To his relief, she, busy adjusting her stirrups, missed their exchange entirely.
“It looks like the clouds have blown away. I dare say it’ll be quite warm by lunchtime.” She straightened and glanced around for a log to use as a mounting block.
Demon dropped his reins and crossed to her side; closing his hands about her waist, he lifted her, setting her lightly on Jessamy’s back.
That got her attention; she sucked in a breath and blinked at him, then quickly rearranged her legs and her skirts. “Thank you.”
Lifting her chin, she fixed her blue eyes on Dunstable. “I can’t believe how overgrown the park has become—we must get Hendricks to cut back rather more. Why, you can barely see the sky, even here, even on such a wonderful morning. I rather think—”
She chattered blithely on, unaware that, with her cheeks still delicately flushed from sleep, her hair tousled and her velvet skirts badly crushed, she presented a perfect picture of a youthful damsel who had recently engaged in an energetic morning romp.
Predictably, she led the way along the path to the manor.
Dunstable followed close behind. To give him his due, while remaining stony-faced, he managed to make the appropriate noises whenever Flick paused in her paean to the morning.
Hands on his hips, Demon watched them amble off, then exhaled through his teeth. Returning to the hut, he secured the door, then mounted Ivan. And paused.
For one long moment, he stared down the path at Flick’s and Dunstable’s backs. Then, lips thinning, jaw firming, he shook Ivan’s reins. And followed.
By the time their party reached Hillgate End, Demon had a firm grip on the situation. There was no doubt that he’d compromised Flick, albeit entirely innocently.
He’d caught up with her and Dunstable, only to hear her gaily state that they’d taken shelter soon after the rain had started. So Dunstable now knew that they’d been at the hut, together and alone, from the dead of night to dawn. Of course, focused on protecting Dillon, Flick had said not a word about what had occasioned her presence, in company with a rake, deep in the park in the middle of the night.
It was no great feat to imagine what Dunstable was thinking. Indeed, it was difficult to conceive of a more damning scenario for a young, unmarried gentlewoman than being discovered at dawn leaving an evening rendezvous in company with a rake of the first order.
Demon had had ample time to consider every facet of their night alone, every nuance, every likely repercussion—their journey to the manor had been slow, the ground very wet, soft beneath their horses’ hooves. They’d plodded along, Flick in the lead, followed by Dunstable, with him in the rear. In brooding silence, he’d debated their options—not many—and what that therefore meant, while Flick had entertained Dunstable with her sunny patter.
She’d described the small stable, and exclaimed over the fact that Jessamy and Ivan had been quite dry; she’d continually paused to declaim the wonders of the morning. She had not, however, mentioned the mouse—on consideration, remembering the long moments she’d spent in his arms, he’d decided that was just as well.
God only knew what picture she might paint for Dunstable if she started on that topic.
Finally, they’d reached the manor’s grounds; minutes later, they trotted into the stable yard.
Stifling a huge sigh of relief, her mind full of the wonders of a hot bath, Flick reined in. She untangled her legs and skirts from her sidesaddle; she was about to slide to the ground when Demon appeared beside her. He reached for her; his hands closed about her waist, then he lifted her down, and set her on her feet before him.
Quickly catching her breath—she was almost used to the effect of his touch, to the sudden seizing of her lungs—she beamed a sunny smile up at him, and held out her hand. “Thank you so much for taking pity on me last night and seeing me home. I’m really very grateful.”
He looked at her—she could read nothing in his eyes, in his oddly set expression. He took her hand, but instead of squeezing it and letting go, he wrapped his fingers about hers and turned. “I’ll walk you to the house.”
Flick stared at him—at his back. She would have tugged and argued, but Dunstable, having dismounted more slowly, was hovering. Demon started walking—stalking; throwing a bright smile over her shoulder at Dunstable, she had to hurry to keep up.
Striding purposefully, Demon headed up the gravel path, ducking under the wisteria to pass beneath the old trees and cut across the lawn to the terrace. He didn’t set her hand on his arm and stroll; instead, he kept his hand locked about hers and towed her along.
Flick tried an outraged glare, but he refused to even notice. His expression was set, determined. Determined on what she had no idea.
Glancing back, she saw Dunstable, watching from beneath the stable arch. She flashed him a reassuring smile and wondered what devil had possessed Demon.
He didn’t stop until they were on the terrace, before the open morning room windows. Releasing her, he gestured her inside; with a speaking glance, she stepped over the threshold. Swinging her heavy skirts, she faced him as he followed her into the room. “Why aren’t you heading off to the Heath? We have to watch Bletchley.”
Halting in front of her, he looked down at her and frowned. “Gillies and the others will keep watching until I arrive to take over. At present, I have matters of greater moment to settle.” She blinked.
“You do?”
His jaw set ominously. “I need to speak with the General.”
Flick felt her eyes, locked on his, widen. “What about?” She had no idea why, but she was starting to feel uneasy.
Demon saw her question—her lack of understanding—etched in her eyes. Inwardly, he cursed. “I need to talk to him about our current situation.”
“Situation? What situation?”
Jaw clenching, he went to step around her; quick as a flash, she blocked his way. “What are you talking about?”
He caught her eye and frowned even more. “I’m talking about the past night, which we spent together, alone.” He gave the last two words particular weight; comprehension dawned in her eyes.
Then she blinked and frowned at him. “So?” Her gaze raced over his face. “Nothing—nothing indiscreet—happened.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice tight, controlled, “but only you and I know that. All society will see is that the potential for indiscretion was present, and that, in society’s eyes, is all that counts.”
The sound she made was elementally dismissive. His eyes locked on hers, Demon knew that if she questioned the potential, denied it had existed, he’d wring her neck.
She hovered on the brink—he saw it in her eyes. But, after studying his expression, she swung onto a different tack. “But no one knows. Well”—she waved—“only Dunstable, and he didn’t imagine anything scandalous had happened.”
Stunned, he stared at her. “Tell me, is Dunstable always so stony-faced?”
She grimaced. “Well, he is rather taciturn. I always do most of the talking.”
“If you’d done a little more looking this morning, you’d have seen he was shocked to his toes.” Again, he went to step past her; again, she blocked his way.
“What are you going to do?”
He didn’t want to lay hands on her—didn’t want to risk it in his present state. He pinned her with a glare. “I am going to speak to the General, and explain to him exactly what occurred.”
“You’re not going to tell him about Dillon?”
“No. I’ll simply say I came upon you riding alone through my fields late last night, and insisted on escorting you home.” He took a step toward her; to keep his face in clear view, she backed away. “I’ll leave it to you to explain what you were doing in your saddle at midnight.”
She blinked; he pressed his advantage and took another step. She gave ground without noticing. Her eyes, now wide, flicked up to his; before she could interrupt, he stated, “The General will see instantly that, regardless of what truly tr
anspired at the cottage, all society—certainly every matron of standing in Newmarket—will believe you and I spent the best part of the night heating a single pallet in the charcoal makers’ hut.”
A light blush tinged her cheeks; her gaze flickered, then steadied. Abruptly, she stood her ground. “That’s ridiculous.” The statement was emphatic. “You didn’t lay a finger . . .” Her words trailed away; her gaze blanked.
“On you?” Demon grinned tightly. “Not one—all ten.” He trapped her gaze as she refocused. “Can you deny you were in my arms?”
Her lips compressed, her expression turned mutinous, her chin set like rock. Her eyes—those usually soft orbs—positively flared. “That was because of a mouse!”
“The cause is irrelevant. As far as society’s concerned, having spent the night alone with me, your virtue and reputation are in question. The accepted code of behavior decrees I offer you the protection of my name.”
Flick stared at him, then determinedly shook her head. “No.”
He looked down at her, and coolly raised his brows. “No?”
“No, that’s positively stupid.” Flinging her hands in the air, she swung away. “You’re blowing this up out of all proportion. Society’s not going to say anything because they’ll know nothing about it. Dunstable won’t talk.” Swinging about, she paced back. “I’ll see him and explain—” Lifting her head, she saw Demon almost at the door. “No! Wait!”
She raced across the room. She would have caught him, but he turned and caught her instead. His hands about her upper arms, he held her away from him. And glared at her.
“There’s no point arguing—I’m going to see the General.”
His determination was blazoned in his eyes; Flick couldn’t mistake it. Her mind raced; she licked her lips. “He’ll be at breakfast.” Dragging her gaze from his, she sent it skimming down, over his rumpled clothes.
He looked down, too, then frowned; extending one leg, he scowled at the muddy streaks marring his Hessians. And swore. Releasing her, he took stock of his disreputable state. “I can’t go in to see him like this.”
Flick kept her eyes wide and innocent, and held her tongue. Even when—especially when—his gaze, hard and blue, returned to her face.
After a moment, lips compressed, he nodded. “I’ll go home and change—then I’ll be back.” Eyes narrowing, he held her gaze. “And then we can discuss this fully—with the General.”
She merely raised her brows and maintained a strategic silence.
He hesitated, looking into her eyes, then, with a curt nod, turned and stalked out.
Flick watched him go, drifting back to the French doors to watch him stride across the lawn. Only when he’d disappeared into the shadows of the trees did she turn back into the room—grit her teeth, clench her fists, and give vent to a frustrated scream.
“He’s impossible! This is impossible.” After a moment, her eyes darkened. “He’s out of his mind.”
With that, she stalked off to clear the matter up.
Two hours later, Demon drove his bays up the drive of Hillgate End. Under his expert guidance, the curricle came to a flourishing halt immediately before the steps. Handing the reins to the groom who came running, he stepped down. Drawing off his gloves, he strode to the house.
He was perfectly attired in a blue morning coat and ivory breeches, ivory cravat and shirt, with an elegantly restrained blue-and-black-striped waistcoat. His Hessians, another pair, gleamed. His appearance was precisely as he considered it should be, given his errand.
Jacobs opened the door to his knock. Demon returned his greeting with a nod and headed straight for the library. He was somewhat surprised to gain the door without encountering Flick; he’d expected some last-ditch effort on her part to interfere with his plans—his immolation on the altar of the right and proper.
Turning the handle, he opened the door and entered, swiftly scanning the long room for any sign of an angel.
She wasn’t there.
The General was, seated as usual at his desk, and sunk behind a huge tome. He looked up as Demon closed the door—and smiled warmly, delightedly.
Demon strolled nearer and saw his mentor’s eyes twinkling. Inwardly, he cursed.
The General held up a hand before he could speak. “I know,” he declared, “all about it.”
Demon came to a dead halt facing the desk. “Flick.” His tone was flat. His left hand slowly clenched.
“Eh? Oh, yes—Felicity.” The General grinned and leaned back in his chair, waving him to the chair beside the desk. Although Demon moved in that direction, he couldn’t sit—he prowled to the window beyond.
The General chuckled. “You needn’t worry. A potential imbroglio it might have been, but Felicity took the bit between her teeth and sorted it all out.”
“I see.” His features under rigid control, his expression utterly bland, Demon turned his head and raised a brow. “How very helpful of her.” Even to him, his tones sounded steely. “How did she manage it?”
“Well—” If the General was aware of his tension, he didn’t show it; he pushed his chair back the better to beam up at him. “She came straightaway to me, of course, and explained what happened—how she’d felt the need of some air and so gone riding late last night, and forgot the time, and wound up past your farm.” The General’s smug expression clouded. “Have to say, m’boy, I’m not at all sanguine about her riding off like that alone, but she’s promised me she won’t do it again.” His wide smile returning, he looked up. “One good thing about this little fright she’s had, what?”
Demon said nothing; the General grinned and continued, “Luckily, this time, you saw her—very good of you to insist on escorting her home.”
“It seemed the least I could do.” Especially as it had been him she’d ridden out to see.
“Silly of her to take that old path—Hendricks gave up on it years ago. As for the rain—I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you were with her. Goodness knows, she’s a reliable miss, but still, she’s young, and inclined to press on regardless. Your decision to stop at the hut until the rain passed was unquestionably correct. After that, of course, all the rest followed—no one’s fault it happened as it did. Hardly surprising you both fell asleep.”
The General looked up and frowned—as severely as he ever did—at him. “And don’t think you have to reassure me that nothing happened. I know you—known you from a boy. I know nothing untoward occurred. I know my Felicity would be safe with you.”
The unexpected fierceness in the General’s eyes held him silent; with a satisfied nod, the General sat back. “Yes, and she told me about the mouse, too. She’s petrified of the silly things—always has been. Just what I’d have expected—you had the sensitivity not to laugh at her, but to soothe her. Nothing scandalous there.”
Glancing at his desk, the General frowned. “Where were we? Ah, yes. Dunstable. Him coming across you this morning was neither here nor there—he’s an old friend and luckily no gabblemonger. Flick insisted on speaking with him after she’d seen me, and he dropped by to see me half an hour ago. Just to reassure me that he would never say a word to harm our Felicity.” Grinning, the General glanced up. “Dunstable also asked me to convey his apologies to you for jumping to unwarranted conclusions.”
Demon met the General’s eye. Flick had plugged every hole, countered every argument.
“So,” the General said, his tone one of conclusion, “I hope you can see that I’m perfectly convinced there’s no reason for any sacrifice on your part. As you haven’t in any way harmed Felicity’s reputation, there’s absolutely no reason you need offer for her, is there?”
Demon held his gaze, but didn’t answer; the General smiled.
“It was all perfectly innocent—and now we’ll say nothing more about it, what?” He hauled his tome back into position before him. “Now tell me. I’ve just been checking these offshoots of the Barbary Arab. What have you heard about this colt, Enderby?”
&nbs
p; As if in compensation, the General invited him to lunch. Demon accepted—then, offering to carry word of his joining the table to Jacobs, left the General to his records.
Shutting the library door, Demon paused in the quiet of the corridor, trying, yet again, to regain a sense of equilibrium. He understood what had happened; rationally, logically, he knew all was well. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel it. He felt . . . deprived.
As if a long-desired object of paramount importance had slipped—been whisked—from his grasp, just as he was about to close his hand.
Frowning, he went to find Jacobs.
He discovered him in the butler’s pantry; his message delivered, Demon returned to the front hall and, without a heartbeat’s pause, set out to hunt down Flick. Feeling very much like a hungry leopard, he prowled through the downstairs rooms. She would be somewhere close, he was sure, just in case he had raised some quibble she hadn’t foreseen and the General had sent for her.
He found her in the garden hall.
She was snipping the stems of flowers and slipping them into a vase. Humming, she tilted her head this way and that, studying her creation. Demon watched her for a full minute, taking in her crisp, cambric morning gown, noting her hair, newly brushed, a gilded frame about her face.
After drinking his fill, he quit the doorway; on silent feet, he approached her.
Flick snipped the stem of a cornflower and considered how best to place it. She held it up, her hand hovering—
Long fingers plucked the bloom from her grasp.
She gasped, but even before her gaze collided with his, she knew who stood beside her. She knew his touch—knew the sense of strength he projected. “Have you seen the General?” she gabbled, frantically trying to slow her racing heart.
“Hmm.” Eyes half-closed, he lazily angled the stem this way, then that, then slid it home into the vase. He surveyed his handiwork, then, apparently satisfied, turned to her. “I did see him, yes.”
His lazy, indolent—sleepy—expression deceived her not at all; beneath his heavy lids, his eyes were sharp, his gaze incisive. She lifted her chin and picked up the garden shears. “I told you there was no need for any drama.”
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