Suppressing a snort, he flicked out the news sheet. Dealing with that too-revealing glow of hers had to be his primary concern. Some might see it as mere encouragement, but only those with poor eyesight. As matters now stood, she was safe from self-incrimination. Reestablishing their previous relationship would simply be a matter of wrapping her in his arms and kissing her witless, once she'd come around to the idea of marrying him. There w
as no need to worry on that score.
There was no reason to reverse direction and start hovering over her, even had that been an option. The best thing to do was to hold the line-to keep his distance even more rigidly. Just as he had for the last two nights.
Setting his jaw, he forced himself to read the news.
"Hmm-interesting."
Demon looked up; Chillingworth stood beside his chair, regarding him quizzically.
"I have to confess to supreme envy at your coolness under fire."
Demon blinked; every muscle hardened. He searched Chillingworth's face. "What fire?"
Chillingworth's brows rose. "Why, the raging interest in your sweet innocent, of course. Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"That Remington-you've heard that his acres are mortgaged to the hilt and his pockets entirely to let?"
Demon nodded.
"Apparently he did the unthinkable. In the middle of a ballroom, he asked your dear delight whether she and you were engaged."
Demon swore.
"Precisely. Combined with the fact that supposedly impeccable sources credit her with an income of not less than ten thousand a year, and, well…" Demon looked up; Chillingworth met his gaze. "I do wonder, dear boy, that you have time to read the news."
Demon held his gaze for a pregnant instant, then swore viciously. Crumpling the paper, he stood and shoved it at Chillingworth. "My thanks."
Chillingworth smiled and took the paper. "Don't mention it, dear boy. Only too glad to help any of your family into parson's mousetrap."
Demon heard the words, but he didn't waste time thinking of a riposte-there was someone he wanted to see.
"Why the hell didn't she-you-someone tell me she was a damned heiress? Ten thousand a year!" Pacing his mother's parlor, Demon shot her a far from filial look.
Sitting on the chaise, engrossed in sorting silks, Horatia didn't see it. "As that's a paltry sum compared to what you have, I can't see why it so concerns you."
"Because she'll have every fortune hunter in town hanging about her!"
Horatia looked up. "But…" She frowned. "I was under the impression there was an understanding between Felicity and yourself."
Demon gritted his teeth. "There is."
"Well, then." Horatia looked back at her silks.
Fists clenched, Demon hung on to his temper-already sorely tried-and absorbed the fact that his mother was baiting him. "I want to see her," he ground out. Only then did it occur to him that to find Horatia without Flick in attendance at this time of day was odd. A chill touched his spine. "Where is she?"
"The Delacorts invited her to a picnic at Merton. She went down in Lady Hendricks's carriage."
"You let her go alone?"
Horatia looked up. "Good heavens, Harry! You know that crew. They're all young, and while both Lady Hendricks and Mrs. Delacort might have sons in need of wealthy wives, as you and Flick already have an understanding, what harm can there possibly be?"
Her blue eyes, fixed on his face, dared him to tell her.
Teeth gritted so hard that his jaw ached, Demon nodded curtly, swung on his heel, and left.