Flick walked back to the group she'd earlier left. Within seconds she was surrounded by eligible gentlemen. From the side of the room, Demon watched her.
The word "mistake" burned in his brain. Who had really made it-her, or him? Her rejection-how else was he to take it?-seared him. His eyes narrowed as he saw her nod graciously to some man. Perhaps, this time, he should swallow his pride and take her at her word?
The thought was like acid, eating at his heart.
Then he saw her smile fleetingly-a huge effort all for show; the instant the gentleman looked away, her smile faded, and she glanced surreptitiously his way.
Demon caught that glance-saw the hurt, haunted look in her eyes. He swore and took an impulsive step forward, then recalled where they were. He couldn't cross the room, haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless, much less swear undying devotion.
Suppressing a snarl, rigidly schooling his features to a cast that would allow him to move through the throng, he swung on his heel and left the house.
Every time he tried to manage her, things went wrong.
She refused to run in his harness; she never reacted predictably to the reins. He'd expected to be in control, but that wasn't the way it would be.
Lounging in the doorway of the nursery at 12 Clarges Street, the house he dreamed of bringing Flick to as his wife, Demon looked around the room. Set beneath the eaves, it was of a good size, well lit, well ventilated. As in the light, airy rooms downstairs, he could see Flick here, her curls glowing brighter than the sun as she smiled, shedding her warmth about her.
The house would be cold without her.
He'd be cold without her. As good as dead.
He knew she wanted something from him-something more than a few hours every day. He even knew what that something was. If he wanted to convince her that she'd made no mistake, that her heart was safe with him, he was going to have to give rather more than he had.
He didn't need to hear her say she loved him-he'd known that for some time, at The Angel if not before. But he'd thought of her feelings as a "young" love, youthful, exuberant, relatively immature-easy for him to manage and fulfill without having to expose the depth of his own feelings. He'd even used the mores of the ton to assist him in hiding those-the emotions that at times raged so powerfully he couldn't contain them.
He certainly couldn't manage them. Or her.
His chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. What lay between them now was an obsession-deep and abiding and impossible to deny-not on her part, or his. She was meant for him and he for her, but if he didn't confront the one thing he most feared, didn't surrender and pay the price, he would lose her.
A prospect the Cynster in him could never, ever accept.
He stood for long moments, gazing unseeing at the empty room. Then he sighed and straightened. He would have to see her alone again, and find but what, precisely, he was going to have to do to get her to agree to be his.
That evening, together with Horatia, Flick attended Lady Merlon's musicale. Musicales were the one social event Demon had flatly refused to attend. Slipping into the room just as the soprano started to wail, Flick winced and tried to block out the thought that her reaction to such music was something else she and Demon shared. They didn't share the most important trait, which was the only one that mattered.
Setting her chin against a deplorable tendency to quiver, she looked along the rows of seats, hunting for an empty one. She'd taken refuge in the withdrawing room to avoid the twins-one look at their bright, cheery expressions and their far-too-sharp eyes and she'd fled. She possessed no mask solid enough to hide her inner misery from them.
She'd expected to sit with Horatia, but she was now surrounded, as were the twins. Looking along the edge of the room, she tried to spot a vacant seat-
"Here, gel!" Clawlike fingers gripped her elbow; surprisingly strong, they drew her back. "Sit and stop flitting-it's distracting!"
Abruptly sitting, Flick found herself on one end of a love seat, the rest of which was occupied by Lady Osbaldestone. "Th-thank you."
Hands crossed over the head of her cane, her ladyship fixed Flick with a piercing black gaze. "You look quite peaked, gel. Not getting enough sleep?"
Flick wished she had a mask to hold in front of her face; the old eyes fixed on hers were even sharper than the twins'. "I'm quite well, thank you."
"Glad to hear it. When's the wedding to be, then, heh?"
Unfortunately, they were sufficiently distant from other guests not to have to remain silent. Shifting her gaze to the singer, Flick fought to quell the tremor in her lips, in her voice. "There isn't going to be a wedding."
"Is that so?" Her ladyship's tone was mildly curious.
Keeping her gaze on the singer, Flick nodded.
"And why is that?"
"Because he doesn't love me."