And he was helpless to prevent it.

He'd been tense before. Now…

Securing two dances with her was impossible now; he'd settled for the country dance after supper-it would follow the waltz just starting. Her present partner, he grimly noted, was Remington, one of those he trusted least. Flick didn't share his opinion; she often waltzed with the bounder.

He no longer cared if people noticed he was watching her, but he was nevertheless grateful for the tonnish quirk that held grossly overcrowded ballrooms to be the mark of a successful hostess. This evening, Lady Monckton was an unqualified success, which lent him a little cover.

The idea of using that cover to whisk Flick away, to take her in his arms and kiss her drifted through his mind. Reluctantly, he let the idea go-it was another thing he simply couldn't risk. If anyone saw them, despite his extreme care to date, questions would be asked.

Without conscious direction, his eyes tracked her through the whirl of dancers, fixing on her glorious halo. As he focused on her, she laughed and smiled at Remington. Demon gritted his teeth-unbidden, unwelcome, his promise to the General replayed in his mind. What if…

His blood ran cold-he couldn't even finish the thought, couldn't let it form in his brain. The prospect of losing Flick paralysed him.

Abruptly filling his lungs, he shook aside the thought-swiftly replaced it with the image of 12 Clarges Street, the house he'd viewed that morning. It was perfect for him and Flick. It had just the right number of rooms, not too large…

His gaze on Flick, his thoughts slowed, stopped, in time with the music. On the other side of the room, Flick and Philip Remington halted; instead of turning toward the chaise where Horatia sat, Remington cast a quick glance about, then led Flick through a door. Out of the ballroom.

Demon straightened. "Damn!"

Two matrons beside him turned to glare-he didn't stop to apologize. Moving easily, apparently unhurriedly, he crossed the room. He knew very well the implication of Remington's swift look. Who the hall did the bounder think he was?

"Ah-darling."

Celeste stepped into his path. Dark eyes glinting, she lifted a hand-

He stopped her with one look. "Good evening, madam." With a terse nod, he stepped around her and continued on. From behind, he heard a lewd curse in French.

Gaining the corridor that lay beyond the ballroom, he was just in time to see the door at its end close. He paused to dredge up his memories of Monckton House-the room at the end was the library.

He stalked down the corridor, but halted before he reached the end. There was nothing to be gained by rescuing Flick before she realized she needed rescuing.

Opening the door of the room before the library, he entered. Eyes quickly adjusting to the dark, he crossed it, silently opened the French door, and stepped onto the flagged terrace beyond.

Standing in the middle of the library, Flick scanned the pictures on the walls, then looked at her companion. "Where are the etchings?"

The library was made dark by paneling and bookshelves packed with brown books, but a small fire burned cheerily in the grate. Lighted candelabra stood on a table beside the sofa and on a side table by the wall, casting a glow about the room, their flames flickering in the breeze sliding through the French doors open to the terrace. Completing a second survey of the walls, Flick turned to Remington. "These are all paintings."

Remington's smile flashed; she saw his hand shift, heard a click as the door's lock engaged. "My sweet innocent."

There was gentle laughter in his voice as he advanced, smiling, toward her. "You didn't really believe there were any etchings here, did you?"

"Of course, I did. I wouldn't have come otherwise. I'm fond of etchings…" Her voice faded as she studied his face, then she stiffened and lifted her chin. "I think we should return to the ballroom."

Remington smiled winningly. "Oh, no. Why? Let's just dally here for a short while."

"No." Flick fixed him with a steady, unblinking stare. "I wish you to return me to Lady Horatia."

Remington's expression hardened. "Unfortunately, my dear, I don't wish to do so."

"Don't worry, Remington-I'll escort Miss Parteger back to my mother."

Lounging against the frame of the French doors, Demon drank in their reactions. Flick whirled-relief softened her face, softened her stance. Remington's jaw dropped, then he snapped it shut and glowered belligerently.

"Cynster!"

"Indeed." Straightening, Demon swept Remington a taunting bow. His gaze was steely, as were the undercurrents in his voice. "As you're unable to show Miss Parteger the etchings you promised her, might I suggest you depart? Not just this room, but the house."

Remington snorted, but eyed him uncertainly. Which was wise-Demon would happily take him apart given the slightest provocation. "I'm sure," he drawled, "you can see that's the best way." Strolling forward, he stopped beside Flick and trapped Remington's now wary gaze. "We wouldn't want there to be any whispers-if there were, I'd have to explain how you'd misled Miss Parteger over the existence of etchings in the Monckton House library." Raising his brows, he mused, "Difficult to find a rich wife if you're not invited to the balls any more."

Remington's expression didn't succeed in masking his fury. But he was a good deal shorter and slighter than Demon; swallowing his ire, he nodded, bowed curtly to Flick, then swung on his heel and stalked to the door.

Beside Demon, grateful for his intimidating, reassuring presence, Flick frowningly watched the door close behind Remington. "Is he a fortune hunter?"

"Yes!" With an explosive oath, Demon lifted both hands, then appeared not to know what to do with them. With another oath, he swung away, pacing. "He is! Half those about you are-some more so than others." His blue gaze stabbed her "'What did you imagine would happen once you let it be known how much you're worth?"

Flick blinked. "Worth?"

"You can't be that innocent. Now the news is out that you come with ten thousand a year in tow, they're all flocking around. It's a wonder you haven't been mown down in the rush!"

Understanding dawned, along with her temper-she swung to face him. "How dare you!" Her voice quavered; she drew in a huge breath. "I didn't tell anyone anything about my fortune. I haven't spoken about it at all."

Demon halted; hands on hips, he looked at her. Then he scowled. "Well you needn't look at me. I'm hardly likely to fashion a rod for my own back." He started to pace again. "So who spread the news?" He spoke through clenched teeth. "Just tell me, so I can wring their neck."

Flick knew exactly how he felt. "I think it must have been my aunt. She wants me to marry well." She wanted her to marry Demon, so her aunt had let it be known that she was an heiress. She assumed, avaricious as she was, that the news would prompt him to grab her, regardless of how wealthy he was.

"Was that what she said to upset you at that ball?"

She hesitated, then shrugged. "In a way."

Demon glared at her. First his mother, now her aunt. Elderly ladies were lining up to make his life difficult. That, however, wasn't the cause of the black, roiling, clawing rage that filled him, fighting to get loose, spurred by the knowledge of what would have happened if he hadn't been watching her so closely.

"Whatever-whoever." He bit off the words. Towering over her, his hands on his hips, he captured her gaze. "Bad enough you're surrounded by a gaggle of fortune hunters-that doesn't excuse your behavior tonight. You know damn well not to go anywhere alone with any man. What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Her spine stiffened; her chin rose. Her eyes flashed a warning. "You heard. I happen to like etchings."

"Etchings!" Jaw clenched, he only just managed not to roar. "Don't you know what that means?"

"Etchings are prints made from a metal plate on which someone has drawn with a needle."

She capped the comment by putting her pert nose in the air; Demon tightened his fingers about his hips against the urge to tighten them about her. He bent forward, lowering his face so it was closer to hers. "For your information, a gentleman offering to show a lady etchings is the equivalent of him inviting her to admire his family jewels."

Flick blinked. Puzzled, she searched his eyes. "So?"

"Aargh!" He swung away. "It's an invitation to intimacy!"

"It is?"

He swung back to see her lip curl.

"How like the fashionable to corrupt a perfectly good word."

"Remington was looking to corrupt you."

"Hmm." She looked at him, her expression stony. "But I do like etchings. Do you have any?"

"Yes." The answer was out before he'd thought. When she raised a brow, he grudgingly elaborated, "I have two scenes of Venice." They hung on either side of his bed. When he invited ladies to see his etchings, he meant literally as well as figuratively.

"I don't suppose you'd invite me to see them?"

"No." Not until she agreed to marry him.

"I thought not."

He blinked, and scowled at her. "What's that supposed to mean?" Her cryptic utterances were driving him crazy.

"It means," Flick enunciated, her accents as clipped as his, "that it's become increasingly clear that you want me merely as an ornament, a suitable, acceptable wife to parade on your arm at all the family gatherings. You don't want me powerfully at all! That doesn't impress me-and I've been even less impressed by your recent behavior."