"Yes, but-" one of her earnest admirers cut in. "She lives with the General-he keeps the stud records."
"So?" Bluff-and-genial raised a dismissive brow. "What's dusty old records got to do with it? This is horseflesh we're talking about."
A throaty laugh came from beyond Demon. Flick gritted her teeth. "For your information"-her tone stopped all argument and made Bluff-and-genial blink-"Jessamy is an investment. As a broodmare, she has arguably the best bloodlines in the country. You may be very certain I will not be risking her in any steeplechase."
"Oh," was all Bluff-and-genial dared say.
Flick turned to deal with the throaty-voiced Miss Henshaw-and saw a black-haired beauty, smiling and laughing, leaning close to Demon, her face tipped up to his. She was, Flick saw in that one chilling instant, a lot taller than she herself was-so her face, tilted up, was much closer to Demon's, her lips closer to his-
"Now, my dears!"
Every head in the room lifted; everyone looked to where Mrs. Pemberton stood, clapping her hands for attention. "Now," she reiterated, when everyone was silent, "it's time to find your partners for the first dance."
There was an instant of silence, then a rush as all the young men jockeyed for position. A chorus of invitations and acceptances filled the air.
Flick found herself facing three earnest young men-Bluff-and-genial had been shouldered aside.
"My dear Miss Parteger, if you will-
"I pray, kind lady, that-
"If you would honor me with this dance-"
Flick blinked at their youthful faces-they all seemed so young. She didn't need to look to know that the seductive Miss Henshaw was batting her long lashes at Demon. She didn't need to look, but she wanted to. She wanted to-
"Actually," a deep drawling voice purred just above her right ear, "Miss Parteger's first dance is mine."
Demon's hand closed firmly about hers; Flick looked up to see him smile with a shatteringly superior air at her youthful admirers. There was no chance in heaven they would argue.
The relief she felt was quite definite, the reasons for it less clear. Luckily, she didn't need to dwell on it. Demon glanced down at her and raised one brow. Gracefully, she inclined her head. He set her hand on his sleeve; the others fell back as he led her onto the rapidly clearing floor.
The dance was to be a cotillion. As Demon led her to a set, Flick whispered, "I know the theory, but I've never actually danced one of these in my life."
He smiled reassuringly. "Just copy what the other lady does. If you wander off in the wrong direction, I'll grab you."
Despite all, despite her dismissive humph, she found that promise comforting.
They took their positions and the music started; despite her worries, she quickly found the rhythm. The dips and sways and hand-clasped twirls were heavily repetitive; it wasn't that hard to keep her place. And Demon's touch was reassuring-every time his fingers closed about hers, he steadied her, even if she wasn't drifting.
As the dance progressed, she felt increasingly assured-assured enough to stop frowning and smile when her eyes touched his. She laughed up at him, over her shoulder, as he twirled her into their final pose, then she sank into an extravagantly deep curtsy as he bowed, equally extravagantly, to her.
Demon raised her; he wondered if she knew how brightly her eyes were shining, how gloriously unabashed, unfett
ered in her enjoyment she was. She was so different from the other young ladies in the room, all careful to mind their words, their expressions, if not to artfully deploy them. She was unrestrained in her appreciation-something tonnish ladies rarely were. Exuberance, even if honest, was not the ton's way.
It was Flick's way-her wide smile and laughing eyes had him smiling, equally honestly, in reply. "And now," he said, and had to draw a deeper breath as he drew her closer and looked into her eyes, "we must return to our duty."
She laughed. "Which duty is that?"
The duty he alluded to was to dance with all the other young people gathered at the vicarage for that purpose. They had barely returned to the side of the room before Flick's hand was solicited for a country dance.
Her other hand still rested on Demon's sleeve. She looked up at him-he smiled reassuringly, squeezed her fingers lightly, then let her go.
As she twirled down the room, Flick noticed Demon twirling, too, with the vicar's daughter. Letting her gaze slide away, she smiled easily at her partner, Henry March.
Dance followed dance, but with time between to allow the dancers to chat. To get to know each other better, to find their feet socially. That was, after all, what the evening was about. The older members of the company sat at the rear of the room, smiling and nodding, watching benignly as their youngsters mingled.
Mrs. Pemberton, her duty as hostess done, sank into a chair beside the General. Luckily, the General was deep in discussion with the vicar; Mrs. Pemberton did not interrupt. Relieved, Flick looked away. Beside her, Demon shifted. Flick looked up, and he caught her eye. And raised a knowing brow. She stared into his eyes, at the comprehension therein, then put her nose in the air and looked away. And straggled to ignore the frisson that shot through her when his hand shifted and his fingers brushed hers amid her skirts.