"She's such a pretty little thing, and quite assured," Mrs. Wallace, of the Hadfield-Wallaces of Dullingham, nodded sagely. "As experienced as you are, you'll have noticed-she's not just in the common way."

Demon smiled, content to let them convince him of the lightness of his cause. He didn't need convincing, but it wouldn't hurt his campaign to have the matrons' support.

Because of his height, he could track Flick's crowning glory. As the ladies' comments continued, he started to chafe at the bit. He understood very well the reasons behind their reactions-those reasons were gathered about Flick like swarming bees about a honeypot.

Their sons looked set to make cakes of themselves over her-their fond mamas could read the script with ease. It was, therefore, in their best interests to have Demon waltz Flick off her feet, out of reach of their moonfaced sons, so said sons could recover quickly and apply themselves to the real business of the upcoming Season-finding themselves suitable wives.

Flick, of course, was highly suitable, but the ladies had accepted that their sons were not in the running, just as they'd accepted that their daughters had no chance of catching Demon's eye. It was therefore best on all counts to get him and Flick quickly paired and out of contention, before they caused any major disruptions to the good ladies' matrimonial plans.

Such was their strategy. As their plans marched so well with his, Demon was perfectly ready to reassure them as to his intentions. "Her knowledge of horses is extensive." He made the comment offhandedly, yet appreciatively. "And, of course, she is the General's ward."

"Indeed," Mrs. Wallace nodded approvingly. "So very appropriate."

"A happy circumstance," Mrs. Pemberton concurred.

With an elegant bow, quite sure they all understood each other well, Demon left them. He ambled down the side of the room, scanning the dancers. He couldn't see Flick.

Halting, he searched more carefully-she wasn't there.

He located the General, chatting with a group of older gentlemen-Flick wasn't with him.

Swallowing a curse directed at milksops who couldn't be trusted to keep a quick-witted girl in line, Demon strolled as swiftly as he could to where he'd last seen her, at the far end of the room. He reached the corner, wondering what had got into her head. Surely her disappearance didn't have anything to do with Bletchley and the syndicate?

The idea that she might have been identified, followed, and lured away chilled him. He shook the thought aside-that was fanciful, unlikely. The main door stood beyond the matrons; he was sure she hadn't gone that way. But the only other doors led deeper into the house.

Where the hell had she gone?

He was searching the throng again when a flicker at the edge of his vision had him turning. The lace curtain over the long window in the corner drifted in a light breeze. The narrow casement was partly open; it extended from head height to a foot above the floor. He couldn't fit through it. Flick, however, was smaller than he.

It took him five minutes to return back up the room, smiling and nodding and avoiding invitations to chat. Regaining the front hall, he slipped out the front door and headed around the side of the vicarage.

The garden beyond the drawing room's corner window was empty. The moon was full; steady silver light illuminated a flagged path and burgeoning flowerbeds edging a neat lawn. Frowning, Demon scanned the shadows, but there were no nooks, no benches set under overhanging boughs-no angel in pale blue communing with the night.

The garden was sunk in silence, the drifting strains of the violins a superficial tune causing barely a ripple in the deep of the night. A lick of fear touched his spine, flicked toward his heart. He was about to turn and retrace his steps, to check she hadn't returned to the drawing room before he panicked, when his gaze fell on the hedge lining one side of the lawn.

A path ran beside it, between the lawn and the deep green wall. The hedge was high; he couldn't see over it. Silently, he prowled the wall, searching, wondering if he was wrong in remembering a small courtyard…

The opening lay in shadow, just a simple gap in the hedge. He stepped into the gap. And saw her.

The courtyard was a flagged square with a raised central bed in which stood an old magnolia, draping its branches over a small pond. Flick paced slowly back and forth before it, the moonlight washing the blue from her gown, leaving it an unearthly silver.

Demon watched her, transfixed by the sway of her hips, the artless grace with which she turned. Until that instant, he hadn't realized how tightly unnamed fears had seized him; he recognized the tension only as it eased, as relief replaced it.

She felt his gaze and looked up, halting, stiffening-then relaxing as she recognized him. She said nothing, but raised a brow.

"In that gown, in the moonlight, you look like a silver sprite." Come to steal this mortal's heart. His voice was gravelly, revealingly deep.

If she noticed, she gave no sign; instead, she looked down at her gown, holding out the skirts to inspect them. "It is a very pale blue. I rather like it."

He liked it, too-it was the same pale, pure blue as her eyes. The gown was well worth the price he'd paid. Of course, she'd never know he'd offset the gown's cost. Clotilde was an excellent dressmaker; he made a mental note to send some extra token of appreciation her way.

He hesitated… but they were here, alone in the moonlight, the violins a distant whisper in the dark. Unhurriedly, he strolled forward, his gaze, intent, on her.

Flick watched him approach, large, elegant-dangerous. The moon silvered his hair, rendering his face harsh in its stark light. The angular planes seemed harder, like pale stone; his eyes were deeply shadowed beneath their heavy lids.

How his presence could be reassuring and unnerving simultaneously she didn't know. Her nerves were tightening, her senses stretching… The yearning she'd felt as they'd danced returned with a rush.

She'd come here to be quiet, to breathe the cool air, to let it soothe her overheated brain, her flushed skin. She'd come here to ponder. Him. Part of her wondered if she'd read him aright. The rest of her knew she had. But she still couldn't bring herself to believe it.

It was like a fairy tale.

Now he was here… Her nerves skittered even before she formed the thought. Abruptly, she recalled she was annoyed with him. Folding her arms, she tilted her chin; as he drew near, she narrowed her eyes at him. "You conspired with Mrs. Pemberton-Foggy told me she sent her message to the General via you."

He halted before her. "Mrs. Pemberton conjured a vision of you moldering into an old maid-that didn't seem a good idea."

His deep drawl slid over, then under, her skin, effortlessly vanquishing her annoyance. Refusing to shiver, she humphed. "I can't see how an evening like this is going to change things." She gestured toward the house. "I'm certainly not going to find a husband in there."

"No?"

"You saw them. They're so young!"

"Ah-them."

His voice deepened; she sensed that net of fascination flow about her again. His lips curved, lifting just a little at the ends, drawing her mentally closer, nearer. "No," he said, the word a deep rumble. "I agree-you definitely shouldn't marry any of them."

The ensuing pause stretched, then his lids rose and he met her gaze. "There is, however, an alternative."

He said no more, but his meaning was clear, written in the planes of his face, in his eyes. He watched her, his gaze steady; the night held them in soft darkness, alive and yet so silent that she could feel her own pulse filling the air.

Then came the music.

Haunting strains drifted over the lawns, flowed over the hedges. The opening bars of a waltz reached them-he angled his head slightly, then, his gaze never leaving her face, he held out his hands.

"Come-waltz with me."

The net drew tight-she felt its shimmering touch as it settled about her. But he didn't tug; it was her choice to step forward, to accept, if she would.

Flick wondered if she dared. Her senses reached for him-she knew how it felt to be held against his warm chest, how it felt to have his arms close about her, how her hips would settle against his hard thighs. But…

"I don't know how."

Her voice was surprisingly even; his lips curved a fraction more.

"I'll teach you"-a hint of wickedness invested his smile-"all you need to know."

She managed not to shiver. She knew very well they weren't talking of a mere waltz-that wasn't the invitation etched in his eyes, the challenge in his stance. Those hands, those arms, that body-she knew what he was offering. And, deep inside, she knew she could never walk away-not without trying, touching. Knowing.

She stepped forward, lifting her arms, tilting her face to his. He drew her to him, one arm sliding possessively about her, the other grasping her right hand. He drew her close, until they touched, until the silk of her bodice brushed his coat. His smile deepened. "Relax, and let your feet follow where they will."

He stepped back, then aside; before she knew it, she was whirling. At first, he took small steps, until she caught the rhythm, then they whirled, swooped, swung, trapped in the music, swept up in the effortless energy of the dance.

Then the mood of the music changed, slowed; they slowed, too. He drew her fractionally closer-she leaned her temple against his chest. "Isn't there some rule that I'm not supposed to waltz before someone or other approves?"

"That only applies in town at a formal ball. Young ladies have to learn to waltz somewhere, or no gentleman would ever stand up with them."

She suppressed a sniff-she hadn't stepped on his toes once. They were revolving slowly, the music soft and low.

It was she who stepped closer, fascinated by the slide of silk between their bodies. And by the heat of him.

He didn't step back. His fingers locked about hers, he laid her hand in the hollow of his shoulder. His arm tightened about her, his hand splaying below her waist, locking her to him so that they moved in truth as one.

His hand burned; so did his thighs as they pressed between hers as he steered her through a shallow turn. Her breasts firm against his coat, she laid her cheek against his chest, and listened to his heart.

Eventually, with a minor flourish they ignored, the music died. Their feet slowed, then halted; for one long instant, they simply stood.

Then she lifted her head and looked into his face. His temptation, his promise, were all around her, a shimmering veil, a glow suffusing her skin. She knew she wasn't imagining it; she didn't know enough to imagine this. She knew what was there, what it was, what might be.

She didn't know why.

So she simply asked, her eyes on his, deeply shadowed by his lids, "Why are you doing this?"

He searched her eyes, then raised one brow. "I would have thought that was obvious." After a moment, he stated, "I'm wooing you-courting you-call it what you will."

"Why?"

"Why else? Because I want you to be my wife."

"Why?"

He hesitated, then his hand left hers. His fingers slid beneath her chin, tipping her face up. His lips closed over hers.

It started as a gentle caress. That satisfied neither of them. Whether it was she or he who deepened the kiss was impossible to say-his lips were suddenly harder, firmer, more demanding; hers were correspondingly softer, more beguiling, more inviting.

Greatly daring, she parted her lips, just a little, then more, thrilled to her toes when he took instant advantage. Angling his head, he tasted her, then, like a conqueror, simply took more.

She shivered, and gave, and welcomed him in; his arms tightened about her, impressing her soft flesh with the hardness of his. She sighed, and felt him drink-her breath was his and his was hers; her head reeled as the kiss went on.

Again, it was she who took the next step, who, in all innocence, stretched her arms up, slid her hands to his nape and sank against him. She felt a rumble in his chest-a groan that never made it to his lips.

Their kiss turned ravenous.

Hot. Hungry.

His lips seared hers; his hunger whipped, and licked, and tempted. She sensed it clearly-there-beneath the smooth control, the elegant facade. Ever bold, she reached for it.