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.