Laying aside her parasol, Flick shook out the rug. Demon helped her spread the heavy folds, then handed her onto it. He waited while she settled, then subsided to lounge, large, lean-all elegantly indolent-beside her.
She had overheard maids exclaiming how their beaux made their hearts go pitter-patter. She'd always thought the description a silly nonsense.
Now she knew better. Her heart was tripping in double time. Definitely pitter-patter.
Reaching for the basket Demon had set by their legs, she hauled it closer. More definitely between them. It was a ridiculous reaction-she knew she was safe with him-but the solidity of the basket made her feel much better. Pulling out the linen napkins Mrs. Shephard had tucked about the food, she uncovered roast chicken, slices of beef, and crisp, fresh rolls. She went to speak, and had to clear her throat. "Would you prefer a leg, or a breast?"
She looked up; her eyes clashed with Demon's, burning blue.
Burning?
She blinked and looked again, but he'd looked away, calmly reaching for the bottle poking out from the basket.
"A leg will do for the moment."
His voice sounded slightly… strained. Hiding a frown, she watched as he eased the cork from the bottle. It popped free and he looked up, but there was nothing to be read in his eyes or his expression beyond an easy pleasure in the moment. He held out a hand for glasses; pushing aside her uncertainties, she delved into the basket.
Discovering two long flutes, she handed them over; the wine hissed as he filled them. She took the one he offered her, studying the tiny bubbles rising through the straw-colored liquid. "Champagne?"
"Hmm." Raising his glass to her, Demon took a sip. "A suitable toast to Spring."
Flick sipped; the bubbles fizzed on her palate, but the wine slid down her throat very pleasantly. She licked her lips. "Nice."
"Hmm." Demon forced himself to look away from her lips-sheening pink curves that he ached to taste. Inwardly frowning at how definite that ache was, he accepted the chicken leg she handed him, a napkin neatly folded about the bone.
Their fingers brushed; he felt hers quiver-was conscious to his bones of the shivery tremble that raced through her. Focusing on the chicken, he sank his teeth into it, then fixed his gaze on the meadows beyond the stream while she busied herself-calmed herself-laying out their repast. Only when she drew in a breath, took a sip of champagne, then fell to eating, did he glance at her again. "How's Dillon faring?"
She shrugged. "Well enough." After a moment, she volunteered, "I haven't really spoken to him since that evening we learned the truth."
Demon looked back at the stream to hide his satisfaction; he was delighted to hear that her break with Dillon had not yet healed. "Who else knows he's there?" He looked at Flick and frowned. "How does he get food?"
She'd finished her chicken; he watched as she licked her fingers, her wet pink tongue sliding up and around-then she licked her lips. And looked at him.
He managed not to tremble-not to react at all.
"The only one other than us who knows Dillon's at the cottage is Jiggs. He's a footman-he's been at Hillgate End for… oh, ten years at least. Jiggs takes Dillon food every second day. He told me there's always leftover roast or a
pie left wrapped in the larder." She wrinkled her nose. "I'm quite sure Foggy also knows Dillon's somewhere close."
"Very likely."
They ate and sipped in silence, the tinkling of the brook and the chirp of insects a spring symphony about them. Replete, Demon dusted his hands, then stretched full length on the rug. Folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes. "Have you told Dillon anything of our discoveries?"
"I haven't told him anything at all."
From under his lashes, he watched Flick gather up crumbs, then start to repack the basket.
"I decided it wouldn't be wise to tell him we'd found his contact, in case he took it into his head to do something rash-like go into town to see the man himself. It wouldn't do for him to be recognized and taken up for questioning, just when we're making progress."
Demon suppressed a cynical snort. Dillon was no hothead; he was lazy and indolent. Flick was the one who, with eyes wide open, would rush in where wiser souls feared to tread, supremely confident in her ability to pull things off-to make things happen. To unmask the syndicate.
Loyalty, devotion-and good bottom. Her hallmarks.
The thought slid through his brain and captured his attention. Focused it fully on his angel in disguise.
Lifting his lids a fraction more, he studied her; at the moment, she was all angel-a creation from one of his recent dreams. The sunshine turned her hair to blazing glory, framing her face in golden flames. Her cheeks were delicately flushed-from the warmth of the day and the champagne. As she scanned the meadows, her eyes, soft blue, large and wide, were alive with innocent intelligence.
His gaze dropped-to the slender column of her throat, to the firm swells that filled the bodice of her demure gown, rendering it anything but demure. The fall of her dress hid her waist, the folds swathed her hips and thighs, but having seen her so often in breeches, he didn't need the evidence to conjure the vision.