"I dare say."

His tone was as stubborn as hers.

She opened her mouth to argue-and caught sight of the pair of blacks harnessed to his curricle. Her face softened, her eyes lit. "Oh-what beauties!" Her tone was reverent, a fitting tribute to the surely matchless horses impatiently pawing the gravel. "Are they new?"

"Yes." Demon strolled in her wake as she circled the pair, exclaiming over their points. When she paused for breath, he nonchalantly added, "I thought I'd take them for a short outing, just to get them used to town traffic."

Eyes still round, fixed on the blacks' sleek hides, she wasn't paying attention; seizing the moment, he took her hand and helped her into the curricle.

"They hold their heads so well." She settled on the seat. "What's their action like?"

Barely pausing for his answer, she rattled on knowledgeably; by the time she'd run through all her questions and exclamations they were rolling down the drive. Demon kept his gaze on his horses, waiting for her to suddenly realize and berate him for taking advantage. Instead, she set her books on the seat between them and leaned back with a soft sigh.

As the peace unexpectedly lengthened, he shot her a glance; she was sitting easily, one hand braced on the side railing, her gaze fixed, not on the blacks, but on his hands.

She was watching him handle the ribbons, watching his fingers flick and slide along the leather strips. There was an eager light in her eyes, a wistful expression on her face.

He faced forward; a moment later, he clenched his jaw.

Never in his entire career had he let a female drive his cattle.

The blacks, although new, were well broken; thus far, they'd proved well behaved. And he would be sitting beside her.

If he did it once, she'd expect him to do it again.

When riding, she had a more delicate touch on the reins than even he.

Turning out of the manor drive, he set the curricle bowling down the road to Newmarket, but he didn't slacken the reins. Instead, drawing in a breath, he turned to Flick. "Would you like to take the reins for a stretch?"

The look on her face was payment enough for his abused sensibilities-stunned surprise gave way to eager joy, swiftly tempered.

"But…" She looked at him, hope warring with imminent disappointment. "I've never driven a pair before."

He forced himself to shrug lightly. "It's not that different from a single horse. Here-shift those books and come closer." She did, eagerly sliding along the seat until her thigh brushed his. Ignoring the heat that shot straight to his loins, he transferred the reins to her small hands, keeping his fingers tensioning the leather until he was sure she had them.

"No." Expertly, he relaid the reins across her left palm. "Like that, so you've got simultaneous control over them both with just one hand."

She nodded, looking so excited that he wondered if she could speak at all. Sitting back, one arm along the seat behind her, ready to grab her if anything did go wrong, he watched her, his gaze flicking ahead now and again to check the road. But he knew it well, and so did she.

She had a little difficulty checking the pair for a curve; he gritted his teeth and managed not to reach out and lay his hand over hers. Thereafter, however, she adjusted; gradually, as the fields rolled past, they both relaxed.

There was, he discovered, one benefit in being driven by a lady-one he trusted not to land them in a ditch. He could keep his gaze wholly on her-on her face, on her figure, in this case, neat and trim in cambric. Her hair, those lovely golden curls, was constantly ruffling in the wind of their passage, a living frame for her delicate face.

A face flushed with pleasure, with an excitement he understood. She was thrilled and delighted. He felt decidedly smug.

She cast him a dubious glance as the first stables by the racecourse came into sight. From there on, there would be other horses, people, even dogs about-all things to which the blacks might take exception. Demon nodded; sitting up, he expertly lifted the reins from her hands. He readjusted the reins, letting the blacks know he had them again.

Flick sat back with an ecstatic sigh. She had always-forever-wanted to drive a curricle. And Demon's blacks! They were the most perfect young pair she'd ever seen. Not as powerful as his champion bays, but so very elegant, with their slim legs and long, sleekly arched necks.

And she'd driven them! She could hardly wait to tell the General. And Dillon-he would be green with envy. She sighed again; with a contented smile, she looked around.

Only then did she remember their earlier words-only then did she realize she'd been kidnapped. Lured away. Enticed into a gentleman's curricle with tempting promises and whisked into town.

She slanted a glance at her abductor. He was looking ahead, his expression easy but uninformative. There was nothing to say he'd planned this-that he'd purposely had the blacks put to that morning just so he could distract her.

She wouldn't mind betting he had.

Unfortunately, after enjoying herself so thoroughly, it would be churlish indeed to cavil. So she sat back and enjoyed herself some more, watching as he deftly tacked through the increasing traffic to pull up before the lending library, just off the High Street halfway through the town.

As was usual, the sight of a magnificent pair had drawn a gaggle of boys in their wake. After handing her to the pavement, Demon selected two and, with strict instructions, left the blacks in their care.

That surprised Flick, but she was too wise to show it; carrying her books, she headed for the library door. Demon followed on her heels; he reached over her shoulder and pushed the door wide.

She walked through into familiar surroundings-the wide front bay where two old gentlemen sat, dozing over their history books, the narrow aisles leading away toward the back of what had once been a hall, each aisle lined on both sides with bookshelves crammed to overflowing.

"Hello, Mrs. Higgins," Flick whispered to the large, homely woman who presided over her domain from behind a table near the entrance. "I'm returning these."

"Good, good." Perching her pince-nez on her nose, Mrs. Higgins peered down at the titles. "Ah, yes, and did the General enjoy the Major's biography?"

"He did indeed. He asked me to see if there were any more like it."

"You'll find all we have in the second aisle, dear-about midway down…" Mrs. Higgins's words trailed away. Looking past Flick, she slowly raised her hand and removed her pince-nez, the better to take in who had strayed into her castle.

"Mr. Cynster's escorting me," Flick explained. Facing Demon, she gestured to the chairs in the front bay. "Would you like to wait there?"

He glanced at the two old gents, then looked back at her, his expression utterly blank. "I'll follow you."

He proceeded to do so, strolling directly behind her as she wandered down the aisles.

Flick tried to ignore him and concentrate on the books, but novels and literary heroes could not compete with the masculine presence prowling in her wake. The more she tried to shut him out, the more he intruded on her mind, on her senses. Which was the very last thing she needed.

She was confused enough about him as it was.

After spending the hours until dawn reliving their second dance, reliving that amazing waltz, and replaying everything they'd said in the moonlight, over her breakfast toast she'd made a firm resolution to put the entire matter from her-and wait and see.

Wait for him to make the next move-and see if it made any more sense than his last.

She had a very strong notion she was misinterpreting, through lack of experience, reading more into his words, his actions, than he intended. He was accustomed to dallying with sophisticated ladies of the ton. Doubtless, that matter of their second dance, and the waltz, and his warm words in the moonlight-and, of course, that kiss-were all simply tonnish dalliance, the way ladies and gentlemen of his ilk entertained themselves of an evening. A form of sophisticated teasing. The more she thought of it, the more that seemed likely.

In which case, the last thing she should do was place any great emphasis on any of it.

Determinedly, she halted before the bookshelf housing her favorite novels-those of Miss Austen and Mrs. Radcliffe. Ignoring the disapproving humph from behind her, she stubbornly scanned the shelves.

Demon propped one shoulder against a bookshelf, slid his hands into his pockets, and watched her with a distinctly jaundiced eye. If she wanted romance, why the hell was she looking at books?

The fact she was didn't auger well for his plans. He watched as she pulled books out and studied them, returning some, retaining others-and wondered if there was any way he could step up his campaign. Unfortunately, she was young and innocent-and strong-willed and stubborn.

Which meant that if he pushed too hard, drove too fast, she might turn skittish and difficult.

Which would slow things down all the more. He'd gentled enough high-couraged horses to know the value of patience. And, of course, this time, there was no question of him not succeeding-he intended to get his ring on her finger no matter how long it took.

This time, he refused to entertain any possibility of defeat. Last time, when he'd turned up at the manor, ready to offer himself up on a sacrificial matrimonial altar, he hadn't known what he was about. He hadn't stopped to think-he'd reacted instinctively to the situation about him. Discovering that Flick had made everything right so there was no need for them to marry had brought him up short. He'd been stunned, but not with joy. He had, in fact, been distinctly unamused, and even less amused by that fact.