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.”
He delivered the speech with a conspiratorial smile; Flick returned it readily. “Indeed, I often find tonnish ways confusing. What is it you wish to know?”
“A somewhat delicate matter, but . . . if I don’t ask, how will we ever know?” His gaze caught hers. “I wish to know, my dear, whether rumor is correct, and you and Harry Cynster are engaged.”
Flick drew in a breath and lifted her chin. “No. Mr. Cynster and I are not engaged.”
Remington smiled and bowed. “Thank you, my dear. I must admit to being very glad to hear that.”
His meaning glowed in his eyes. Flick inwardly cursed, even though her pride responded to the warmth; Remington was a distinctly handsome man.
Their words had riveted the attention of other gentlemen idling at the periphery of her circle; like Remington, they were older than her puppies. One pushed through to her side, displacing Lord Henderson. “Framlingham, Miss Parteger. Seeing you amidst the Cynster household, well—we simply assumed, don’t you know?”
“I’m a friend of the family,” Flick replied repressively. “Lady Horatia has been kind enough to take me around town.”
“Ah!”
“Indeed?”
Other gentlemen closed in, relegating her fawning puppies to the outer ranks. Flick stiffened, but, flanked by the courteous and subtly protective Remington and the gruff Framlingham, she quickly realized that her new court was far more entertaining than the last.
Within minutes, she found herself laughing spontaneously. Two other young ladies joined the circle; the conversation shifted to a new level, one of more scintillating repartee.
Stifling a giggle at one of Remington’s dry remarks, Flick threw a glance across the room—Demon, she knew, would have appreciated the joke.
He was looking down—into Celeste’s face.
Flick caught her breath and swung her gaze back to Remington. After a moment, she exhaled, then drew in another breath, straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and smiled on her new cavaliers.
* * *
The next morning, the instant Lady Horatia’s carriage halted by the verge of the Avenue, it was swamped.
“Your Grace. Lady Cynster.” At the head of a group of six gentlemen and two ladies, Remington bowed to Helena and Horatia, then with a warm smile, bowed to Flick. Straightening, he addressed Horatia. “Could we persuade you, ma’am, to allow Miss Parteger to stroll the lawns in our company?” His gaze switched to Flick. “If, of course, we can tempt her to join us?”
If Demon had been anywhere in sight, Flick would have sat in the carriage and prayed he’d speak with her—but he wasn’t. He hadn’t appeared in the park in the last week. She’d sent another reassuring letter to Dillon that morning, increasingly worried that he would set out to chase Bletchley himself, and get caught. The General would be devastated. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Demon standing before her, ready to reassure her. It was Remington, who knew nothing about her life. Nevertheless, if she walked with Remington, at least she would get to stretch her legs. Returning his smile, she glanced at Horatia. “If you don’t mind, ma’am?”
Having shrewdly assessed the group on the lawn, Horatia nodded. “By all means, my dear. A walk will do you good.”
“We’ll keep within sight of the carriage,” Remington assured her.
Horatia nodded, watching as Remington helped Flick to the ground. Flick turned and bobbed a curtsy, then put her hand on Remington’s sleeve and joined the others waiting.
“Hmm.” Beside Horatia, Helena watched the group as they moved off. “Is that wise, do you think?”
Her eyes on Flick’s bright curls, Horatia smiled grimly. “As to that, I can’t say, but it should get some action.” Turning to Helena, she raised a brow. “Don’t you think?”
As had been his habit for the past weeks, Demon spent his day at White’s. Montague and the people he’d hired to watch for Bletchley called on him there—he acted as a general, coordinating their searches. For all their efforts, they’d precious little to show. Both the money and Bletchley had to be somewhere—they’d yet to discover where. And time was running out.
Worrying at the problem—not at all enamored of having to admit defeat and inform the Committee about the fixes planned for the Spring Carnival, simultaneously handing Dillon over without any evidence to support his tale—Demon d
ropped into an armchair in the reading room, picked up a news sheet and opened it in front of his face.
And tried to relax. At least one or two muscles.
He sighed, too aware that every nerve was taut, every muscle half-tensed. He had a serious illness, caused by a Botticelli angel. The cure was obvious, but, given their present state, he was likely to suffer for some weeks yet.
He still had no idea what had upset her; she seemed, however, to have recovered. Unfortunately, there was now a certain coolness in her attitude to him. She seemed to be watching him measuringly. Which made no sense at all. She’d known him for years—she even knew him in the biblical sense—what more did she think to discover?
Suppressing a snort, he flicked out the news sheet. Dealing with that too-revealing glow of hers had to be his primary concern. Some might see it as mere encouragement, but only those with poor eyesight. As matters now stood, she was safe from self-incrimination. Reestablishing their previous relationship would simply be a matter of wrapping her in his arms and kissing her witless, once she’d come around to the idea of marrying him. There was no need to worry on that score.
There was no reason to reverse direction and start hovering over her, even had that been an option. The best thing to do was to hold the line—to keep his distance even more rigidly. Just as he had for the last two nights.
Setting his jaw, he forced himself to read the news.
“Hmm—interesting.”
Demon looked up; Chillingworth stood beside his chair, regarding him quizzically.
“I have to confess to supreme envy at your coolness under fire.”
Demon blinked; every muscle hardened. He searched Chillingworth’s face. “What fire?”
Chillingworth’s brows rose. “Why, the raging interest in your sweet innocent, of course. Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“That Remington—you’ve heard that his acres are mortgaged to the hilt and his pockets entirely to let?”
Demon nodded.
“Apparently he did the unthinkable. In the middle of a ballroom, he asked your dear delight whether she and you were engaged.”
Demon swore.
“Precisely. Combined with the fact that supposedly impeccable sources credit her with an income of not less than ten thousand a year, and, well . . .” Demon looked up; Chillingworth met his gaze. “I do wonder, dear boy, that you have time to read the news.”
Demon held his gaze for a pregnant instant, then swore viciously. Crumpling the paper, he stood and shoved it at Chillingworth. “My thanks.”
Chillingworth smiled and took the paper. “Don’t mention it, dear boy. Only too glad to help any of your family into parson’s mousetrap.”
Demon heard the words, but he didn’t waste time thinking of a riposte—there was someone he wanted to see.
“Why the hell didn’t she—you—someone tell me she was a damned heiress? Ten thousand a year!” Pacing his mother’s parlor, Demon shot her a far from filial look.
Sitting on the chaise, engrossed in sorting silks, Horatia didn’t see it. “As that’s a paltry sum compared to what you have, I can’t see why it so concerns you.”
“Because she’ll have every fortune hunter in town hanging about her!”
Horatia looked up. “But . . .” She frowned. “I was under the impression there was an understanding between Felicity and yourself.”
Demon gritted his teeth. “There is.”
“Well, then.” Horatia looked back at her silks.
Fists clenched, Demon hung on to his temper—already sorely tried—and absorbed the fact that his mother was baiting him. “I want to see her,” he ground out. Only then did it occur to him that to find Horatia without Flick in attendance at this time of day was odd. A chill touched his spine. “Where is she?”
“The Delacorts invited her to a picnic at Merton. She went down in Lady Hendricks’s carriage.”
“You let her go alone?”
Horatia looked up. “Good heavens, Harry! You know that crew. They’re all young, and while both Lady Hendricks and Mrs. Delacort might have sons in need of wealthy wives, as you and Flick already have an understanding, what harm can there possibly be?”
Her blue eyes, fixed on his face, dared him to tell her.
Teeth gritted so hard that his jaw ached, Demon nodded curtly, swung on his heel, and left.
He couldn’t do a damned thing about it—the sudden rush of picnics, alfresco luncheons and daytime excursions that swept into the more youthful stratum of the ton.
Standing, arms crossed, against a wall in Lady Monckton’s ballroom, Demon eyed the circle gathered about Flick, and only just managed not to glare. It had been bad enough watching a group of helpless puppies fawning about her skirts; the gentlemen now about her were of a different calibre. Many would rank as eligible, some had titles; the majority, however, needed money. And they were all a good few years younger than he. They could, with society’s blessing, dance attendance on her, court her assiduously by attending all the picnics and innocent gatherings—all things he could not.
Whoever heard of going on a picnic and taking your own wolf? It simply didn’t happen.
For the first time in all his years within the ton, he felt like an outsider looking in. The area of society Flick inhabited was not one he could enter. And she couldn’t come to him. Thanks to her unfailing honesty, the distance between them was widening to a chasm.
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 hell 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.