During the hours he'd spent watching Bletchley, speaking with Gillies, his anger had dissipated; his inchoate rage over the risks she'd taken had faded. His knowledge was wide, his imagination consequently well-informed; the visions that, even now, formed too readily were guaranteed to set his teeth on edge. But he'd had time to appreciate her thinking, to realize that, from her point of view, innocent of prizefights, coming here had been not only the obvious step but one she'd felt compelled to take.

He could understand. He still didn't approve, but that was another matter, a different aspect of the day's emotions. His anger had died, but the underlying tension hadn't. The anger had been only a symptom of that deeper emotion-one that felt uncomfortably like fear.

Fear was an emotion no Cynster male handled well. He'd had little experience of it-and he definitely didn't like what he was experiencing now. That his fear was centered on Flick was obvious; why it should be so was another of those somethings he preferred not to examine.

If he'd known that deciding to bite the bullet and marry would bring all this down on his head, he would have thought twice. Three times. Unfortunately, it was now too late-the notion of giving up Flick, of retreating from marrying her, was unthinkable.

How unthinkable was borne in on him as he briefly released her lips to drag in a breath. Her scent came with it-appleblossom and lavender-a fragrance so innocent it touched his soul, so simple it drove through his defenses, caught and effortlessly focused his desire.

To live without this-without her, without the intense satisfaction experience told him could be his with her-that was the definition of unthinkable.

Releasing her jaw, he slid his fingers into her curls and held back a shudder at the sensation of pure silk sliding over the back of his hand. His lips firmed on hers; he angled his head, fingers sliding until he cradled her head, holding her steady so he could do as he wished-and take their kiss still deeper. Into realms she'd never experienced, along paths she'd never trod.

He, however, was supposed to be in control.

Shocked, he sensed the reins sliding from his grasp, felt his hunger well. Stunned, he pulled back-forced himself to break the all-too-evocative melding of their lips.

Long enough to drag in a much-needed breath. He couldn't remember when last his head had spun. "Umm…" He blinked. "We'll stay until two o'clock. Then we'll leave. I'll take you home."

He'd worked it all out while watching Bletchley.

Lifting her lids only high enough to locate his lips, Flick nodded, reached up, framed his face, and drew his head back to hers. She knew perfectly well why he was kissing her-he wanted to control her, to render her all weak and limp and acquiescent. She might, indeed, go weak and limp-she might even be a bit distracted-but acquiescent? Just because her body and her wits lost all resolution the instant he had her against him, the second his lips found hers, did not mean her will went the same way.

Which meant that as far as she was concerned, he could kiss her as long as he liked. If he'd decided they had until two o'clock the next morning, she saw no reason to waste any precious minutes.

Being kissed by him was exceedingly nice, exceptionally pleasant. The touch of his lips was enticing, the much bolder caress of his tongue brazenly exciting. It made her feel wild, a touch reckless-oddly restless. That last was due to what lay beyond-all the rest she did not know. His experience was there, in his lips, in the arms that held her so easily, tantalizing, beckoning-simply intriguing.

She offered her lips and he took them again, and her mouth as well. And yet he held back. There was a restraint he placed on his actions, on his hunger, or rather, on letting her see it. She sensed it nevertheless, in his ruthlessly locked muscles, in the tension that held him. But that restraint stood firm, a barrier between her and his greater knowledge. A barrier she could not resist prodding. She was, after all, hardly a chit out of the schoolroom, no matter what he might think.

Brazenly, she leaned into him and wantonly kissed him back-trying this, then that, to see what might best weaken him. Closing her lips about his tongue and sucking was her first success-his attention abruptly focused; his resistance weakened accordingly. Sliding her hands around his neck, locking her fingers at his nape and stretching, sliding, upward against him, worked, too, but-

Abruptly he lifted his head and dragged in a huge breath. He blinked down at her. "Did the innkeeper see your face?" His voice was not entirely steady; he looked a little dazed.

"No." She sank deeper into his arms, sliding her fingertips into his hair. "I was hidden behind my veil the whole time."

"Hmm." He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. "I'll go down and pay your shot later. When all's quiet, and there's no one about to hear. There'll be someone at the desk all night tonight. Then we'll leave."

She didn't bother nodding. Her hands fell to his shoulders as he recaptured her lips, and she met his tongue with hers. She could, she decided, happily spend all night kissing him. Pressing herself to him. The thought prompted the deed, but she couldn't get any closer-she was already locked tight, breast to chest, hips to thighs. But…

He hesitated, then his lips shifted on hers. The whirlpool of their kiss dragged her deeper, into a vortex of heady sensations-all beckoning, enticing.

The need to get closer welled, swelled-

His resistance irked. If she wanted to marry him-if he wanted to marry her-then she wanted to know more. Deliberately, she stretched upward, flagrantly inciting, kissing him urgently, as evocatively as she knew how-

His arms shifted, then his hands were on her back-large and strong, they slid down, smoothly sweeping down to her waist, to her hips, then down, over the swells of her bottom. He cupped her, held her tight, her curves filling his hands, then he lifted her.

Up and against him-molding her to him so her soft belly cradled the hard ridge of his erection. She would have gasped-not with shock, but delight, a delight wholly new to her-but with lips suddenly ruthless and a demand she felt to her toes, he ravaged her mouth, took all she offered and searched for more.

There was suddenly hunger enough for two, swirling hotly about them.

Flick sank her fingers into his shoulders and hung on-thrilled to her bones as hot became hotter and hard that much harder. Need, want and desire swam through her-passion swept in in their wake. And caught her.

Excitement-even better than the rush of a winning ride-and an anticipation so keen it hurt flooded her, buoyed her-

Tap! Rat-a-tat-tat!

The sharp tattoo startled them both, ending their kiss. Breathing shallowly, they both stared at the door.

Demon straightened, softly cursing. Whoever it was, he would have to find out. It might be about Bletchley. Sliding Flick down until her feet touched the floor, he reluctantly released her luscious bottom and closed his hands about her waist. He seriously doubted she could stand unsupported.

Glancing around, his gaze fell on the solid dressing table against the wall between the mantelpiece and the bed. He glanced at the door, then steered Flick back so she could lean against the dressing table. "Stay there-don't move."

Placed as she was, she couldn't be seen from the door.

She blinked blankly at him, then looked dazedly across the room.

Demon released her; turning, he strode toward the door. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror beside the door, he swallowed another curse and slowed, tugging his waistcoat down, resettling his coat and cuffs, then raking his fingers through his hair before reaching for the latch.

He assumed it was Gillies, or one of the inn staff. Whoever it was, he intended getting rid of them fast. Turning the key, he opened the door.

The elegant gentleman who stood on the threshold, an urbane smile rapidly fading, was not a member of the inn's staff. Unfortunately, he was familiar.

Inwardly, Demon cursed, wishing he'd snuffed some of the candles Flick had scattered about the room. At least she was out of sight. Holding the door less than half open, he raised an arrogantly weary brow. "Evening, Selbourne."

"Cynster." Disappointment rang in Lord Selbourne's tone; disgruntlement filled his eyes. His expression, however, remained urbane. "I-" Abruptly, Selbourne's gaze shifted, going past Demon's shoulder. His lordship's eyes widened.

Demon stiffened, his jaw clenching so hard that he thought it would crack. He didn't, however, turn around.

Lord Selbourne's brows rose, coolly, appraisingly, then he glanced consideringly at Demon. And smiled. "-see."

The single word carried a wealth of meaning; Demon comprehended its portent only too well. Face set, he nodded curtly. "Precisely. I fear you'll need to find somewhere else to sleep tonight."

Selbourne sighed. "To the victor, the spoils." With an arch glance directed once again beyond Demon, he turned away. "I'll leave you, dear boy, to get what rest you may."

Biting back an oath-an exceedingly virulent one-Demon managed to shut the door without slamming it. Hands rising to his hips, he stared at the wooden panels; after a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. Shifted. He blinked, then slowly reached out and turned the key.

The sound of the lock falling home echoed gently-a single knell marking an irrevocable step. Demon turned.

And confirmed that Flick had indeed been unable to resist shifting to the other side of the hearth, to peer about him to see who was at the door.

Selbourne had had a perfect view of her-with her hair ruffled, her gown suggestively crumpled, her lips rosy and swollen from his kisses. Most importantly, she hadn't been wearing hood or veil. Demon stared at her.

She stared back. "Who was that?"

He considered her, then turned back to the door and removed the key. "Fate. Disguised as Lord Selbourne."

Chapter 13

Flick studied him. "Do you know him?"

"Oh, indeed." Slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket, Demon started back toward her. "Everyone in the ton knows Rattletrap Selbourne."

"Rattletrap?"

Stopping directly before her, Demon looked into her eyes. "His tongue runs on wheels."

She searched his eyes, his face; her lips formed a silent Oh.

"Which means," he explained, "that at all the balls in London tomorrow evening, the juiciest bon mot will be just who the deliciously youthful 'widow' discovered consorting with me at Bury St. Edmunds really was."

Flick stiffened; her eyes flashed. "Don't start that again. Just because he saw me doesn't mean I'm compromised. He doesn't know who I am."

"But he will." Demon tapped her nose with one finger. "That's how Rattletrap secures his invitations-the particular niche he's carved in the bosom of the ton. He ferrets out all the indiscretions committed by the rest of us, and whispers them in the matrons' ears."

He held Flick's gaze steadily. "He'll find out who you are-you're well known in Newmarket, and that will be the first place he'll look. Gillies described the scene you created to get this room-that's precisely how a lady, living near but not in town, desirous of a room in which to meet her lover, would behave."

Flick folded her arms and set her chin stubbornly. "I am not compromised."

"You are." Demon didn't blink. "As of the instant Selbourne laid eyes on your face, your situation is the definition of compromised."

She narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she stated, "Even if, theoretically, I am, that changes nothing."

"On the contrary, it changes a great deal."

"Indeed? Such as?"

He reached out and tugged her hand free; puzzled, she let him raise it. Catching the other, he lifted both to his shoulders, drawing her nearer. Releasing her hands, he closed his arms about her.

She quickly slid her hands down, bracing them against his chest. "What are you doing?"

He met her gaze, then lowered his head. "Demonstrating how much has changed."

He kissed her-and kept kissing her, not forcefully but persuasively, not ruthlessly but relentlessly, until she surrendered. When she melted against him, he locked his arms about her-and kissed her some more. She responded with her customary eagerness. Steadily, progressively, he retraced their earlier steps until their breathing fragmented, until her hips were pressed tight to his, until heat licked their senses and passion hovered in the wings.