A Rogues Proposal

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 dropped 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 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?"

"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?"

"Yes!" With an explosive oath, Demon lifted both hands, then appeared not to know what to do with them. With another oath, he swung away, pacing. "He is! Half those about you are-some more so than others." His blue gaze stabbed her "'What did you imagine would happen once you let it be known how much you're worth?"

Flick blinked. "Worth?"

"You can't be that innocent. Now the news is out that you come with ten thousand a year in tow, they're all flocking around. It's a wonder you haven't been mown down in the rush!"

Understanding dawned, along with her temper-she swung to face him. "How dare you!" Her voice quavered; she drew in a huge breath. "I didn't tell anyone anything about my fortune. I haven't spoken about it at all."

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-whoever." He bit off the words. Towering over her, his hands on his hips, he captured her gaze. "Bad enough you're surrounded by a gaggle of fortune hunters-that doesn't excuse your behavior tonight. You know damn well not to go anywhere alone with any man. What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Her spine stiffened; her chin rose. Her eyes flashed a warning. "You heard. I happen to like etchings."

"Etchings!" Jaw clenched, he only just managed not to roar. "Don't you know what that means?"

"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?"

"Aargh!" He swung away. "It's an invitation to intimacy!"

"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 you."

"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 powerfully at all! That doesn't impress me-and I've been even less impressed by your recent behavior."

"Oh?"

The single, quietly uttered syllable was a portent of danger; she ignored her reactive shiver. "You're never there-never about! You don't deign to waltz with me-you've driven me in the park precisely once!" Looking into his face, fists clenched, she let loose her pent-up frustrations. "You were the one who insisted on bringing me to London-if you thought this was the way to get me to marry you, you've seriously miscalculated!"

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 you!"

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. Enormous-"

"I know who Celeste is." The steely words cut her off. "What I want to know is what you know of her."

"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, "I am not your cousin, to be watched over in this dog-in-the-manger way!"

He opened his mouth-quick as a flash, she pointed a finger at his nose. "Don't you dare interrupt-just listen!"

He shut his mouth; the way his jaw set, she felt reasonably sure he wouldn't open it again soon. She drew in a deep breath. "As you well know, I am not some eighteen-year-old innocent." With her eyes, she dared him to contradict her; his lips thinned ominously, but he remained silent.

"I want to talk, walk, waltz and drive-and if you wish to marry me, you'd better see it's with you!"

She waited, but he remained preternaturally still. A sense of being too close to something dangerous, something barely controlled, tickled her spine. Hauling in a breath, she kept her eyes steady on his, unusually dark in the weak candlelight. "And I will not be marrying you unless I'm convinced it's the right thing for me. I will not be browbeaten, or pressured in any way."

Demon heard her words through a smothering fog of seething rage. Muscles in his shoulders flickered, twitched-his palms itched. The injustice in her words whipped him. He'd done nothing for any reason other than to protect her. His body was about to explode, held still purely by the force of his will, which was steadily eroding.

She'd paused, searching his face; now she drew herself up and coolly stated, "I will not be managed by you."

Their gazes locked; for one long moment, absolute silence held sway. Neither moved-they barely breathed. The conflagration within him swelled; he locked his jaw, and endured.

"I refuse-"

He reached out and pulled her into his arms, cutting the statement off with his lips, drawing whatever repudiation she'd thought to make from her mouth, then he plundered, searched, took all she had and demanded, commanded, more.

He drew her against him, hard against the unforgiving rock his body had become. His mind was a seething cauldron of emotions-rage colliding hotly with passion and other, more elemental needs. He was coming apart-a volcano slowly cracking, outer walls crumbling, blown asunder by a force too long compressed. Only dimly did he recall that he'd wanted to shut her up, wanted to punish her-that wasn't what he wanted now.

Now, he simply wanted.

With a desire so primitive, so primally powerful he literally shook. For one instant, he stood on the cusp, quivering, the last shreds of restraint sliding through his grasp-in that moment of blinding clarity he saw, understood, that he'd asked too much of himself, too much of who he really was. Remington had provided the last straw, piling it on top of more amorphous fears-such as what he would do if she fell in love with someone else. How he would cope if she did.

He'd assumed he could control the thing that was inside him-the emotion she and only she evoked. In that quivering, evanescent instant, he knew he'd assumed wrong.

With the last shreds of his will, he forced his arms to ease just enough to give her leeway to pull away, to escape. Even in extremis, he didn't want to hurt her. If she struggled, or even remained passive, he could fight, hold back, endure, and eventually releash his demons.

She grabbed the chance and pulled her arms from between them; something inside him howled. He braced himself for her shove on his chest-whipped himself to let her go-

Her hands caught his face, framed it. Her lips firmed, then angled under his; her fingers slid into his hair.

She kissed him hungrily. Voraciously. As powerfully demanding as he.

His head spun. Desire exploded. He was lost.

So was she-no angel, now, but a woman wild, demonically demanding, flagrantly inciting-

Madness.

It caught them up-set them free.

Flick gloried in the rush, gloried in the sense of being impossibly alive. Gloried in the hard body against hers, the chest like rock against her aching breasts, the thighs like pillars trapping hers. His lips bruised hers and she exulted; his hard hands held her brutally close, lifting her, rocking her-she only wanted to be closer.

She wanted him more than she wanted to breathe. Flinging her arms about his shoulders, she levered herself up in his punishing embrace, then held tight so their faces were closer, nearly level. His hands wrapped over her bottom, he held her high against him; she could feel the hard ridge of him grinding against her mound.

She wanted him inside her. Here. Now. Immediately. His tongue plundered remorselessly, his lips more ruthlessly demanding than ever before-she had no breath to tell him. Her skirts were just wide enough for her to grip his hips with her thighs; she did, then moved against him.

His breathing hitched; muscles tensed, then quivered. Beneath her hands, he felt like tensile steel, coiled, compressed, ready to let fly.

She moved again. He caught his breath and resumed his heated ravishing of her mouth. But his hands on her bottom shifted; supporting her with one hand, he reached down, caught the hem of her gown, and flicked, sliding first one hand under, then, palm to her bare bottom, changing hands and slipping the other, too, under her silk skirts.

Her fine chemise was short-no impediment. His hands were beneath it from the start. Hauling in a breath, she gripped tighter with her thighs, locked her arms about his neck, and flagrantly wriggled in his hands.

He got the message-his hands drifted, his touch driven, demanding, over the backs of her splayed thighs, over the globes of her bare bottom, then, holding her high with one hand, he slid the other down and around, hard fingers exploring the soft, slick folds between her thighs.

He found her entrance-one finger slid deep. She gasped and arched lightly. The finger left her-a second later, two returned, pressing deep, drawing back, then stabbing once, twice, hard and deep.

She couldn't catch her breath-heat raged beneath her skin. Her body quivered, ready to fly apart. But that wasn't what she wanted.

Locking one arm about his neck, she slid her other hand between them-down to where his engorged flesh throbbed, rampant and hard as iron. She closed her fingers greedily, sliding them down as far as she could-

He groaned. And shuddered. "God-!"

Voices reached them. Footsteps steadily approached the library. Panting, senses screaming, Flick turned her head and stared at the door. The unlocked door.

Like the procession of thoughts said to presage death, Demon saw in his mind's eye Remington closing the door behind him. Saw the image he and Flick would present to those nearing the library. They were both beyond dishevelled, barely able to breathe; Flick's arms would never release in time-nor would his.

Three giant strides had them at the French doors; with two more, he got them out of sight.

The library door opened.

Swinging Flick against the wall, he pressed her into the soft creeper-the scent of jasmine wafted about them. Chest heaving, he leaned into her, pinning her there, physically wracked by the effort of exerting his will. His entire body had been focused on doing only one thing-burying himself inside her.

Voices from inside reached them clearly; he couldn't separate the sounds through the drumming in his ears.

He tried to think, but couldn't. Flexing every mental muscle, he tried to pull back from the soft body his rock-hard limbs were holding fast against the creeper-covered stone. And failed. Just thinking about that soft body had hurled him back into the volcano of his need.

Molten desire rose, battered at his senses, broke and consumed his will.

His breathing harsh in the moonlit night, he slowly lifted his head, raised his lids and looked into her face. He expected to see shock, fright-even fear-surely he had to be scaring her? Even fear of discovery-a real possibility-would do; anything to help him hold back from doing what he would do.

Instead, he saw a face sultry with desire, heavy-lidded eyes fixed hungrily on his lips. Saw her swollen lips part, her tongue briefly lick the lower. She felt his gaze and looked up-her eyes searched his briefly, then her chin firmed. "Now."

The demand reached him on a determined whisper. Her lips curved-he could have sworn in ruthless triumph. Then he felt her hand, still trapped between them.

She closed it, slid her fingers down, then up-he closed his eyes and shuddered. Her wicked chuckle was a warm breath against his lips as she trailed her fingers higher-to his waistband. She'd worn male attire herself; in seconds, she'd slipped the buttons and had him free. He leapt in her palm, iron hard, ready to explode.

With a gasping groan he only just suppressed, he reached between them, caught her hand and hauled it up, leaning even harder into her, teeth gritted against the sensation of her silk skirts sliding over his sensitized flesh.

He met her eyes, mere inches from his. If he could have glared, he would have. But his features were set, graven-impossible to shift-hers looked the same way. Driven, muscles locked and quivering, he teetered on the brink-

She met his hard gaze directly, challengingly. "Do it!" she hissed against his lips. Then kissed him ravenously.

The conversation inside the library droned on; mere yards away, in the moonlight on the terrace, hot and frenzied needs held sway. A bare second was all it took for him to lift her skirts, to smooth them up, out of the way. His staff slid seeking between her thighs; she gripped him hard and pulled him to her.

He found her entrance and plunged-drove into her heat-straight into a vortex of shattering need.

His-and hers.

The combination was too powerful for either of them to control; it buffeted them, battered them, drove them. Their bodies bucked and strained, desperate for release, locked in a battle with no foe.

Lips frantically locked to stifle the sounds that clawed their throats, they took all they could, grabbed and held on, clutched for each precious moment-there, against the wall in the moonlight.

The sounds from the library washed over them, gentle, soothing, heightening their awareness.

Of the heated slickness where they joined, of skin too hot to touch, of the raging tide in their blood-of the driven fusing of their bodies.

Crushed blossoms released perfume in a cloud about them-an evocative scent as deeply illicit, deeply intimate as their mating. Gasping, Flick dragged the scent deep. Demon's hips flexed again, ruthlessly driving into her. His lips cut off her glad cry as he plunged. Again and again he filled her-a sword slamming into its sheath. She gripped him lovingly and gloried in the power-the power that drove them both.

The ride was wild-wilder than she'd imagined anything could be. She clung tight, drunk on that power, delirious with speed, drugged with pleasure. Then the peak was before them-they rode faster, gripped by compulsive urgency.

And then they were there-the mountain exploded, erupted, melting them in its massive heat.

No! Don't leave me! Flick silently begged, clinging tightly for one heartbeat, then, accepting that he would have to, she sighed and relaxed her hold.

He withdrew from her; she closed her eyes against the sudden emptiness. Cool air slid between them, chilling her flushed skin. She gripped his shoulder as he shifted, sliding her down, carefully guiding her back to earth.

Her slippers touched cold stone; he nicked her skirts down. They fell easily. She glanced down and was amazed-they were only slightly crushed. He didn't move away; one arm about her, he angled his body, shoulder to hers as he roughly straightened his clothes.

The murmur of voices still flowed from the library; as the pounding in her ears subsided, she could hear two older men swapping tales of long gone battles. The doors to the terrace stood wide, the candlelight a pale swath on the grey flags. If anyone had come to the threshold…

Luckily, no one had.

Heat still lapped her; warmth still flowed in her veins. She felt both exhilarated and disappointed-and confused that that was so.

Tightening his arm about her, Demon steered her along the terrace to the next set of doors, also open. Without a word, he helped her over the step and into the dark room.

Her heart leapt-instantly, she stilled it. What was she thinking? Just because she still wanted to hold him, to feel his body naked against hers, to hear his heart beating under her ear, to snuggle close-feel close-to cling-just because she wanted, didn't mean they could. They were at a ball, for heaven's sake!

He drew away from her, quickly tucking in his shirt, doing up his trousers, straightening his cravat and coat. Breathless, giddy, her heart still pounding, she shook out her skirts and smoothed them, wriggled her chemise straight, fluffed out the organza ruffle that traced her neckline and formed her transparent sleeves.

She looked up to discover Demon looking at her; she stared at him hungrily, conscious to her toes of a compulsion to reach out and touch him. Hold him. Although her body hummed with satiation, some other part of her felt… deprived. Denied. Still yearning.

Even through the dimness, Demon saw the need in her eyes; he felt it in his gut. He cleared his throat. "We have to go back."

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Do you know where the withdrawing room is?" He spoke in a hushed whisper, conscious of those next door.

"Yes."

"Go there-if anyone comments on you coming from the wrong direction, just say you went out of the other door and got lost." He surveyed her critically. "Put cold water on your lips." Reaching out, he tucked one unruly curl back behind her ear. Ruthlessly squelching the impulse to trail his fingers along her jaw, to fold her in his arms and simply hold her, he lowered his hand. "I'll go directly back."

She nodded, then turned to the door. He opened it, glanced out, then let her through, retreating back into the gloomy room to wait until she'd passed out of sight.

He needed to talk to her, explain things, but he couldn't do it now-not tonight. Thanks to her wantonness, and his, he couldn't think straight-and they had to get back to the ball.