A Rogues Proposal

'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 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?'