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 enjoy ment 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.

It was all he could think of to do-to distract himself, to convince himself that it would all work out in the end. The only thing that might give him a smidgen of ease-make him feel he was doing something definite, something meaningful, to further their matrimonial plans.

They would need a house to live in when in London.

A town house, nothing too large, with just the right combination of rooms. He knew what he was looking for. And he knew Flick's tastes ran parallel to his-he felt confident enough to buy her a house for a surprise. Not a house-a home. Theirs.

Chapter 18

Yet another ball-Flick wished, very much, that she was back at Hillgate End, Demon was back at his stud, and life was simple again.

"Miss Parteger, Framley's composed a smashing ode to your eyes. Are you sure you wouldn't like to hear it?"

"Quite sure." Flick fixed Lord Henderson with a severe glance. "You know my feelings about poetry."

His lordship looked suitably abashed. "Just thought, perhaps, as it is your eyes…"

Flick raised a brow and gave her attention to the next member of her youthful court seeking to dazzle her. In dealing with the many admirers she'd gathered without the slightest effort, she tried hard not to be unkind, but they were so young, so innocuous, so incapable. Of anything, but most especially of awakening her interest.

Another had done that, very effectively-and then deserted her. She felt her eyes narrow and quickly forced them wider. "Indeed, sir." She nodded agreement to Lord Bristol's comment on the rain. Maintaining an expression of polite interest, she pretended to listen to the chatter while her mind remained focused on the long, lean figure lounging indolently against the opposite wall of Lady Henderson's ballroom. She could see him from the corner of her eye, as usual, along with the beautiful lady fluttering her lashes at him-also as usual. Admittedly, the lady had a different face every night, but that didn't, to her mind, change anything; she now viewed such women as challenges-to be conquered and obliterated.

He wanted to marry her-this morning, lying late abed, she'd decided she definitely wanted to marry him. Which meant he was going to have to learn to love her, regardless of what Celeste, Aunt Scroggs or any old biddies might think. He'd dangled her dream before her eyes. She'd grabbed it, and wasn't about to let go.

She couldn't relieve her feelings by glaring at him. She toyed with the idea of doing something rash. Like waiting until a waltz started, striding across the room, displacing his lady for the evening, and demanding that he waltz with her.

What would he do? How would he react?

Her fantasies were interrupted by a gentleman who, in a neat maneuever, replaced Lord Bristol at her side.

"My dear Miss Parteger-a pleasure."

Reflexively, Flick gave him her hand; he held it rather longer than necessary. He was older than her other admirers. "I'm afraid, sir"-she retrieved her hand-"that you have the advantage of me."

He smiled. "Philip Remington, my dear, at your service. We met briefly at Lady Hawkridge's last week."

Flick placed him, and inclined her head. At Lady Hawkridge's ball, he'd merely noticed her, though he hadn't shown any particular interest. His gaze had been momentarily arrested by her face, before, with a polite nod, he'd moved on. Now his gaze was much more intent. Not frighteningly so, but she certainly wouldn't confuse him with the callow youths surrounding her.

"I've a question, my dear, if I might be so bold. I fear the ton too easily turns supposition into truth. Confusion is a byword, which makes life unnecessarily complicated."