A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 19

Desperate needs called for desperate deeds. Flick knew her needs qualified as desperate, especially after last night. She needed much more from her lover-her prospective husband. She knew what she wanted. The big question was: How to get it?

Surrounded by her court, in the middle of Lady Ashcombe's drawing room, she pretended to listen while inwardly she plotted. She'd come to London with one clear aim: to make Demon fall in love with her. If he'd been going to look at her face and fall down smitten, it would have happened long ago. As it hadn't, she was going to have to do something-take some active steps-to achieve her desired goal.

Insisting he spend more time with her was the logical next step. She'd made a start last night, although they'd got distracted. She'd enjoyed the distraction, as far as it had gone, but that had only made her more determined, more stubbornly set on her course. Such distractions, and the subsequent empty yearning, provided yet more reasons to act soon. She didn't want to find herself in the situation of having to agree to his suit. That would leave her with absolutely no leeway to secure her dream. And she definitely wanted to ease the desolate, empty feeling their interlude outside the library had left about her heart.

She was still convinced he could love her if he tried. They had so many things in common. She'd enumerated them at length in her cold bed last night; she felt confident the possibility of love was there.

The first step to making it a reality was to ensure that he spent more time with her. To do that, she needed to speak with him alone. She also wanted to talk to him about Dillon. Recalling how the previous night's interlude had come about, she eyed her would-be suitors measuringly.

Demon saw her proposition Framlingham. His mental imprecations as he strolled to the side door to cut off their escape should have set her ears aflame.

"Oh, ah! Evening, Cynster."

"Framlingham." With a perfunctory nod to Flick, he met his lordship's eyes. "Dissatisfied with her ladyship's entertainments?"

"Ah-" Although bluffly genial, Framlingham was not slow. He shot a glance at Flick. "Miss Parteger needed a breath of fresh air, don't you know."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed," Flick verified. "However, now you're here, I won't need Lord Framlingham's kind escort." She gave Framlingham her hand and smiled sweetly. "Thank you for coming to my aid, my lord."

"Any time-er." Framlingham glanced at Demon. "Pleased to have been of assistance, my dear." With a nod, he beat a hasty retreat.

Demon watched him go, then slowly turned his head and met Flick's limpid gaze. "What are you about?"

She opened her eyes at him. "I would have thought that was obvious. I want to speak with you."

So she'd jerked his leash. Demon clenched his jaw and fought to preserve some semblance of debonair aloofness.

She swung to the door. "Is the garden this way?"

Along with the terrace. "I find it difficult to believe you're in need of fresh air. You're not the wilting sort." She certainly hadn't wilted last night.

"Of course not, but we need to speak privately."

"Indubitably." He bit the word off. "Not, however, out there." He wasn't about to risk a repeat of last night.

Meeting his gaze, she tilted her chin. "Where, then?"

One challenge to which he had an answer. "There's a chaise in an alcove over there."

He caught her hand, placed it on his sleeve, and led her through the crowd. Although this was only a party, there were still too many guests crowding the room. It took them some minutes to cross it, time in which his anger faded to resentment-at her action, his reaction, and the ever present, irritating confusion that dogged him.

Never in his life had he had so much trouble with a woman. As on horses, so too in the ballrooms. He was widely acknowledged as clever in the saddle, yet for all his experience, Flick was forever running her own race, perpetually relegating him to following at her heels. He was constantly having to reassess, rethink, readjust, which was not what he'd expected. Unfortunately, there seemed little else he could do.

He had to follow, and try to keep his hands on their reins. And ignore the nagging feeling that he was out of his depth with her.

Deep inside, he knew it, but he couldn't accept it-he was infinitely more experienced than she. But this was not the young chit he'd made blush under the wisteria, the innocent miss he'd kissed by the banks of the stream, and taught to love at The Angel. This Flick was a conundrum, one he'd yet to work out.

The alcove was deep but open to the room. If they kept their voices down, they could talk freely, but in no real sense were they private.

He handed her to the chaise, then sat beside her. "Do you think, next time you wish to speak with me, you could dispense with manipulation and simply send a note?"

She looked him in the eye. "From someone who has so consistently tried to manage me, that's definitely a case of the pot calling the kettle black." Her voice was even but her eyes spat blue sparks.

He waved a hand at the crowd. "Face forward and look bored. Make it appear we're idly chatting while you rest."

Her eyes flared, but she did as he said. "See?" she hissed.

"Look bored, not irate." He looked down; her fists were clenched in her lap. "Relax your hands." Despite his irritation, he'd lowered his voice to a cajoling murmur; after an instant's hesitation, her fingers uncurled.

Looking ahead, he drew in a breath, intending to explain, simply, succinctly, that in this sphere he was infinitely more experienced than she, that he knew precisely what he was doing and if she'd only deign to follow his lead, all would be well-

"I want you to spend more time with me."

The demand made him bridle, but he preserved his bored facade. His instinctive response to any outright demand was resistance, but in this case, resistance was tempered by desire. It was a shock to realize he was not at all averse to spending the bulk of his days by her side. He felt his features harden as the implication sank in, while all the reasons he couldn't do so replayed in his mind.

Not least was that sensual glow of hers-if they were frequently together, he'd never preserve a safe distance. And she'd react. On top of that, there was a quality in their interactions now that simply shouldn't be there. For instance, if he leaned closer, she would turn to him, not draw away as an innocent would. Physically, she was completely at ease in his company-womanly, seductively alluring, not nervous and skittish as she should be.

Drawing in a breath, he considered telling her, but… the very last thing he wanted was for her to change.

"No." He spoke decisively. After a moment, he added, "That's not possible."

She didn't, to his surprise, react-didn't turn her head and glare. Instead, she continued to study the room.

It took Flick some time to absorb his words. She'd made her demand expecting an argument, not bald denial. Yet she'd sensed his stiffening the instant the words were out-she'd braced herself to hear something she'd rather not.

Nevertheless… she had trouble taking it in. Trying to understand. What was he telling her?

A sudden premonition swept her-last night she'd accused him of wanting her solely as an ornament. She'd said it to prod him to deny it. He hadn't. Forcing in a breath, she concentrated on not gripping her ringers and wringing them. Had she, from the first, completely misread him-completely misunderstood what this something between them was?

Had she fooled herself into believing he might, one day, love her?

The cold started in her toes and flooded upward; her lungs froze-she felt giddy. But she had to know the truth. She glanced at his face. His features were set, determined. It wasn't his social mask that watched her, but another more stony, more ruthless. She searched his eyes, steady crystalline blue, and found no softness there either."No?"

The word trembled on her lips. Abruptly, she looked away, struggling to mask the effect of that word-a blow to her unwary heart.

He tensed, shifted, then sat back. After a moment, he said in an even voice, "If you agree to marry me, then I can spend more time with you."

Flick stiffened. "Indeed?" First a blow, then an ultimatum.

In the same controlled tone, he continued, "You know I wish to marry you-that I've been waiting for you to make up your mind. Have you done so?"

She turned her head further away so he couldn't see the fight she waged to keep her hurt from showing.

Demon swallowed a curse. Her agitation reached him clearly, leaving him even more confused than before. But he couldn't reach out and force her to face him-force her to tell him what the devil was wrong. Kept going wrong between them.

He now wished he hadn't pressed for her answer. But he wanted her, and the agony got worse every night. His gaze locked on her curls, he waited, conscious to his bones of that deep wanting, of the contradictions between his mask, his behavior, and his feelings. He wanted to press her, wanted to reassure her. He desperately wanted to tell her the right answer.

One of her curls, the same one he'd often tucked back, had come loose. Raising one hand, he caught it, adjusted it.

And saw his hand shaking.

The sight shook him even more, forcing the vulnerability he'd tried to ignore to the forefront of his mind. His face set; his jaw clenched. A moment later, he demanded, his tone harsh, "Have you decided?"

Flick looked at him, forced herself to meet his hard blue eyes, tried to see behind the ruthless mask. But she could catch no glimpse of what she searched for-this was not the man she loved, the idol of her dreams, the man who'd made long slow love to her all night at The Angel. The man she'd hoped would learn to love her.

Looking away, she drew in a shaky breath and held it. "No-but I think I've made a dreadful mistake."

He stiffened.

She hauled in a tight breath. "If you'll excuse me?" Briefly inclining her head, Flick stood. Demon stood as she did, so winded he wasn't able to speak. He wasn't able to think, let alone do anything to stop her. Stop her leaving him.

Flick walked back to the group she'd earlier left. Within seconds she was surrounded by eligible gentlemen. From the side of the room, Demon watched her.

The word "mistake" burned in his brain. Who had really made it-her, or him? Her rejection-how else was he to take it?-seared him. His eyes narrowed as he saw her nod graciously to some man. Perhaps, this time, he should swallow his pride and take her at her word?

The thought was like acid, eating at his heart.

Then he saw her smile fleetingly-a huge effort all for show; the instant the gentleman looked away, her smile faded, and she glanced surreptitiously his way.

Demon caught that glance-saw the hurt, haunted look in her eyes. He swore and took an impulsive step forward, then recalled where they were. He couldn't cross the room, haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless, much less swear undying devotion.

Suppressing a snarl, rigidly schooling his features to a cast that would allow him to move through the throng, he swung on his heel and left the house.

Every time he tried to manage her, things went wrong.

She refused to run in his harness; she never reacted predictably to the reins. He'd expected to be in control, but that wasn't the way it would be.

Lounging in the doorway of the nursery at 12 Clarges Street, the house he dreamed of bringing Flick to as his wife, Demon looked around the room. Set beneath the eaves, it was of a good size, well lit, well ventilated. As in the light, airy rooms downstairs, he could see Flick here, her curls glowing brighter than the sun as she smiled, shedding her warmth about her.

The house would be cold without her.

He'd be cold without her. As good as dead.

He knew she wanted something from him-something more than a few hours every day. He even knew what that something was. If he wanted to convince her that she'd made no mistake, that her heart was safe with him, he was going to have to give rather more than he had.

He didn't need to hear her say she loved him-he'd known that for some time, at The Angel if not before. But he'd thought of her feelings as a "young" love, youthful, exuberant, relatively immature-easy for him to manage and fulfill without having to expose the depth of his own feelings. He'd even used the mores of the ton to assist him in hiding those-the emotions that at times raged so powerfully he couldn't contain them.

He certainly couldn't manage them. Or her.

His chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. What lay between them now was an obsession-deep and abiding and impossible to deny-not on her part, or his. She was meant for him and he for her, but if he didn't confront the one thing he most feared, didn't surrender and pay the price, he would lose her.

A prospect the Cynster in him could never, ever accept.

He stood for long moments, gazing unseeing at the empty room. Then he sighed and straightened. He would have to see her alone again, and find but what, precisely, he was going to have to do to get her to agree to be his.

That evening, together with Horatia, Flick attended Lady Merlon's musicale. Musicales were the one social event Demon had flatly refused to attend. Slipping into the room just as the soprano started to wail, Flick winced and tried to block out the thought that her reaction to such music was something else she and Demon shared. They didn't share the most important trait, which was the only one that mattered.

Setting her chin against a deplorable tendency to quiver, she looked along the rows of seats, hunting for an empty one. She'd taken refuge in the withdrawing room to avoid the twins-one look at their bright, cheery expressions and their far-too-sharp eyes and she'd fled. She possessed no mask solid enough to hide her inner misery from them.

She'd expected to sit with Horatia, but she was now surrounded, as were the twins. Looking along the edge of the room, she tried to spot a vacant seat-

"Here, gel!" Clawlike fingers gripped her elbow; surprisingly strong, they drew her back. "Sit and stop flitting-it's distracting!"

Abruptly sitting, Flick found herself on one end of a love seat, the rest of which was occupied by Lady Osbaldestone. "Th-thank you."

Hands crossed over the head of her cane, her ladyship fixed Flick with a piercing black gaze. "You look quite peaked, gel. Not getting enough sleep?"

Flick wished she had a mask to hold in front of her face; the old eyes fixed on hers were even sharper than the twins'. "I'm quite well, thank you."

"Glad to hear it. When's the wedding to be, then, heh?"

Unfortunately, they were sufficiently distant from other guests not to have to remain silent. Shifting her gaze to the singer, Flick fought to quell the tremor in her lips, in her voice. "There isn't going to be a wedding."

"Is that so?" Her ladyship's tone was mildly curious.

Keeping her gaze on the singer, Flick nodded.

"And why is that?"

"Because he doesn't love me."

"Doesn't he?" That was said with considerable surprise.

"No." Flick couldn't think of any more subtle way to put it-even the thought was enough to overset her. Breathing evenly, she tried to ease the knot clutched tight about her heart. It had constricted the previous evening and still hadn't loosened.

Despite all, she still wanted him-wanted desperately to marry him. But how could she? He didn't love her, and wasn't expecting to. The marriage he intended would be a living mockery of all she believed, all she wanted. She couldn't endure being trapped in a loveless, fashionably convenient union. Such a marriage wasn't for her-she simply couldn't do it.

"Humor an old woman, my dear-why do you imagine he doesn't love you?"

After a moment, Flick glanced at Lady Osbaldestone. She was sitting back, calmly waiting, her full attention on her. Despite feeling remarkably close to Horatia, Flick could hardly discuss her son's shortcomings with her kind and generous hostess. But… recalling her ladyship's first words to her, Flick drew breath and faced forward. "He refuses to give me any of his time-just the polite minimum. He wants to marry me so he'll have a suitable bride-the right ornament on his arm at family gatherings. Because we suit in many ways, he's decided I'm it. He expects to marry me, and-well, from his point of view, that's it."

A sound halfway between a snort and a guffaw came from beside her. "Pardon my plain speaking, my dear, but if that's all you've got against him, I wouldn't, if I was you, be so hasty in your judgments."

Flick shot a puzzled glance at her elderly inquisitor. "You wouldn't?"

"No, indeed." Her ladyship sat back. "You say he won't spend much time by your side-are you sure that shouldn't be 'can't?"

Flick blinked. "Why 'can't'?"

"You're young and he's much older-that alone restricts the arenas in which your paths can cross in town. And an even greater restriction stems from his reputation." Her ladyship fixed her with a direct look. "You know about that, do you not?"

Flick colored, but nodded.

"Well, then, if you think about it, you should see there are precious few opportunities for him to spend time with you. He's not here tonight?"

"He doesn't like musicales."

"Yes, well, few gentlemen do-look around." They both did. The soprano screeched, and her ladyship snorted again. "I'm not even sure I like musicales. He's generally been squiring you to your evenings' entertainments, hasn't he?"

Flick nodded.

"Then let's think what else he could do. He can't dance attendance on you, because, being who he is, and you who you are, society would raise its brows censoriously. He can't hang about you during the day, in the park or elsewhere-he most certainly can't haunt his parents' house. He can't even join your circle of an evening."

Flick frowned. "Why not?"

"Because society does not approve of gentlemen of his age and experience showing their partiality too openly, any more than it approves of ladies wearing their hearts on their sleeves."

"Oh."

"Indeed. And Harold, just like all the Cynsters, lives and breathes society's rules without even thinking of them-at least when it comes to marriage, specifically anything to do with the lady they wed. They'll happily bend any rule that gets in their high-handed way, but not when it comes to marriage. Don't understand it myself, but I've known three generations, and they've all been the same. You may take my word for it."

Flick grimaced.

"Now, Horatia mentioned you haven't accepted him yet, so that simply lays an extra tax on him. Being a Cynster, he would want to stick by your side, force you to acknowledge him, but he can't. Which, of course, explains why he's been going around tense as an overwound watchspring. I have to say he's toed the line very well-he's doing what society expects of him by keeping a reasonable distance until you accept his offer."

"But how can I learn if he loves me if he's never near?"

"Society is not concerned with love, only its own power. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Not wanting to make himself, or you, or his family appear outre, and very definitely not wanting society to view your relationship askance, restricts him to half-hour calls in Horatia's presence-and only one or two a week, to meetings in the park, again not too frequently, and escorting you and Horatia to balls. Anything else would be construed as bad ton-something no Cynster has ever been."

"What about riding in the park? He knows I like riding."

Lady Osbaldestone eyed her. "You're from Newmarket, I believe?"

Flick nodded.

"Well, riding in the park means you'll be walking your mount. At the most, you can break into a trot for a short stretch, but that's the limit of what is considered appropriate stimulation for a female on horseback." Flick stared. "So are you surprised he hasn't taken you riding in the park?"

Flick shook her head.

"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."

Flick nodded, her mind racing, her troubles forgotten. She began to ask Horatia where they were, but she stopped, unable to explain her sudden need of street names. She kept her eyes glued to the streets from then on, but didn't see any signs until they were nearly home. By then, she'd decided what to do. Masking her impatience, she waited. The carriage rocked to a halt outside the Cynster house; handed to the pavement, she matched her pace to Horatia's and unhurriedly ascended the steps. As they climbed the stairs, she smothered a yawn. With a sleepy goodnight, she parted from Horatia in the gallery and turned toward her room.

As soon as she'd turned the corner, she picked up her skirts and ran. Hers was the only occupied room in that wing, and she'd forbidden the little maid who helped her to wait up. So there was no one about to see her fly into her room. No one to see her tear to her wardrobe and delve into the cases on its floor. No one to see her shed her beautiful gown and leave it lying on the rug.

No one to see her climb into attire that would have made any lady blush.

Ten minutes later, once more Flick the lad, she crept downstairs. The door was left unlatched until Demon's father came in, usually close to dawn. Until then, Highthorpe polished silver in his pantry, just beyond the baise door. Flick inched down the hall. The front door opened noiselessly-she eased it back just far enough to squeeze through, worried that a draft might alert Highthorpe. Only after she'd closed it again and gently set the latch down did she breathe freely.

Then she darted down the steps and into the street.

She stopped in the shadow of an overhang. Her first impulse was to retrace the carriage's journey, find Bletchley, then follow him through the night. This, however, was London, not Newmarket-it was hardly wise, even dressed as she was, to slink through the streets in the dark.

Accepting reality she headed for Albemarle Street.