"Ah, well, now you appreciate the intricacies Harold's been juggling for the past weeks. And from his point of view, he doesn't dare put a foot wrong. Most entertaining, it's been." Lady Osbaldestone chuckled and patted Flick's hand. "Now, as to whether he loves you or not, there's one point you've obviously missed."
"Oh?" Flick focused on her face.
"He drove you in the park."
"Yes." Her expression said "So?"
"The Bar Cynster never drive ladies in the park. It's one of those ridiculously high-handed, arrogant, oh-so-male-Cynster decisions, but they simply don't. The only ladies any of them have ever been known to take up behind their vaunted horses in the park are their wives."
Flick frowned. "He never said anything."
"I imagine he didn't, but it was a declaration, nonetheless. By driving you in the park, he made it plain to the ton's hostesses that he intends to offer for you."
Flick considered, then grimaced. "That's hardly a declaration of love."
"No, I grant you. There is, however, the small matter of his current state. Tight as a violin string about to snap. His temper's never been a terribly complacent one-he's not easygoing like Sylvester or Alasdair. His brother Spencer is reserved, but Harold's impatient and stubborn. It's a very revealing thing when such a man willingly and knowingly submits to frustration."
Flick wasn't convinced, but… "Why did he make this declaration?" She glanced at Lady Osbaldestone. "Presumably he had a reason?"
"Most likely to keep more experienced gentlemen-his peers, if you will-at a distance, even if he wasn't by your side."
"To warn them away, so to speak?"
Lady Osbaldestone nodded. "And then, of course, he kept watch from the other side of every ballroom, just to make sure."
Flick felt her lips twitch.
Lady Osbaldestone saw and nodded. "Just so. There's no reason to have the megrims just because he's not beside you. In terms of his behavior, he's handled this well-I really don't know what more you could want of him. As for love, he's shown possessiveness and protectiveness, both different facets of that emotion, facets gentlemen such as he are more prone to openly demonstrate. But for the facets to shine, the jewel must be there, at the heart. Passion alone won't give the same effect."
"Hmm." Flick wondered.
The singer reached her finale-a single, sustained, piercingly high note. When it ended, everyone clapped, including Flick and Lady Osbaldestone. The audience immediately stood and milled, chatting avidly. Others approached the love seat; Flick rose.
Lady Osbaldestone acknowledged Flick's curtsy. "You think of what I told you, gel-you'll see I'm right, mark my words."
Flick met her old eyes, then nodded and turned away.
Lady Osbaldestone's comments cast matters in a new light, but… as Horatia's carriage rumbled over the cobbles, Flick grimaced, thankful for the deep shadows that enveloped her. She still didn't know if Demon loved her-could love her-would ever love her. She'd settle for any of those alternatives, but for nothing less.
Looking back over the past weeks, she had to acknowledge his protectiveness and possessiveness, but she wasn't certain that in his case those weren't merely a reflection of his desire. That was strong-incredibly, excitingly powerful. But it wasn't love.
His frustration, which she'd recognized as steadily escalating, was to her mind more likely due to frustrated desire, compounded by the fact that she'd yet to accept his offer. She couldn't see love anywhere, no matter how hard she looked.
And while Lady Osbaldestone had explained why he couldn't spend time with her in town as he had in the country, she hadn't explained why, when he was by her side, he still kept distance between them.
As the carriage rumbled through the wide streets, lit by flickering flares, she pondered, and wondered, but always came back to her fundamental question: Did he love her?
Heaving a silent sigh, grateful to Lady Osbaldestone for at least giving her hope again, she fixed her gaze on the passing scenery and considered ways to prod Demon into answering. Despite her usual habit, she balked at asking him directly. What if he said no, but didn't mean it, either because he didn't realize he did, or did realize but wasn't willing to admit it?
Either was possible; she'd never told him how important having his love was to her. It hadn't escaped her notice that he'd got into the habit of using that one small word with her-on this subject, she couldn't risk it. If he said no, her newfound hope would shrivel and die, and her dream would evaporate.
The carriage swung around a corner, tilting her close to the window. Beyond the glass, she saw a group of men standing outside a tavern door. Saw one raise a glass in toast-saw his red neckerchief, saw his face. With a gasp, she righted herself as the carriage straightened.
"Are you alright, dear?" Horatia asked from beside her.
"Yes. Just…" Flick blinked. "I must have dozed off,"
"Sleep if you will-we've still got a way to go. I'll wake you when we reach Berkeley Square."