That had certainly made him think. He'd spent the next twenty-four hours doing precisely that, doggedly separating his real desires from the disguise of convenience he'd wrapped them in, only to discover that, as usual, his instincts hadn't misled him.

He wanted to marry the chit-never mind why-and having her compromised so innocently had been a convenient, if not perfect, avenue by which to stake his claim. His wish to marry her was not at all innocent-his thoughts, even then, had been colored by desire. His disappointment had been so acute that he'd actually felt hurt, which had annoyed him all the more.

No woman had ever made him feel this uncertain, had made him ache with desire with no surety of relief.

His sudden susceptibility-his need for an angel-was something he wanted dealt with quickly. Once he had her safely wedded and bedded, he was sure he'd feel better-back to his usual, assured, self-reliant, self-confident self.

Which was why he proposed to dog her every step until she agreed to marry him. He could only pray it wouldn't take too long.

With three books in her arms, she finally quit that bookshelf and strolled farther down the aisle. Pushing away from his resting place, Demon ambled after her. She paused to select a cookbook; he glanced at the title as she lifted it down. Italian Renaissance Recipes.

"Are you planning to entertain an Italian count?"

She glanced at him. "It's for Foggy-she loves reading recipes." The book was large and heavy; she juggled it, trying to settle it in her arms.

"Here." He reached for the book.

"Oh-thank you." With a grateful smile, she handed him the cookbook and her three novels.

Lips setting, Demon accepted them all, reminding himself that none of his acquaintances, not even Reggie, were likely to come in and discover him wandering the aisles at an angel's beck and call, loaded with cookbooks and romantic novels.

Flick's next stop was the biographies. "The General likes reading about gentlemen connected with horses. The last book I got for him was about a cavalry major." Frowning, she studied the shelves. "Do you know of any work he might find interesting?"

Demon glanced at the leather and gilt spines. "I don't read much."

"Oh?" Brows rising, she looked up. "What do you do of a quiet evening?"

He trapped her wide gaze. "Active endeavors are more to my taste."

A puzzled frown formed in her eyes. "You must relax sometime."

Lips curving, he let his gaze grow intent, let his voice deepen. "The endeavors I favor are guaranteed to relax."

A faint blush tinged her cheeks; she held his gaze for an instant, then raised a haughty brow and looked away.

Inwardly grinning, Demon looked back at the books. At least she no longer viewed him as a benevolent uncle. "What about this one?" Reaching over her head, he tugged a volume free.

"Colonel J.E. Winsome: Memoirs of a Commander of Horse," Flick read as he put the book in her hands. She opened it and quickly perused the description at the front. "Oh, yes! This is perfect. It's about the cavalry in the Peninsula War."

"Excellent." Demon straightened. "Can we go now?"

To his relief, Flick nodded. "Yes, that's it."

She led the way to the front of the hall.

Mrs. Higgins pursed her lips in silent disapproval as Demon set the books on her desk. Flick appeared not to notice; she chatted blithely as Mrs. Higgins wrote her selections on a card. Stepping back, Demon cast a last glance around-he wouldn't be paying a second visit if he could help it.

One of the old gentlemen in the overstuffed armchairs had woken; he sent a suspicious look his way, frowning direfully from under shaggy brows.

Turning back to Flick, Demon relieved her of the pile of books she'd just settled in her arms. "Come-I'll drive you home."

Flick smiled, bid Mrs. Higgins good-bye, and preceded him to the door; Demon followed, his gaze on her hips, his mind busy with plans to cure her of all future need for fictional romantic stimulation.

Chapter 1O

For Flick, their journey to the library was the start of a most peculiar week.

Demon drove her back to the manor by the longest possible route, ostensibly to try the blacks' paces. As he consented to let her handle the ribbons again, she refrained from making any comment on his high-handed arrogance-as it happened, she hadn't had anything better to do.

At least, nothing to compare with the sensation of bowling along, the breeze ruffling her hair, the ribbons taut in her hands. The sheer exhilaration of tooling his curricle, well-sprung and built for speed, with the blacks high-stepping down the lanes, had worked its addictive magic-she was hooked.

When he drew up before the manor, she was smiling so brightly that she couldn't possibly have admonished him.

Which, from the gleam in his eye, was precisely as he'd planned.

He was back the next morning, although this time, it wasn't her he had come to see; he spent an hour with the General, discussing a line of horses the General was investigating. Of course, the General invited him to stay for luncheon, and he accepted.

Later, she strolled with him to the stable. She waited, but, other than an artful comment about enjoying the view-it was a brisk day and her skirts were flapping-he said nothing. His eyes, however, seemed unusually brilliant, his gaze especially attentive; despite the breeze, she didn't feel cold.

Day followed day; his visits highlighted each one. She could never be certain when or where he would appear, which was doubtless why she found herself listening for his footsteps.

And it wasn't just his gaze that was attentive.

Occasionally, he would touch her, just a hand at her back, or a sliding of his fingers from her hand to her wrist. Such touches always made her catch her breath-and flush in a most peculiar way.

Her worst moment came when he called one afternoon and inveigled her into joining him to watch the strings exercising on the Heath-he was still watching Bletchley during morning and afternoon stables.

"Hills and Cross are doing the bulk of it these days. They're less identifiable than Gillies or me."

They were standing by the Heath, she with her hands clasped on the handle of her furled parasol. "Has Bletchley made any further arrangements-fixed any more fixes?"

Demon shook his head. "I'm starting to wonder…"

When he said nothing more, she prompted, "What?"

He glanced at her, then grimaced and looked across the close-cropped turf to where his string was going through their paces. Bletchley lounged under his favorite oak; from there, he could see three separate strings working.

"I'm starting to wonder," Demon mused, "whether he's got any more fixes to place. He's been chatting up the jockeys, true enough, but lately it's been more in the nature of ingratiating himself with them. Other than those three fixes we know of, all of which are for major Spring Carnival races, he hasn't made any further arrangements."

"So?"

"So it's possible all the fixes the syndicate want for the Spring Carnival are now in place-just those three. Considering the races involved, they should clear enough for the greediest of men. I'm wondering if Bletchley is simply whiling away time until his masters are due to check with him, and putting in his hours by learning as much as he can about the race jockeys with a view to making his next round of fixes, most likely in a few months-maybe at the July meeting-easier to arrange."

Flick studied Bletchley. "He's looking for weaknesses? Something to give him a hold over the jockeys?"

"Hmm. Possibly."

She knew the instant he switched his gaze from Bletchley to her, knew precisely when his mind shifted from fixes to… whatever it was he was thinking about her.

A gentle tug on one curl had her turning her face, only to find him much nearer, closer…

"Stop staring at him so deliberately-he'll notice."

"I'm not staring at Bletchley." She was staring at his lips. They curved, then drew fractionally nearer…

She stiffened, blinked and dragged her eyes up to his. "Perhaps we'd better stroll." Dalliance was all very well, but she was not about to indulge in any of his mind-whirling kisses-not on the open Heath.

His lips quirked, but he inclined his head. "Perhaps we had."

He turned her; with her hand on his sleeve, they strolled along the Heath's edge-while she hoped he'd exercise his usual initiative and find an empty stable.

To her unreasoning annoyance, he didn't.

The next morning, he took her into town, so they could savor the scones at The Twig and Bough, which he insisted were a cut above excellent. After their repast, they strolled down the High Street, where Mrs. Pemberton beamed at them from her carriage, exchanging gracious greetings.

Flick was quite sure the vicar's wife had never before looked at her with such patent approval.

Which, more than anything else-far more than the insistence of her silly senses or the wonderings of her ill-informed mind-made her question what Demon was about. Really about.

She'd ridden high-bred horses all her life; she'd long ago learned the knack of putting aside all unnerving thoughts and emotions. She had, she thought, been doing an excellent job of ignoring the uncertainties his constant squiring of her had evoked. But after their meeting with Mrs. Pemberton, she could no longer ignore the fact that it really did appear that he was wooing her. Courting her.