A prospect the Cynster in him could never, ever accept.

He stood for long moments, gazing unseeing at the empty room. Then he sighed and straightened. He would have to see her alone again, and find but what, precisely, he was going to have to do to get her to agree to be his.

That evening, together with Horatia, Flick attended Lady Merlon's musicale. Musicales were the one social event Demon had flatly refused to attend. Slipping into the room just as the soprano started to wail, Flick winced and tried to block out the thought that her reaction to such music was something else she and Demon shared. They didn't share the most important trait, which was the only one that mattered.

Setting her chin against a deplorable tendency to quiver, she looked along the rows of seats, hunting for an empty one. She'd taken refuge in the withdrawing room to avoid the twins-one look at their bright, cheery expressions and their far-too-sharp eyes and she'd fled. She possessed no mask solid enough to hide her inner misery from them.

She'd expected to sit with Horatia, but she was now surrounded, as were the twins. Looking along the edge of the room, she tried to spot a vacant seat-

"Here, gel!" Clawlike fingers gripped her elbow; surprisingly strong, they drew her back. "Sit and stop flitting-it's distracting!"

Abruptly sitting, Flick found herself on one end of a love seat, the rest of which was occupied by Lady Osbaldestone. "Th-thank you."

Hands crossed over the head of her cane, her ladyship fixed Flick with a piercing black gaze. "You look quite peaked, gel. Not getting enough sleep?"

Flick wished she had a mask to hold in front of her face; the old eyes fixed on hers were even sharper than the twins'. "I'm quite well, thank you."

"Glad to hear it. When's the wedding to be, then, heh?"

Unfortunately, they were sufficiently distant from other guests not to have to remain silent. Shifting her gaze to the singer, Flick fought to quell the tremor in her lips, in her voice. "There isn't going to be a wedding."

"Is that so?" Her ladyship's tone was mildly curious.

Keeping her gaze on the singer, Flick nodded.

"And why is that?"

"Because he doesn't love me."

"Doesn't he?" That was said with considerable surprise.

"No." Flick couldn't think of any more subtle way to put it-even the thought was enough to overset her. Breathing evenly, she tried to ease the knot clutched tight about her heart. It had constricted the previous evening and still hadn't loosened.

Despite all, she still wanted him-wanted desperately to marry him. But how could she? He didn't love her, and wasn't expecting to. The marriage he intended would be a living mockery of all she believed, all she wanted. She couldn't endure being trapped in a loveless, fashionably convenient union. Such a marriage wasn't for her-she simply couldn't do it.

"Humor an old woman, my dear-why do you imagine he doesn't love you?"

After a moment, Flick glanced at Lady Osbaldestone. She was sitting back, calmly waiting, her full attention on her. Despite feeling remarkably close to Horatia, Flick could hardly discuss her son's shortcomings with her kind and generous hostess. But… recalling her ladyship's first words to her, Flick drew breath and faced forward. "He refuses to give me any of his time-just the polite minimum. He wants to marry me so he'll have a suitable bride-the right ornament on his arm at family gatherings. Because we suit in many ways, he's decided I'm it. He expects to marry me, and-well, from his point of view, that's it."

A sound halfway between a snort and a guffaw came from beside her. "Pardon my plain speaking, my dear, but if that's all you've got against him, I wouldn't, if I was you, be so hasty in your judgments."

Flick shot a puzzled glance at her elderly inquisitor. "You wouldn't?"

"No, indeed." Her ladyship sat back. "You say he won't spend much time by your side-are you sure that shouldn't be 'can't?"

Flick blinked. "Why 'can't'?"

"You're young and he's much older-that alone restricts the arenas in which your paths can cross in town. And an even greater restriction stems from his reputation." Her ladyship fixed her with a direct look. "You know about that, do you not?"

Flick colored, but nodded.

"Well, then, if you think about it, you should see there are precious few opportunities for him to spend time with you. He's not here tonight?"

"He doesn't like musicales."

"Yes, well, few gentlemen do-look around." They both did. The soprano screeched, and her ladyship snorted again. "I'm not even sure I like musicales. He's generally been squiring you to your evenings' entertainments, hasn't he?"

Flick nodded.

"Then let's think what else he could do. He can't dance attendance on you, because, being who he is, and you who you are, society would raise its brows censoriously. He can't hang about you during the day, in the park or elsewhere-he most certainly can't haunt his parents' house. He can't even join your circle of an evening."

Flick frowned. "Why not?"

"Because society does not approve of gentlemen of his age and experience showing their partiality too openly, any more than it approves of ladies wearing their hearts on their sleeves."

"Oh."

"Indeed. And Harold, just like all the Cynsters, lives and breathes society's rules without even thinking of them-at least when it comes to marriage, specifically anything to do with the lady they wed. They'll happily bend any rule that gets in their high-handed way, but not when it comes to marriage. Don't understand it myself, but I've known three generations, and they've all been the same. You may take my word for it."

Flick grimaced.

"Now, Horatia mentioned you haven't accepted him yet, so that simply lays an extra tax on him. Being a Cynster, he would want to stick by your side, force you to acknowledge him, but he can't. Which, of course, explains why he's been going around tense as an overwound watchspring. I have to say he's toed the line very well-he's doing what society expects of him by keeping a reasonable distance until you accept his offer."

"But how can I learn if he loves me if he's never near?"

"Society is not concerned with love, only its own power. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Not wanting to make himself, or you, or his family appear outre, and very definitely not wanting society to view your relationship askance, restricts him to half-hour calls in Horatia's presence-and only one or two a week, to meetings in the park, again not too frequently, and escorting you and Horatia to balls. Anything else would be construed as bad ton-something no Cynster has ever been."

"What about riding in the park? He knows I like riding."

Lady Osbaldestone eyed her. "You're from Newmarket, I believe?"

Flick nodded.

"Well, riding in the park means you'll be walking your mount. At the most, you can break into a trot for a short stretch, but that's the limit of what is considered appropriate stimulation for a female on horseback." Flick stared. "So are you surprised he hasn't taken you riding in the park?"

Flick shook her head.

"Ah, well, now you appreciate the intricacies Harold's been juggling for the past weeks. And from his point of view, he doesn't dare put a foot wrong. Most entertaining, it's been." Lady Osbaldestone chuckled and patted Flick's hand. "Now, as to whether he loves you or not, there's one point you've obviously missed."

"Oh?" Flick focused on her face.

"He drove you in the park."

"Yes." Her expression said "So?"

"The Bar Cynster never drive ladies in the park. It's one of those ridiculously high-handed, arrogant, oh-so-male-Cynster decisions, but they simply don't. The only ladies any of them have ever been known to take up behind their vaunted horses in the park are their wives."

Flick frowned. "He never said anything."

"I imagine he didn't, but it was a declaration, nonetheless. By driving you in the park, he made it plain to the ton's hostesses that he intends to offer for you."

Flick considered, then grimaced. "That's hardly a declaration of love."

"No, I grant you. There is, however, the small matter of his current state. Tight as a violin string about to snap. His temper's never been a terribly complacent one-he's not easygoing like Sylvester or Alasdair. His brother Spencer is reserved, but Harold's impatient and stubborn. It's a very revealing thing when such a man willingly and knowingly submits to frustration."

Flick wasn't convinced, but… "Why did he make this declaration?" She glanced at Lady Osbaldestone. "Presumably he had a reason?"

"Most likely to keep more experienced gentlemen-his peers, if you will-at a distance, even if he wasn't by your side."

"To warn them away, so to speak?"

Lady Osbaldestone nodded. "And then, of course, he kept watch from the other side of every ballroom, just to make sure."

Flick felt her lips twitch.

Lady Osbaldestone saw and nodded. "Just so. There's no reason to have the megrims just because he's not beside you. In terms of his behavior, he's handled this well-I really don't know what more you could want of him. As for love, he's shown possessiveness and protectiveness, both different facets of that emotion, facets gentlemen such as he are more prone to openly demonstrate. But for the facets to shine, the jewel must be there, at the heart. Passion alone won't give the same effect."

"Hmm." Flick wondered.

The singer reached her finale-a single, sustained, piercingly high note. When it ended, everyone clapped, including Flick and Lady Osbaldestone. The audience immediately stood and milled, chatting avidly. Others approached the love seat; Flick rose.