“Relax.”
The deep purring murmur came out of the dark as he lifted his head from her breast. After a moment he added, as if to explain, “I want you again.”
Those four gravelly words went straight to her heart—then straight to her loins. He’d pushed her chemise up to her arms—when he tugged, she dragged in a massive breath, and obliged, lifting her arms and letting him draw the thin garment off over her head.
Leaving her naked beneath him.
What followed was a second lesson in sheer delight. In the dark of the night, in the depths of the bed, he touched her, caressed her, then, when her body was aching with urgent longing, filled her.
She lay on her back and let sensation wash over her—let her mind supply what she couldn’t see. The cotton sheets formed a cocoon about them, cool against her fevered skin. The mattress was thick enough to cushion her against the powerful surges of his possession.
Arms braced, he loomed above her, a shadow lover in the night; he held himself over her as their bodies did what seemed to come naturally. To them both.
She couldn’t deny she enjoyed it thoroughly, that she joyfully put her heart and soul into the exercise every bit as much as did he. She enjoyed feeling his body merging with hers, enjoyed the deep sense of completion that came, borne on that final surrender.
Enjoyed the weight of him when he collapsed, spent, upon her.
Enjoyed the feeling of having him so deeply within her.
Demon woke as dawn tinged the sky and crept into the room to lay its pale fingers on the bed. In their light he saw an angel—his angel—sprawled asleep by his side.
She was facing away from him, half on her stomach.
For a long moment, he studied her golden curls while vivid memories rolled through his brain. Then, slowly, careful not to jar her, he came up on one elbow, then reached out and gently lifted the sheet, and drew it down.
She was more perfect than he’d thought—more beautiful than his imagination had been able to conjure. As the light about them strengthened, he looked his fill, drank in the sight of firm curves and slender limbs covered in flawless ivory skin—skin he knew felt like silk to his touch.
And would heat with gratifying swiftness if he touched her.
His gaze had fastened on the smooth hemispheres of her bottom. The thought of her responsiveness coupled with the sight brought him swiftly to attention, and too quickly to the brink of pain.
He gritted his teeth—and tried to think. Tried to reason with his overheated flesh.
All he could recall was her eagerness, her enthusiasm, her honest, open, unrestrained passion.
And the fact that he’d exercised great care in taking her the first time, and she hadn’t tensed in the slightest when he’d taken her again.
He shouldn’t, of course, have been so demanding as to take her a second time mere hours after the first. But he’d been desperate—visited by an ungovernable urge to reassure himself that it hadn’t been a dream. That the most sensual woman he’d met in his life was an innocent Botticelli angel.
If he was wise, he wouldn’t think about that—about how she’d responded so ardently, adapted so readily, then joined him in a wild ride. A ride rather wilder and certainly longer than he’d intended.
But she’d enjoyed it—and she’d enjoyed their second ride, too.
Perhaps she’d enjoy a third?
His hand had made contact with her bottom before he’d finished the thought.
Flick woke to discover her bottom flushed and fevered, and Demon’s hand sliding beneath her hip. He lifted her, and stuffed a pillow beneath her hips, then eased her down, settling her more definitely on her stomach.
Which seemed rather odd. But then, she was still mostly asleep. “Mmm?” she murmured, making it a question.
He leaned over her, looked into her heavy-lidded eyes, then kissed her shoulder. “Just lie still.”
She smiled sleepily, and let her lids fall.
His hand returned to her bottom.
To gently but evocatively caress, leaving a tracery of fire on skin already heated and dewed. Her breath came increasingly fast—when she murmured again, an incoherent question, his hand shifted. Long fingers slid between her thighs, into the soft folds of flesh between. He caressed, then probed—she felt him lean over her, the crisp hair on his chest brushing her back, sending tingling shivers racing through her.
All the way to where his fingers delved.
He smothered a curse, then his fingers left her. He shifted, his weight dipping the bed as he lifted over her. With his legs, he nudged hers wide; grasping her right knee, he drew it up, bending that leg, leaving her knee almost level with her waist—he settled his hips in the space created, hard against her bottom.
She blinked her eyes wide—a large hand came down, palm flat by her shoulder, carrying his weight above her.
Her heart throbbed and leapt to her throat as she felt his weight against her bottom—then stopped as she felt a familiar hardness ease into her.
She gasped as he slid powerfully home. All the way.
Holding still, his hips flush with her bottom, he lowered his head and brushed a kiss on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Naked, with him equally naked behind her, joined in a fashion that made her think of stallions and mares, with him throbbing at her center . . . she was more than all right. She was on the brink of ecstasy.
“Yes.” The word came out in a rush, laden with a sweet tension she couldn’t disguise. He bent his head and touched his lips to her ear.
“You don’t have to do anything. Just lie still.”
Then he made love to her until she screamed.
Chapter 14
“Drive on!” Demon climbed into the manor’s carriage; a groom shut the door behind him. The carriage lurched, then rumbled out of The Angel’s stable yard.
“Are you sure Gillies will be able to cope?” Flick asked. “There’s no need for you to escort me all the way to Hillgate End.”
Settling beside her, Demon glanced at her, then leaned back against the squabs. “Gillies is perfectly capable of locating Bletchley and following him back to London.” He’d gone down to breakfast and to order a tray to be taken up to Flick, only to find Gillies kicking his heels by the main door. Bletchley, it transpired, had already left for the prizefight field.
“Heard him quizzing the innkeep,” Gillies had said, “about the special coaches they’ve put on, running direct from here to London.”
After his lack of activity the previous night, it seemed likely Bletchley had dallied in Newmarket purely to attend the prizefight, but . . . they couldn’t be certain he didn’t have a meeting arranged to take place amid the crowd about the ring. Neither he nor Gillies had believed that—discussing race-fixing surrounded by a crowd containing so many potentially interested ears smacked of rank stupidity, something the syndicate had shown no sign of being. Gillies hadn’t followed Bletchley, but waited for orders.
“He went out this morning with the same crew he was chatting with last night, heading straight for the field.”
There was an outside chance of a meeting occurring after the prizefight, although given the aftermath of such events, that, too, seemed unlikely. Still . . .
Demon had rejigged his plans, sending Gillies after Bletchley to watch and to follow, to London if necessary.
“Gillies knows who to contact in London—we’ll set up a watch on Bletchley. He’ll have to meet with his masters soon.”
Flick humphed impatiently; Demon ignored it. He was relieved that Bletchley was heading south. With him gone, the chances of Flick running headlong into danger were considerably diminished.
With Gillies at the fight, he’d first arranged for a coachman to drive the manor carriage back to Hillgate End, then broken his fast at a leisurely pace, then paid Flick’s shot with no explanation whatever, and returned upstairs to escort her, concealingly cloaked and veiled, down to the waiting carriage.
By th
at time, the fight had started, so there was no one of note left at the inn to witness their joint departure. The only wrinkle in his plan was Ivan the Terrible, presently tied behind the carriage.
Ivan hated being led—especially by a carriage. He was going to be in a foul mood when it came time to ride home.
Demon wasn’t, however, disposed to worry about Ivan—before he rode home, he had a number of pressing matters to resolve. The most pressing sat beside him, idly gazing at the scenery, with not the slightest sign of fluster showing in her angelic face.
Which really did surprise him.
He was thirty-one and had bedded scores of women—she was just twenty, and had just spent her first night with a man. Him. Yet her composure was patently genuine. She’d been flustered enough, blushing rosily, when he’d left her in the room and gone to look for breakfast. But by the time he’d returned, she had been perfectly composed, her usual straightforward, openly confident self. Of course, by then, she had dressed.
She’d removed her veil as they’d rolled out of Bury; a quick glance revealed a serene expression, with a slight smile tilting her lips and a soft light in her eyes. As if she was recalling the events of the night and enjoying her memories.
Demon shifted, then looked out of the window—and went over his plans.
Flick was indeed reflecting on the events of the night, and those of the morning, and, further, on how much she’d enjoyed them. She still felt curiously glorious—as if she was glowing all the way to her toes. If this was satiation, she thoroughly approved. Which only made her even more determined on her course.
It seemed clear enough. Demon could love her—of that she felt sure. All she needed to do was to make sure he did before she agreed to marry him.
She needed to make him fall in love with her—she would have scoffed at the thought a mere month ago and labelled it an impossible task. Now, however, the prospects looked good. If last night and this morning were any guide, he was already halfway there.
He cared for her—was very careful of her; he clearly enjoyed giving her pleasure. He’d pleasured her to her toes. In a variety of ways. And remained considerate and caring afterward, in his usual overbearing way.
She spent the drive sunk in pleasant memories, but when they rolled through Newmarket, she inwardly shook herself, and sternly told herself to stop thinking of such things. She’d get precious little pleasuring in the days to come—at least until he came to love her.
She slanted a glance at him, then looked away, and rehearsed her plans yet again.
He spoke as they turned through the gates of Hillgate End.
“In case you’re wondering, I intend telling the General that, due to an inadvertent circumstance, you and I were seen together in a chamber at The Angel last night by one of the ton’s most rabid scandalmongers, and consequently, you’ve agreed to marry me.”
She turned her head and met his eyes. “I haven’t.”
His face grew hard. “You’ve done rather a lot since last evening—precisely what is it you don’t believe you’ve done?”
His tone was precise, his words excessively clipped. She ignored the warning. “I haven’t agreed to marry you.”
The sound he made was frustration incarnate. Abruptly, he sat up. “Flick—you have been well and truly and very thoroughly compromised this time. You have no choice—”
“On the contrary.” She held his gaze. “I can still say no.”
Demon stared at her, then narrowed his eyes. “Why would you want to say no?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Which are?”
She considered him, then said, “I told you I needed something more than mere circumstance to persuade me to marriage. What you did last night wasn’t it.”
He frowned, then shook his head, his expression turning grim. “Let me rephrase my intention. I’ll tell the General what I said before, then, if you still won’t agree to our marriage, I’ll tell him the rest—how I spent all night in your bed—and half the night in you.”
She raised her brows, considered him steadily, then looked away. “You know you’ll never tell him that.”
Demon stared at her, at her pure profile, at her chin resolutely firm, her nose tip-tilted—and fought down the urge to lay his hands on her.
She was right, of course—he would never do anything to harm her standing with the General, one of the few people she cared about. The General would very likely understand why he’d acted as he had, but he wouldn’t understand her refusal. Any more than he did.
Forcing himself to relax, he sank back against the seat and stared out of the window. The horses clopped on.
“What story did you concoct for the household to explain your trip to Bury?” He asked the question without looking at Flick; he felt her glance, then she answered.
“That I was going to see Melissa Blackthorn—her family lives just past Bury. We often visit on the spur of the moment.”
Demon considered. “Very well. You intended visiting Miss Blackthorn—Gillies offered to drive you in the hope of seeing the fight, but when you reached Bury, the street was blocked with incoming traffic and you got trapped in the melee. It got dark—you were still trapped. Not being au fait with prizefights, you sought refuge at The Angel.” He glanced at Flick. “Hopefully, no one will learn of your disguise or your story to gain a room.”
She shrugged. “Bury’s far enough away—none of the staff have family that far afield.”
Demon humphed. “We can but hope. So—you were at The Angel when I arrived, intending to stay for the fight. I saw you . . . and then Lord Selbourne saw us. Thus, this morning, I brought you straight home so we can deal with the current situation.” He glanced at Flick. “Can you see any holes?”
She shook her head, then grimaced. “I do hate misleading the General, though.”
Demon looked out of the window. “Given we’ve struggled to avoid all mention of Dillon and the syndicate thus far, I can’t see any point mentioning them now.” It would only upset the General more to know the current imbroglio was a result of Flick’s championing Dillon.
The shadows of the drive fell behind them; ahead, the manor basked in sunshine. The carriage rocked to a stop. Demon opened the door, stepped out, then handed Flick down. Jacobs opened the front door before they knocked; Demon led Flick into the cool hall, then released her.
Mrs. Fogarty came bustling up, fussing about Flick, who slid around her questions easily. Flick cast a watchful, questioning glance at Demon—he met it with his blandest expression. She frowned fleetingly, but had to reorganize her expression to deal with Mrs. Fogarty. With the housekeeper in close attendance, Flick headed to her room.
Demon watched her go, then his lips lifted, just a little at the ends. Challenges—more challenges. Swinging on his heel, he headed for the library.
“So—let me see if I’ve got this right.”
In the chair behind his desk, the General sat back and steepled his fingers. “You and Felicity were again caught in an apparently compromising situation, only this time by someone who will take great delight in ruining Felicity’s good name. You, however, are perfectly prepared to marry the chit, but she’s proving headstrong, and jibbing at the bit. So, instead of pressing marriage on her in such an abrupt manner, you suggest I agree to send her to your mother, Lady Horatia, to enjoy the delights of the Season in London. Under your mother’s wing, even without a formal declaration, it will be surmised that she’s your intended, but the interlude will give Felicity time to adjust to the position, and accept marriage to you as the sensible course.” He looked up at Demon. “Is that right?”
Standing before the windows, Demon nodded. “Naturally, if, in the course of her time in London, she meets any other gentleman and forms a lasting attachment that is returned, I give you my word to release her without complaint. It’s her happiness—her reputation—I’m interested in securing.”
“Indeed. Hmm.” The General’s eyes twinkled. “Well then, no reason
whatever she should take exception to a sojourn in London. Do her good anyway, to see all she’s missed stuck up here with an old man.”
The lunch gong boomed; the General chuckled and rose. “Capital notion all around. Let’s go tell her, what?”
Demon smiled easily. Beside the General, he strolled toward the dining room.
* * *
“London?” Flick stared at Demon, sitting directly opposite across the luncheon table.
“Hmm—the capital. My mother would love to have you stay with her.”
It was all so transparent. Flick glanced to her right, to where the General, nodding mildly, was helping himself to more peas. He seemed serenely unconcerned about her reputation, for which she was honestly grateful to Demon; she couldn’t have borne it if the old dear had been distressed. Yet she was fairly certain the only reason he was in such fine fettle, knowing her reputation was, if not precisely in shreds, then certainly rather tattered, was because he believed a stay in London under Lady Horatia’s wing would make her change her mind and accept his protégé as her husband.
There was a good chance he was right—she certainly hoped so.
And there were a number of good reasons for falling in with Demon’s plan. Not least was the fact that Bletchley had gone to London. And while she’d never before felt any interest in tonnish affairs, if she was to marry Demon, then she would need to find her feet in that arena. She was also suddenly insatiably curious as to how, and with whom, he spent his days in London.
Quite aside from all else, if she was going to make him fall in love with her, she needed to be with him.