His head snapped around; he wheeled aggressively, then saw her. Even at that distance, his gaze pinned her, then he scanned her surroundings. Apparently satisfied, he set his grey trotting toward her, slowing to a walk as he neared.
He was wearing an elegant morning coat of a blue that matched his eyes; his long thighs, gripping the saddle skirts, were encased in tight buckskin. Ivory shirt, ivory cravat and gleaming Hessians completed the picture. He looked what he was-the very epitome of a London rake.
Flick kept her gaze fixed on his face and wished, very much, that she were taller. The closer he came, the smaller she felt-the more childlike. She was no longer a child, but she'd known him since she had been. It was hard to feel assured. With her cap shading her face, her muffler over her nose and chin, she couldn't imagine how he might see her-as a girl still with pigtails, or as the young lady who'd trenchantly avoided him. She'd been both, but she was neither now. What she was now was on a crusade. A crusade in which she could use his help. If he consented to give it.
Lips firming beneath her muffler, she tilted her chin and met his hard stare.
Demon's memories churned as he walked his horse into the copse's shadow. She'd called him "Demon"-only someone who knew him would do that. Images from the past jumbled and tumbled, glimpses through the years of a child, a girl, who would without a blush call him Demon. Of a girl who could ride-oh, yes, she'd always ridden, but when had she become a maestro?-of a girl he had long ago pegged as having that quality Carruthers described as "good bottom"-that open-hearted courage that bordered on the reckless, but wasn't.
When he stopped his horse, nose to tail with The Flynn, he had her well and truly placed. Not Flick. Felicity.
Eyes like slits, he held her trapped; reaching out, he tugged the concealing muffler from her face.
And found himself looking down at a Botticelli angel.
Found himself drowning in limpid blue eyes paler than his own. Found his gaze irresistibly drawn to lips perfectly formed and tinged the most delicate rose pink he'd ever seen.
He was sinking. Fast. And he wasn't resisting.
Sucking in a breath, he drew back, inwardly shocked at how far under he'd gone. Shaking free of the lingering spell, he scowled at its source. "What the damn hell do you think you're about?"
Chapter 2
She tilted her chin-a delicate, pointy little chin. Set as it was, it looked decidedly stubborn.
"I'm masquerading as a stable lad, in your stables, so-"
"What a damn fool lark! What the devil-"
"It's not a lark!" Her blue eyes flashed; her expression turned belligerent. "I'm doing it for the General!"
"The General?" General Sir Gordon Caxton was Demon's neighbor and mentor, and Felicity's-Flick's-guardian. Demon scowled. "You're not going to tell me the General knows about this?"
"Of course not!"
The Flynn shifted; tight-lipped, Demon waited while Flick quieted the big bay.
Her gaze flickered over him, irritated and considering in equal measure, then steadied on his face.
"It's all because of Dillon."
"Dillon?" Dillon was the General's son. Flick and Dillon were of similar age. Demon's most recent memories of Dillon were of a dark-haired youth, swaggering about the General's house, Hillgate End, giving himself airs and undeserved graces.
"Dillon's in trouble."
Demon got the distinct impression she only just avoided adding "again."
"He became involved-inadvertently-with a race-fixing racket."
"What?" He bit off the word, then had to settle his mount. The words "race-fixing" sent a chill down his spine.
Flick frowned at him. "That's when jockeys are paid to ease back on a horse, or cause a disruption, or-"
He glared at her. "I know what race-fixing entails. That doesn't explain what you're doing mixed up in it."
"I'm not!" Indignation colored her cheeks.
"What are you doing masquerading as a lad, then?"