The sound of the lock falling home echoed gently-a single knell marking an irrevocable step. Demon turned.
And confirmed that Flick had indeed been unable to resist shifting to the other side of the hearth, to peer about him to see who was at the door.
Selbourne had had a perfect view of her-with her hair ruffled, her gown suggestively crumpled, her lips rosy and swollen from his kisses. Most importantly, she hadn't been wearing hood or veil. Demon stared at her.
She stared back. "Who was that?"
He considered her, then turned back to the door and removed the key. "Fate. Disguised as Lord Selbourne."
Chapter 13
Flick studied him. "Do you know him?"
"Oh, indeed." Slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket, Demon started back toward her. "Everyone in the ton knows Rattletrap Selbourne."
"Rattletrap?"
Stopping directly before her, Demon looked into her eyes. "His tongue runs on wheels."
She searched his eyes, his face; her lips formed a silent Oh.
"Which means," he explained, "that at all the balls in London tomorrow evening, the juiciest bon mot will be just who the deliciously youthful 'widow' discovered consorting with me at Bury St. Edmunds really was."
Flick stiffened; her eyes flashed. "Don't start that again. Just because he saw me doesn't mean I'm compromised. He doesn't know who I am."
"But he will." Demon tapped her nose with one finger. "That's how Rattletrap secures his invitations-the particular niche he's carved in the bosom of the ton. He ferrets out all the indiscretions committed by the rest of us, and whispers them in the matrons' ears."
He held Flick's gaze steadily. "He'll find out who you are-you're well known in Newmarket, and that will be the first place he'll look. Gillies described the scene you created to get this room-that's precisely how a lady, living near but not in town, desirous of a room in which to meet her lover, would behave."
Flick folded her arms and set her chin stubbornly. "I am not compromised."
"You are." Demon didn't blink. "As of the instant Selbourne laid eyes on your face, your situation is the definition of compromised."
She narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she stated, "Even if, theoretically, I am, that changes nothing."
"On the contrary, it changes a great deal."
"Indeed? Such as?"
He reached out and tugged her hand free; puzzled, she let him raise it. Catching the other, he lifted both to his shoulders, drawing her nearer. Releasing her hands, he closed his arms about her.
She quickly slid her hands down, bracing them against his chest. "What are you doing?"
He met her gaze, then lowered his head. "Demonstrating how much has changed."
He kissed her-and kept kissing her, not forcefully but persuasively, not ruthlessly but relentlessly, until she surrendered. When she melted against him, he locked his arms about her-and kissed her some more. She responded with her customary eagerness. Steadily, progressively, he retraced their earlier steps until their breathing fragmented, until her hips were pressed tight to his, until heat licked their senses and passion hovered in the wings.
Only then did he lift his head.
Her hands were fisted on his lapels. Her eyes glinted from beneath heavy lids. "You don't want to marry me-not really."
Flick made the statement without conviction; tight against him, his rampant arousal riding against her, she could hardly claim ignorance of what he wanted. It was a powerful incentive to give in. But… She wanted him to marry her not just for that, no matter how exciting. She wanted him to marry her for more-for at least one other reason. A more important reason.
Tension invested his face. The same tension held her. His eyes remained on hers, his gaze steadfast, unwaveringly blue. Her lips throbbed. Entirely without her permission, her gaze lowered to his lips-clever lips, lean and strong, just like him. They dipped, and brushed hers.
"I do want to marry you." Again he kissed her-a tantalizing promise as he slid his hands down her back, lifting her against him once more. "I will marry you."
His lips closed on hers, and the kiss turned ravenous. And hot. She could cope with ravishment, but the heat-that welling sense of fire and flame-defeated her. He pressed it on her, and she drank it in. It slid through her veins, through her limbs, through her brain.