He drew in a breath and seized the moments she needed to calm herself to steady his own wracked nerves. And reshackle his demons.

The cross he'd fashioned and willingly taken up was proving much heavier than he'd expected. Not spending any time with her-even by her side in a ballroom-was eating at his control. But he'd set the stage; now he had to play his part and stick by the script he'd written.

For her good, for her protection, he had to keep his distance.

That sentence was hard enough to bear-he didn't need anyone adding to his burden. Bad enough that he'd had to force himself to swallow every instinct he possessed and watch as she waltzed with other men. Until she agreed to marry him and they made a public announcement, he didn't dare waltz with her in public. And, given who he was-a much older, infinitely more experienced rake-and the fact that she was transparently innocent, they could never be private, not until they were formally engaged.

Straightening, he let his arms fall-she shivered at the loss of his touch. Jaw clenching, he drew in a patient breath and waited.

How long he could wait, he didn't know. Every night, the ordeal of the waltz grew worse. Those who'd previously been his partners had tried to tease him onto the floor, but he had no desire to waltz with them. He wanted his angel and only her, but he'd used the others for distraction-not his, but the ton's.

Tonight, it had been Celeste-he'd almost managed to distract himself by giving the salacious countess her conge in no uncertain terms, for she'd proved she understood nothing else. Miffed, she'd peeled herself from him and swanned off in a snit, from which he sincerely hoped she never recovered. For one moment, he'd felt good-buoyed by success. Until he'd glanced up and seen Flick in that puppy Bristol's arms.

Half-turning, his gaze raked the dance floor. Couples were forming sets for the next country dance, the second of the dances he permitted himself with Flick. As far as he could tell, all her puppies were somewhere on the floor. So who had upset her?

He looked back at her; she was calmer-a touch of color had returned to her cheeks. "Perhaps we should stroll, rather than dance."

She shot him a startled look. "No! I mean-" Shaking her head wildly, she looked away. "No, let's dance."

She sounded suddenly breathless; Demon narrowed his eyes.

"I owe you a dance-it's on my dance card." Gulping in a breath, she nodded. "That's what you want from me, so let's dance. The music's starting."

He hesitated, then, using his grace to camouflage her state, he bowed and led her to the nearest set.

The instant he took her hand in his, he knew he'd been right to acquiesce-she was so brittlely tense, so fragile, that if he pressed her she'd shatter. She was holding herself together by sheer force of will-all he could do was support her as best he could.

It was just as well he was there. He could perform any dance with his eyes closed, but she'd only learned the steps in the last weeks. She needed to concentrate, but that was presently beyond her. So he guided her as if she was a nervous filly with his hand on her reins. For most of the dance, their hands were locked-by squeezing her fingers, this way or that, he directed her through the figures.

He'd never seen her clumsy before, but she nearly stumbled twice, and bumped into two other ladies.

What the devil was wrong?

Something had changed, not just tonight but gradually. He'd been watching her closely; he wasn't mistaken. There'd been a joy in her eyes, a delight in life, that had, over the past days, slowly faded. Not the sensual glow he fought to avoid eliciting, but something else-something simpler. It had always been there, vibrant, in her eyes. Now, he could barely detect it.

The music ended with a flourish; the dancers bowed and curtsied. Flick turned from the floor and drew in a breath-he knew it was one of relief. He hesitated, then took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. "Come," he said, as she looked up at him. "I'll take you to my mother."

She, too, hesitated, then acquiesced with a small nod.

He didn't let her go until he'd planted her beside the chaise where his mother was chatting. Horatia looked up fleetingly, noting Flick's return, but turned back to her conversation immediately. Demon would have said something to her, if he could have thought of what to say. He glanced down at Flick; she still wouldn't meet his eyes. She was still very tense-he didn't dare press her.

Girding his loins for the inner battle he fought each time he left her, he stiffly inclined his head. "I'll leave you to your friends." Then he moved away.

Her court gathered around her almost instantly. Retreating to the wall nearby, Demon studied the group but could detect no reaction on Flick's part; he could discern no threat from any one of her admirers. Indeed, she seemed to treat them as the puppies he'd labelled them, managing them with an absentminded air.

He wanted to stride back and disperse them, but it was hardly acceptable behavior. His mother would never forgive him and Flick might not, either. He couldn't even join her circle; he'd be too utterly out of place within her youthful court, a wolf amidst so many sheep.

The evening, thank God, was nearly over.

Stifling a grunt, he forced himself to stroll farther away, and not stand there staring quite so hungrily at her.

Fate had one last trial in store for him that evening.

He was propping up the wall, minding Flick's business, when a gentleman, every bit as languidly elegant as he, caught sight of him, smiled, then strolled over.

Demon ignored the smile. Grimly, he nodded. "Evening, Chillingworth."

"One would never imagine it a good one from your expression, dear boy." Glancing over the intervening heads to where Flick was passing the time with an enjoy ment more apparent than real, Chillingworth's smile deepened. "A tasty little morsel, I grant you, but I never thought you, of them all, would saddle yourself with this."

Demon decided not to understand. "This what?"

"Why-" Chillingworth turned his head and met his eyes. "This torment, of course."

Demon held back a glare, but his eyes narrowed; Chillingworth grinned and looked again at Flick. "Devil, of course, was doomed to run the full race, but the rest of you had far greater latitude. Vane had the sense to avail himself of it and marry Patience away from the ton. Richard-I always considered him the most sane-married his wild witch in Scotland, as far from the mad whirl as it's possible to get. So-" Pondering Flick, Chillingworth mused, "I have to ask myself why-why you've put yourself in line for such punishment." Amused understanding in his eyes, he glanced at Demon. "You must admit it's hardly comfortable."

Demon was not about to admit anything, and certainly not that. That his inner demons were howling with frustration. That he was hardly sleeping, barely eating, and as physically uncomfortable as it was possible to be. He met Chillingworth's gaze steadily. "I'll live."

"Hmm." Chillingworth's lips curved into a full smile. "Your fortitude leaves me quite…" Turning, he studied Flick. "Envious."

Demon stiffened.

"As you know," Chillingworth murmured, "young innocents have never been my cup of tea." He glanced back and met Demon's stony stare. "However, I've always been in remarkable accord with your family's taste in women." He looked back at Flick. "Perhaps-?"

"Don't."

The single word rang with lethal warning. Chillingworth's head snapped around; he met Demon's eyes. For one instant, despite their elegance, the scene turned primitive, the force resonating between them both primal and violent.

Then Chillingworth's lips curved; triumph gleamed in his eyes. "Perhaps not." Smiling, he inclined his head and turned away.