Despite all, despite her dismissive humph, she found that promise comforting.
They took their positions and the music started; despite her worries, she quickly found the rhythm. The dips and sways and hand-clasped twirls were heavily repetitive; it wasn’t that hard to keep her place. And Demon’s touch was reassuring—every time his fingers closed about hers, he steadied her, even if she wasn’t drifting.
As the dance progressed, she felt increasingly assured—assured enough to stop frowning and smile when her eyes touched his. She laughed up at him, over her shoulder, as he twirled her into their final pose, then she sank into an extravagantly deep curtsy as he bowed, equally extravagantly, to her.
Demon raised her; he wondered if she knew how brightly her eyes were shining, how gloriously unabashed, unfettered in her enjoyment she was. She was so different from the other young ladies in the room, all careful to mind their words, their expressions, if not to artfully deploy them. She was unrestrained in her appreciation—something tonnish ladies rarely were. Exuberance, even if honest, was not the ton’s way.
It was Flick’s way—her wide smile and laughing eyes had him smiling, equally honestly, in reply. “And now,” he said, and had to draw a deeper breath as he drew her closer and looked into her eyes, “we must return to our duty.”
She laughed. “Which duty is that?”
The duty he alluded to was to dance with all the other young people gathered at the vicarage for that purpose. They had barely returned to the side of the room before Flick’s hand was solicited for a country dance.
Her other hand still rested on Demon’s sleeve. She looked up at him—he smiled reassuringly, squeezed her fingers lightly, then let her go.
As she twirled down the room, Flick noticed Demon twirling, too, with the vicar’s daughter. Letting her gaze slide away, she smiled easily at her partner, Henry March.
Dance followed dance, but with time between to allow the dancers to chat. To get to know each other better, to find their feet socially. That was, after all, what the evening was about. The older members of the company sat at the rear of the room, smiling and nodding, watching benignly as their youngsters mingled.
Mrs. Pemberton, her duty as hostess done, sank into a chair beside the General. Luckily, the General was deep in discussion with the vicar; Mrs. Pemberton did not interrupt. Relieved, Flick looked away. Beside her, Demon shifted. Flick looked up, and he caught her eye. And raised a knowing brow. She stared into his eyes, at the comprehension therein, then put her nose in the air and looked away. And struggled to ignore the frisson that shot through her when his hand shifted and his fingers brushed hers amid her skirts.
The dances that followed proved a trial. It was increasingly difficult to keep her mind on her steps. As for her eyes, they rarely rested on her partner. Twirling, whirling, she shot glances through the throng, through the constantly moving mass. Looking, searching . . .
She located Demon—he was dancing with Kitty March. Flick relaxed.
The next measure, however, he partnered Miss Henshaw.
Flick collided with another lady in her set, and nearly ended on her bottom. Flustered, she gasped, “I think”—she didn’t have to feign her shaking voice—“that I’d better sit out the rest of this dance.”
Her partner, a Mr. Drysdale, was only too willing to solicitously help her from the floor.
By the time Demon returned to her side at the end of the dance, as he had at the end of every dance thus far, Flick had herself well in hand. She’d lectured herself more sternly than she ever had in her life.
It was ridiculous! What on earth was she doing—thinking? Watching over him as if she was jealous. How foolish—making a cake of herself like that. Pray God he hadn’t noticed, or he’d tease her unmercifully. And she’d deserve it. There was nothing between them—nothing!
She greeted him with a cool smile and immediately looked away.
His fingers found hers in her skirts—and tugged. She had to look up and meet his gaze.
It was serious, exceedingly intent. “Are you all right?”
His eyes searched hers; God alone knew what he saw. Flick dragged in a breath—and wished she could drag her gaze from his. “It was just a silly slip. I didn’t fall.”
A frown darkened his eyes; his lips firmed, but then he nodded and, very slowly, released her hand. “Be more careful—this is, after all, your first time at a dance.”
If she’d been feeling at all normal she would have responded to that as it deserved. Instead, the lingering touch of his fingers had blown all her certainties to the wind.
Nothing? If this—the light that turned his eyes dark and smoldering, the sense of protection, of strength, she felt flowing from him, the answering hitch in her breathing, the yearning that grew stronger, day by day, for him—if this was nothing, what would something be like?
More conscious of her heartbeat, of the rise and fall of her breasts than she’d ever been in her life, she looked away.
When she whirled down the next dance, she was conscious of him watching her, aware to her toes of the blue gaze that missed nothing, not a step, not a turn. He was waiting when her partner returned her to the side of the room. As if it was only natural, she slipped into the space beside him.
His gaze swept her face, but he said nothing.
Until the music started up again.
“My dance, I believe.”
His tone brooked no argument—from her potential partners, or her. She inclined her head graciously, as if she’d been expecting his claim. Perhaps she had.
For him to dance with her a second time while there were other young ladies he had not yet favored lent the action a particularity it would otherwise not have had—he was clearly singling her out. Despite her lack of social experience, she knew it—and knew beyond doubt that he did, too.
It was a simple country dance that left them partnered throughout, without interaction with other dancers; they had no need to shift their attention from each other. From the instant the music started and their fingers touched, their focus was fixed. For her part, she barely heard the music. She moved instinctively, matching his actions, responding to directing touches so light she felt them more with her senses than with her nerves.
His eyes held her. His gaze, as brilliantly blue as a summer sky, wrapped her in its warmth. And she knew—knew that he was squiring her, deliberately, intentionally. Intent as only he could be. He was wooing her—even if the idea seemed so wild and impossible that her mind could not accept it, her senses did. Her first impulse was to step back—to safety, to a point where she could look about and understand. But while she whirled and twirled, her eyes never leaving his, there was no place of safety, nowhere she could hide from the smoldering glow in his eyes—and the very last thing she wanted to do was run.
His gaze held her effortlessly, yet without compulsion; she was fascinated, and that alone was power enough to keep her whirling. The sliding brush of his fingers as their hands met and parted, the gliding caress, so delicate, as he steered her into a sweeping turn—each was planned deliberately, executed with intent. In that single dance, he wove a net about her—one invisible to the eye but very clear to her senses.
Her nerves tingled, tightened; each heartbeat heightened her awareness. Until his every touch held a temptation and a promise, echoed by their movements in the dance.
She swayed closer, looking up as he drew her nearer, and felt the temptation to surrender. To surrender to the conviction of what he was telling her, to give in and believe that he wanted her to be his wife. And would have her.
The dance moved on, and she drew away, until their fingers barely touched. And heard his promise, unspoken, that if she surrendered she’d enjoy—experience—the full pleasures of the flesh.
He was adept at sending that message, expert at making the temptation grow, and the promise shine and beckon like gold.
The music ended. And they stopped. But the temptation and the promise still shone
in his eyes.
She felt like Cinderella when he raised her hand and brushed his lips gently across her fingertips.
Chapter 9
When the next dance commenced, Demon was, courtesy of Mrs. Pemberton, at the opposite end of the room from Flick. Within seconds of their leaving the floor, the vicar’s wife had descended on them; with irresistible energy, she’d insisted on taking Demon to introduce him to others of the company.
Her “others” were the collected matrons of the district; Demon was amused to realize their fell purpose in speaking with him was to subtlely encourage his pursuit of Flick.
“She’s such a pretty little thing, and quite assured,” Mrs. Wallace, of the Hadfield-Wallaces of Dullingham, nodded sagely. “As experienced as you are, you’ll have noticed—she’s not just in the common way.”
Demon smiled, content to let them convince him of the rightness of his cause. He didn’t need convincing, but it wouldn’t hurt his campaign to have the matrons’ support.
Because of his height, he could track Flick’s crowning glory. As the ladies’ comments continued, he started to chafe at the bit. He understood very well the reasons behind their reactions—those reasons were gathered about Flick like swarming bees about a honeypot.
Their sons looked set to make cakes of themselves over her—their fond mamas could read the script with ease. It was, therefore, in their best interests to have Demon waltz Flick off her feet, out of reach of their moonfaced sons, so said sons could recover quickly and apply themselves to the real business of the upcoming Season—finding themselves suitable wives.
Flick, of course, was highly suitable, but the ladies had accepted that their sons were not in the running, just as they’d accepted that their daughters had no chance of catching Demon’s eye. It was therefore best on all counts to get him and Flick quickly paired and out of contention, before they caused any major disruptions to the good ladies’ matrimonial plans.
Such was their strategy. As their plans marched so well with his, Demon was perfectly ready to reassure them as to his intentions. “Her knowledge of horses is extensive.” He made the comment offhandedly, yet appreciatively. “And, of course, she is the General’s ward.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Wallace nodded approvingly. “So very appropriate.”
“A happy circumstance,” Mrs. Pemberton concurred.
With an elegant bow, quite sure they all understood each other well, Demon left them. He ambled down the side of the room, scanning the dancers. He couldn’t see Flick.
Halting, he searched more carefully—she wasn’t there.
He located the General, chatting with a group of older gentlemen—Flick wasn’t with him.
Swallowing a curse directed at milksops who couldn’t be trusted to keep a quick-witted girl in line, Demon strolled as swiftly as he could to where he’d last seen her, at the far end of the room. He reached the corner, wondering what had got into her head. Surely her disappearance didn’t have anything to do with Bletchley and the syndicate?
The idea that she might have been identified, followed, and lured away chilled him. He shook the thought aside—that was fanciful, unlikely. The main door stood beyond the matrons; he was sure she hadn’t gone that way. But the only other doors led deeper into the house.
Where the hell had she gone?
He was searching the throng again when a flicker at the edge of his vision had him turning. The lace curtain over the long window in the corner drifted in a light breeze. The narrow casement was partly open; it extended from head height to a foot above the floor. He couldn’t fit through it. Flick, however, was smaller than he.
It took him five minutes to return back up the room, smiling and nodding and avoiding invitations to chat. Regaining the front hall, he slipped out the front door and headed around the side of the vicarage.
The garden beyond the drawing room’s corner window was empty. The moon was full; steady silver light illuminated a flagged path and burgeoning flowerbeds edging a neat lawn. Frowning, Demon scanned the shadows, but there were no nooks, no benches set under overhanging boughs—no angel in pale blue communing with the night.
The garden was sunk in silence, the drifting strains of the violins a superficial tune causing barely a ripple in the deep of the night. A lick of fear touched his spine, flicked toward his heart. He was about to turn and retrace his steps, to check she hadn’t returned to the drawing room before he panicked, when his gaze fell on the hedge lining one side of the lawn.
A path ran beside it, between the lawn and the deep green wall. The hedge was high; he couldn’t see over it. Silently, he prowled the wall, searching, wondering if he was wrong in remembering a small courtyard . . .
The opening lay in shadow, just a simple gap in the hedge. He stepped into the gap. And saw her.
The courtyard was a flagged square with a raised central bed in which stood an old magnolia, draping its branches over a small pond. Flick paced slowly back and forth before it, the moonlight washing the blue from her gown, leaving it an unearthly silver.
Demon watched her, transfixed by the sway of her hips, the artless grace with which she turned. Until that instant, he hadn’t realized how tightly unnamed fears had seized him; he recognized the tension only as it eased, as relief replaced it.
She felt his gaze and looked up, halting, stiffening—then relaxing as she recognized him. She said nothing, but raised a brow.
“In that gown, in the moonlight, you look like a silver sprite.” Come to steal this mortal’s heart. His voice was gravelly, revealingly deep.
If she noticed, she gave no sign; instead, she looked down at her gown, holding out the skirts to inspect them. “It is a very pale blue. I rather like it.”
He liked it, too—it was the same pale, pure blue as her eyes. The gown was well worth the price he’d paid. Of course, she’d never know he’d offset the gown’s cost. Clotilde was an excellent dressmaker; he made a mental note to send some extra token of appreciation her way.
He hesitated . . . but they were here, alone in the moonlight, the violins a distant whisper in the dark. Unhurriedly, he strolled forward, his gaze, intent, on her.
Flick watched him approach, large, elegant—dangerous. The moon silvered his hair, rendering his face harsh in its stark light. The angular planes seemed harder, like pale stone; his eyes were deeply shadowed beneath their heavy lids.
How his presence could be reassuring and unnerving simultaneously she didn’t know. Her nerves were tightening, her senses stretching The yearning she’d felt as they’d danced returned with a rush.
She’d come here to be quiet, to breathe the cool air, to let it soothe her overheated brain, her flushed skin. She’d come here to ponder. Him. Part of her wondered if she’d read him aright. The rest of her knew she had. But she still couldn’t bring herself to believe it.
It was like a fairy tale.
Now he was here Her nerves skittered even before she formed the thought. Abruptly, she recalled she was annoyed with him. Folding her arms, she tilted her chin; as he drew near, she narrowed her eyes at him. “You conspired with Mrs. Pemberton—Foggy told me she sent her message to the General via you.”
He halted before her. “Mrs. Pemberton conjured a vision of you moldering into an old maid—that didn’t seem a good idea.”
His deep drawl slid over, then under, her skin, effortlessly vanquishing her annoyance. Refusing to shiver, she humphed. “I can’t see how an evening like this is going to change things.” She gestured toward the house. “I’m certainly not going to find a husband in there.”
“No?”
“You saw them. They’re so young!”
“Ah—them.”
His voice deepened; she sensed that net of fascination flow about her again. His lips curved, lifting just a little at the ends, drawing her mentally closer, nearer. “No,” he said, the word a deep rumble. “I agree—you definitely shouldn’t marry any of them.”
The ensuing pause stretched, then his lids ro
se and he met her gaze. “There is, however, an alternative.”
He said no more, but his meaning was clear, written in the planes of his face, in his eyes. He watched her, his gaze steady; the night held them in soft darkness, alive and yet so silent that she could feel her own pulse filling the air.
Then came the music.
Haunting strains drifted over the lawns, flowed over the hedges. The opening bars of a waltz reached them—he angled his head slightly, then, his gaze never leaving her face, he held out his hands.
“Come—waltz with me.”
The net drew tight—she felt its shimmering touch as it settled about her. But he didn’t tug; it was her choice to step forward, to accept, if she would.
Flick wondered if she dared. Her senses reached for him—she knew how it felt to be held against his warm chest, how it felt to have his arms close about her, how her hips would settle against his hard thighs. But . . .
“I don’t know how.”
Her voice was surprisingly even; his lips curved a fraction more.
“I’ll teach you”—a hint of wickedness invested his smile—“all you need to know.”
She managed not to shiver. She knew very well they weren’t talking of a mere waltz—that wasn’t the invitation etched in his eyes, the challenge in his stance. Those hands, those arms, that body—she knew what he was offering. And, deep inside, she knew she could never walk away—not without trying, touching. Knowing.
She stepped forward, lifting her arms, tilting her face to his. He drew her to him, one arm sliding possessively about her, the other grasping her right hand. He drew her close, until they touched, until the silk of her bodice brushed his coat. His smile deepened. “Relax, and let your feet follow where they will.”
He stepped back, then aside; before she knew it, she was whirling. At first, he took small steps, until she caught the rhythm, then they whirled, swooped, swung, trapped in the music, swept up in the effortless energy of the dance.
Then the mood of the music changed, slowed; they slowed, too. He drew her fractionally closer—she leaned her temple against his chest. “Isn’t there some rule that I’m not supposed to waltz before someone or other approves?”