'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.
'Cynster!'
'Indeed.' Straightening, Demon swept Remington a taunting bow. His gaze was steely, as were the undercurrents in his voice. 'As you're unable to show Miss Parteger the etchings you promised her, might I suggest you depart? Not just this room, but the house.'
Remington snorted, but eyed him uncertainly. Which was wise-Demon would happily take him apart given the slightest provocation. 'I'm sure,' he drawled, 'you can see that's the best way.' Strolling forward, he stopped beside Flick and trapped Remington's now wary gaze. 'We wouldn't want there to be any whispers-if there were, I'd have to explain how you'd misled Miss Parteger over the existence of etchings in the Monckton House library.' Raising his brows, he mused, 'Difficult to find a rich wife if you're not invited to the balls any more.'
Remington's expression didn't succeed in masking his fury. But he was a good deal shorter and slighter than Demon; swallowing his ire, he nodded, bowed curtly to Flick, then swung on his heel and stalked to the door.
Beside Demon, grateful for his intimidating, reassuring presence, Flick frowningly watched the door close behind Remington. 'Is he a fortune hunter?'
'
Flick blinked. 'Worth?'
'You can't be
Understanding dawned, along with her temper-she swung to face him. '
Demon halted; hands on hips, he looked at her. Then he scowled. 'Well you needn't look at me. I'm hardly likely to fashion a rod for my own back.' He started to pace again. 'So who spread the news?' He spoke through clenched teeth. 'Just tell me, so I can wring their neck.'
Flick knew exactly how he felt. 'I think it must have been my aunt. She wants me to marry well.' She wanted her to marry Demon, so her aunt had let it be known that she was an heiress. She assumed, avaricious as she was, that the news would prompt him to grab her, regardless of how wealthy he was.
'Was that what she said to upset you at that ball?'
She hesitated, then shrugged. 'In a way.'
Demon glared at her. First his mother, now her aunt. Elderly ladies were lining up to make his life difficult. That, however, wasn't the cause of the black, roiling, clawing rage that filled him, fighting to get loose, spurred by the knowledge of what would have happened if he hadn't been watching her so closely.
'Whatever-
Her spine stiffened; her chin rose. Her eyes flashed a warning. 'You heard. I happen to like etchings.'
'
'Etchings are prints made from a metal plate on which someone has drawn with a needle.'
She capped the comment by putting her pert nose in the air; Demon tightened his fingers about his hips against the urge to tighten them about her. He bent forward, lowering his face so it was closer to hers. 'For your information, a gentleman offering to show a lady etchings is the equivalent of him inviting her to admire his family jewels.'
Flick blinked. Puzzled, she searched his eyes. 'So?'
'
'It is?'
He swung back to see her lip curl.
'How like the fashionable to corrupt a perfectly good word.'
'Remington was looking to corrupt
'Hmm.' She looked at him, her expression stony. 'But I do like etchings. Do you have any?'
'Yes.' The answer was out before he'd thought. When she raised a brow, he grudgingly elaborated, 'I have two scenes of Venice.' They hung on either side of his bed. When he invited ladies to see his etchings, he meant literally as well as figuratively.
'I don't suppose you'd invite me to see them?'
'No.' Not until she agreed to marry him.
'I thought not.'
He blinked, and scowled at her. 'What's that supposed to mean?' Her cryptic utterances were driving him crazy.
'It means,' Flick enunciated, her accents as clipped as his, 'that it's become increasingly clear that you want me merely as an ornament, a suitable, acceptable wife to parade on your arm at all the family gatherings. You don't want me
'Oh?'
The single, quietly uttered syllable was a portent of danger; she ignored her reactive shiver. 'You're never
Her eyes narrowed as she looked into his. 'Indeed, coming to London has opened my eyes.'
'You mean it's shown you how many puppies and fortune hunters you can have at your beck and call.'
His growl was a grating rumble she had to concentrate to hear; her reply was a sweet smile. 'No,' she said, her tone that of one explaining a simple matter to a simpleton. 'I don't want puppies or fortune hunters-that wasn't what I meant. I meant I've seen the light about
Eyes mere slits, he raised one brow. 'Indeed?'
'Oh, indeed!' Buoyed on an outrush of pure release, Flick gestured wildly. 'Your women-ladies, I'm sure. Particularly Celeste.'
He stiffened. 'Celeste?'
There was demand in his tone, along with a clear warning. Flick heeded the first but not the second. 'You must remember her-dark hair, dark eyes.
'I
'Oh, nothing more than anyone with eyes knows.' Her own eyes, filled with fury, told him precisely how much that was. 'But Celeste is by the way. At least, if we're ever to marry, she will certainly have to be 'by the way.' My principal point, however, is this.'
Halting directly in front of him, she looked into his face, and hissed, '
He opened his mouth-quick as a flash, she pointed a finger at his nose. 'Don't you