He wanted to marry her-he intended to marry her. He expected her to say yes-he clearly believed she would.

After this afternoon, and their frank conversation, she at least knew precisely where he stood. He wanted to marry her for all the socially acceptable reasons, and because he desired her.

Which left her facing one very large, formidable question. Would she accept him?

It wasn't a question she'd expected to face. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that he, her idol-her ideal gentleman-would want to marry her. Would look at her, a pigtailed brat reborn, and feel desire. The only reason she could state that point, and view the prospect with quite amazing equanimity, was that, deep down, she was still struggling to believe it.

It still seemed like a dream.

But…

She knew he was in earnest.

Reaching the end of the walk, she squinted at the clock above the stable arch. There was still an hour before luncheon; all about her was silent, no one else was in sight. Turning, she fell to pacing again, trying to organize her thoughts into a sensible sequence.

The first point she had to consider was obvious. Did she love Demon?

Somewhat to her surprise, the answer was easy.

"I've been secretly in love with him for years," she muttered. The admission left her with a very odd feeling in her stomach.

She was so disconcerted, so startled to find her heart had made up its mind long ago and not told her, that she reached the end of the walk before she could set the point aside, accept that it was decided, and move on.

"Next, does he love me?"

No answer came. She mentally replayed their conversations, but there was nothing he'd said that shed light on that point.

She grimaced. "What if he doesn't love me?"

The answer to that was absolute. If he didn't love her, she couldn't marry him. Her certainty was unshakeable, deeply embedded within her.

To her mind, love and marriage went hand in hand. She knew that wasn't society's view, but it was hers, formed by her own observations. Her parents had loved deeply-it had shown in their faces, in their demeanor, whenever they'd been in the same room. She'd been seven when she'd last seen them, waving good-bye from the rail of their boat as it pulled away from the dock. While their features had blurred with the years, that glow that had always been theirs had not-it still shone strongly in her memory.

They'd left her a fortune, and they'd left her a memory-she was grateful for the fortune, but she valued the memory more. The knowledge of what love and marriage could be was a precious, timeless legacy.

One she would not turn her back on.

She wanted that glow for herself-she always had. She'd grown up with that expectation. From all she'd gleaned about the General and his wife, Margery, theirs, too, had been a union blessed.

Which brought her back to Demon.

Frowning, she paced back and forth, considering his reasons for marrying her. His socially acceptable reasons were all very well, yet superficial and not essential. They could be dismissed, taken for granted.

Which left her with desire.

One minute was enough to summarize all she knew on that subject. Questions like Did desire encompass love? Did love encompass desire? were beyond her ability to answer. Until this past week, she hadn't even known what desire was, and while she now knew what it felt like, her experience of it remained minimal. A fact their recent discussion had emphasized.

There was clearly much she had to learn about desire-love or no love.

For the next half hour, she paced and pondered; by the time the lunch gong sounded, she'd reached one clear conclusion, which raised one simple question. She had, she thought, as she strolled back to the house, made good progress.

Her conclusion was absolute and inviolable-utterly unchangeable. She would marry with love, or not at all. She wanted to love, and be loved in return-it was that or nothing.

As for her question, it was straightforward and pertinent: Was it possible to start with desire-strong desire-and progress to love?

Lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes. She felt reassured, certain of what she wanted, how to face what was to come.

If Demon wanted to marry her, wanted her to say yes when he asked for her hand, then he would need to teach her more about desire, and convince her that her question could be answered in the affirmative.

Opening her eyes, she lifted her skirts; climbing the steps, she went in to lunch.

Chapter 11

Demon set out for London just after dawn. He kept the bays up to their bits, eager to reach the capital and the offices of Heathcote Montague, man of business to the Cynsters. After considerable thought, he'd hit upon a possible alternative means of identifying members of the syndicate.

Unbeknown to Flick, he'd visited Dillon and extracted a list of the races he'd fixed. He'd then called in favors from all around Newmarket to get the figures, including various bookmakers' odds, necessary to gauge just how much money had been realized through the fixes. His rough estimations had sent his brows rising high-the amount had been startling enough to suggest Montague might be able to trace it. Even a portion of the total should have left some discernible mark somewhere in the financial capital.

It was worth a try.

The road sped beneath his wheels. Demon's thoughts drifted back-to Flick. Impatience gripped him, a restless urge to hurry.

So he could return to Newmarket.

Lips setting, he shook aside the nagging worry-what possible trouble could she get into in two days? He would remain in London for only one night. Bletchley seemed settled; Gillies had his orders. All would be well.

His gaze fixed on the road ahead, he urged the bays on.

Three hours later, neatly garbed in her velvet riding habit and perched upon Jessamy, Flick went riding on Newmarket Heath.

Naturally, she expected to see Bletchley, idly watching the last of the morning gallops as he had for the past week.

To her consternation, she didn't see him. She couldn't find Gillies, Cross or Hills, either. Sitting straight in her saddle, she scanned the gallops-the rising stretches of turf where the last strings were pounding-then turned to survey the surrounding flats. To no avail.

"Isn't that just typical!" Gathering Jessamy's reins, she wheeled the mare and rode straight into town.

Without any idea what to do, Flick walked Jessamy down the paved street. Most of those about belonged to the racing fraternity-stable lads, grooms, trainers, jockeys. Some knew her and bobbed respectfully; all looked Jessamy over with keen professional eyes. Flick barely noticed.

Where had Bletchley been staying? She couldn't remember the inn's name. Demon had said it wasn't in Newmarket, but somewhere to the north.

But what had happened to Gillies and the others? They'd watched Bletchley for this long without mishap-could he finally have identified them and…

And what? She had no idea.

Doggedly, she headed north up the High Street, an ill-formed plan of inquiring at the inns to the north of town in mind. Halfway up the street, she came to the Rutland Arms, the main coaching inn. The mailcoach squatted like a huge black beetle before the inn's main door; she glanced at the passengers waiting to board.

A flash of scarlet caught her eye; abruptly she reined in. A curse from behind had her turning in her saddle. "Oh-I'm so sorry." Blushing, she drew Jessamy aside to let the racing string she'd impeded pass. The long file of horses with lads atop gave her useful cover; screened by them, she peered across the street.

"Yes!" Eyes lighting, Flick saw Bletchley, his red neckerchief a beacon, clamber up to the coach's roof. Then she frowned. "Why is he going to Bury St. Edmunds?"

Raising his yard, the guard blew a warning; the next instant, the coach lurched. Overloaded with men, apparently in rowdy mood, clinging to the roof, it ponderously rolled off up the High Street.

Flick stared after it. While she had no idea why Bletchley was heading to Bury St. Edmunds, it seemed unlikely he'd stop anywhere en route. There simply wasn't anywhere en route.

She had to find Gillies, and find out what had happened to him and Hills and Cross. She quickly turned Jessamy south, toward the stud farm.

And spied Gillies mounted on a hack not ten yards away. With a muttered exclamation, she trotted Jessamy over.

"Did you see?" She drew rein beside him. "Bletchley's gone off to Bury St. Edmunds."

"Aye." Gillies's gaze drifted up the street in the wake of the departing coach.

"Well"-Flick settled Jessamy as she danced-"we'd better follow him."

Gillies's gaze snapped to her face. "Follow 'im?"

"Of course." Flick frowned. "Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing?"

Gillies looked uncertain.

"Where are Hills and Cross?" Flick asked impatiently.

"Hills is at the farm-he was last on watch. Cross is over there." Gillies indicated with his chin. "He was watching Bletchley this morning."

Flick located the lugubrious Cross lounging in a doorway across the street. "Yes, well, now Bletchley has made a move, we'll need to organize to follow him."

"We will?"

Flick stared at Gillies. "What is the matter with you? Didn't Demon leave you with orders to follow Bletchley?"

Gillies stared back, then, mute, shook his head.

Flick stared even more; she couldn't imagine what was going on. But Gillies and Cross were out and about. "What are your orders?"