extravagantly, to her.
Demon raised her; he wondered if she knew how brightly her eyes were shining, how gloriously unabashed, unfett
ered in her enjoyment she was. She was so different from the other young ladies in the room, all careful to mind their words, their expressions, if not to artfully deploy them. She was unrestrained in her appreciation-something tonnish ladies rarely were. Exuberance, even if honest, was not the ton's way.
It was Flick's way-her wide smile and laughing eyes had him smiling, equally honestly, in reply. "And now," he said, and had to draw a deeper breath as he drew her closer and looked into her eyes, "we must return to our duty."
She laughed. "Which duty is that?"
The duty he alluded to was to dance with all the other young people gathered at the vicarage for that purpose. They had barely returned to the side of the room before Flick's hand was solicited for a country dance.
Her other hand still rested on Demon's sleeve. She looked up at him-he smiled reassuringly, squeezed her fingers lightly, then let her go.
As she twirled down the room, Flick noticed Demon twirling, too, with the vicar's daughter. Letting her gaze slide away, she smiled easily at her partner, Henry March.
Dance followed dance, but with time between to allow the dancers to chat. To get to know each other better, to find their feet socially. That was, after all, what the evening was about. The older members of the company sat at the rear of the room, smiling and nodding, watching benignly as their youngsters mingled.
Mrs. Pemberton, her duty as hostess done, sank into a chair beside the General. Luckily, the General was deep in discussion with the vicar; Mrs. Pemberton did not interrupt. Relieved, Flick looked away. Beside her, Demon shifted. Flick looked up, and he caught her eye. And raised a knowing brow. She stared into his eyes, at the comprehension therein, then put her nose in the air and looked away. And straggled to ignore the frisson that shot through her when his hand shifted and his fingers brushed hers amid her skirts.
The dances that followed proved a trial. It was increasingly difficult to keep her mind on her steps. As for her eyes, they rarely rested on her partner. Twirling, whirling, she shot glances through the throng, through the constantly moving mass. Looking, searching…
She located Demon-he was dancing with Kitty March. Flick relaxed.
The next measure, however, he partnered Miss Henshaw.
Flick collided with another lady in her set, and nearly ended on her bottom. Flustered, she gasped, "I think" she didn't have to feign her shaking voice-"that I'd better sit out the rest of this dance."
Her partner, a Mr. Drysdale, was only too willing to solicitously help her from the floor.
By the time Demon returned to her side at the end of the dance, as he had at the end of every dance thus far, Flick had herself well in hand. She'd lectured herself more sternly than she ever had in her life.
It was ridiculous! What on earth was she doing-thinking? Watching over him as if she was jealous. How foolish-making a cake of herself like that. Pray God he hadn't noticed, or he'd tease her unmercifully. And she'd deserve it. There was nothing between them-nothing!
She greeted him with a cool smile and immediately looked away.
His fingers found hers in her skirts-and tugged. She had to look up and meet his gaze.
It was serious, exceedingly intent. "Are you all right?"
His eyes searched hers; God alone knew what he saw. Flick dragged in a breath-and wished she could drag her gaze from his. "It was just a silly slip. I didn't fall."
A frown darkened his eyes; his lips firmed, but then he nodded and, very slowly, released her hand. "Be more careful-this is, after all, your first time at a dance."
If she'd been feeling at all normal she would have responded to that as it deserved. Instead, the lingering touch of his fingers had blown all her certainties to the wind.
Nothing? If this-the light that turned his eyes dark and smoldering, the sense of protection, of strength, she felt flowing from him, the answering hitch in her breathing, the yearning that grew stronger, day by day, for him-if this was nothing, what would something be like?
More conscious of her heartbeat, of the rise and fall of her breasts than she'd ever been in her life, she looked away.
When she whirled down the next dance, she was conscious of him watching her, aware to her toes of the blue gaze that missed nothing, not a step, not a turn. He was waiting when her partner returned her to the side of the room. As if it was only natural, she slipped into the space beside him.
His gaze swept her face, but he said nothing.
Until the music started up again.
"My dance, I believe."
His tone brooked no argument-from her potential partners, or her. She inclined her head graciously, as if she'd been expecting his claim. Perhaps she had.
For him to dance with her a second time while there were other young ladies he had not yet favored lent the action a particularity it would otherwise not have had-he was clearly singling her out. Despite her lack of social experience, she knew it-and knew beyond doubt that he did, too.
It was a simple country dance that left them partnered throughout, without interaction with other dancers; they had no need to shift their attention from each other. From the instant the music started and their fingers touched, their focus was fixed. For her part, she barely heard the music. She moved instinctively, matching his actions, responding to directing touches so light she felt them more with her senses than with her nerves.
His eyes held her. His gaze, as brilliantly blue as a summer sky, wrapped her in its warmth. And she knew-knew that he was squiring her, deliberately, intentionally. Intent as only he could be. He was wooing her-even if the idea seemed so wild and impossible that her mind could not accept it, her senses did. Her first impulse was to step back-to safety, to a point where she could look about and understand. But while she whirled and twirled, her eyes never leaving his, there was no place of safety, nowhere she could hide from the smoldering glow in his eyes-and the very last thing she wanted to do was run.
His gaze held her effortlessly, yet without compulsion; she was fascinated, and that alone was power enough to keep her whirling. The sliding brush of his ringers as their hands met and parted, the gliding caress, so delicate, as he steered her into a sweeping turn-each was planned deliberately, executed with intent. In that single dance, he wove a net about her-one invisible to the eye but very clear to her senses.
Her nerves tingled, tightened; each heartbeat heightened her awareness. Until his every touch held a temptation and a promise, echoed by their movements in the dance.
She swayed closer, looking up as he drew her nearer, and felt the temptation to surrender. To surrender to the conviction of what he was telling her, to give in and believe that he wanted her to be his wife. And would have her.
The dance moved on, and she drew away, until their fingers barely touched. And heard his promise, unspoken, that if she surrendered she'd enjoy-experience-the full pleasures of the flesh.
He was adept at sending that message, expert at making the temptation grow, and the promise shine and beckon like gold.
The music ended. And they stopped. But the temptation and the promise still shone in his eyes.
She felt like Cinderella when he raised her hand and brushed his lips gently across her fingertips.
Chapter 9
When the next dance commenced, Demon was, courtesy of Mrs. Pemberton, at the opposite end of the room from Flick. Within seconds of their leaving the floor, the vicar's wife had descended on them; with irresistible energy, she'd insisted on taking Demon to introduce him to others of the company.
Her "others" were the collected matrons of the district; Demon was amused to realize their fell purpose in speaking with him was to subtlely encourage his pursuit of Flick.
"She's such a pretty little thing, and quite assured," Mrs. Wallace, of the Hadfield-Wallaces of Dullingham, nodded sagely. "As experienced as you are, you'll have noticed-she's not just in the common way."
Demon smiled, content to let them convince him of the lightness of his cause. He didn't need convincing, but
it wouldn't hurt his campaign to have the matrons' support.
Because of his height, he could track Flick's crowning glory. As the ladies' comments continued, he started to chafe at the bit. He understood very well the reasons behind their reactions-those reasons were gathered about Flick like swarming bees about a honeypot.
Their sons looked set to make cakes of themselves over her-their fond mamas could read the script with ease. It was, therefore, in their best interests to have Demon waltz Flick off her feet, out of reach of their moonfaced sons, so said sons could recover quickly and apply themselves to the real business of the upcoming Season-finding themselves suitable wives.
Flick, of course, was highly suitable, but the ladies had accepted that their sons were not in the running, just as they'd accepted that their daughters had no chance of catching Demon's eye. It was therefore best on all counts to get him and Flick quickly paired and out of contention, before they caused any major disruptions to the good ladies' matrimonial plans.
Such was their strategy. As their plans marched so well with his, Demon was perfectly ready to reassure them as to his intentions. "Her knowledge of horses is extensive." He made the comment offhandedly, yet appreciatively. "And, of course, she is the General's ward."
"Indeed," Mrs. Wallace nodded approvingly. "So very appropriate."
"A happy circumstance," Mrs. Pemberton concurred.
With an elegant bow, quite sure they all understood each other well, Demon left them. He ambled down the side of the room, scanning the dancers. He couldn't see Flick.
Halting, he searched more carefully-she wasn't there.
He located the General, chatting with a group of older gentlemen-Flick wasn't with him.
Swallowing a curse directed at milksops who couldn't be trusted to keep a quick-witted girl in line, Demon strolled as swiftly as he could to where he'd last seen her, at the far end of the room. He reached the corner, wondering what had got into her head. Surely her disappearance didn't have anything to do with Bletchley and the syndicate?
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