A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 8

"I wondered if you'd care for a drive?"

Gasping, Flick whirled; the large vase she was carrying shook, slipped-

Demon reached out and steadied it; his fingers brushed hers.

Flick trembled. She drew her hands away, leaving him holding the vase. Standing in the sunshine streaming through the gallery windows, she stared at him, disjointed phrases tangling on her tongue. She wanted to rail at him for creeping up on her-again. She wanted to scowl or at least frown-she hadn't forgiven him for his behavior of yesterday.

She wanted to ask what he'd meant by his parting comment. "A drive?" Her head was still whirling.

He shrugged, his lids veiling his eyes. "Just a tool about the lanes for half an hour or so."

She drew in a steadying breath. Twenty-four hours had passed since he'd driven away-twenty-four hours in which she'd thought of little else but him. Swinging to the windows, she looked out on another glorious spring day. Simultaneously, she felt the warm flush she was growing accustomed to slide down her back.

"The breeze is warm. You won't need a spencer."

Just as well; she didn't have one that wouldn't look hideous with this gown-white mull muslin sprinkled with tiny gold and purple daisies. Flick nodded, determination filling her. "A drive would be very nice."

She turned to face him-he was still holding the vase.

"Where do you want this?"

She gestured down the gallery. "If you'll put it on the table at the end, I'll get my parasol and meet you in the hall."

She didn't wait for his nod but headed for her room-her steps eager, her heart lighter, even if she'd yet to meet his eyes directly. They had to get past this silly hitch in their friendship, over the hurdle of yesterday-a drive would be a good start.

A good start to what she was no longer sure by the time Demon turned his bays back up the manor drive. She'd imagined they'd simply slide back to their earlier, easy friendship-she'd expected, after the initial, inevitable stiffness evaporated, to once again encounter the teasing light she'd so often seen in his blue eyes.

Instead…

Angling her parasol, she studied his face as he tooled the curricle up the drive. Shadows from the enclosing trees wreathed his features, but they did nothing to soften the patriarchal lines of his nose and chin. His was an angular face, high cheekbones shadowing the long planes of his cheeks, a broad forehead above large eyes. A hard face, its austerity seductively flavored by the frankly sensual line of his thin lips, the brooding languor of his heavy lids.

She had never really looked, not so deeply. His had been the face of a man she'd thought she'd known. She was no longer so sure of that.

Realigning her parasol, she looked ahead as they swept out of the trees and bowled along beside the lawns. The end of the drive was in sight, and she'd yet to understand why his teasing looks had been replaced by glances much more direct, much more unnerving. Much more intent. She'd yet to determine where he thought they were heading. Only then could she decide whether she agreed with him or not.

Demon sent the bays into a tight curve so that the curricle fetched up neatly before the steps. He tied off the reins and stepped down, hiding his satisfied smile, along with his awareness of the puzzled looks Flick continued to direct his way.

Strolling around the carriage, he helped her down; releasing her hand, he strolled beside her up the steps. Glancing at her, he met her blue gaze, his expression mild and urbane. "If you would, tell the General that I'm checking into those horses he mentioned yesterday. I'll call on him tomorrow."

She searched his eyes, then nodded. "Yes, of course."

He smiled easily. "I hope you enjoyed our drive."

"Oh-yes. It was very pleasant. Thank you."

His smile deepened. "Your enjoyment is all the thanks I need." Reaching beyond her, he jangled the doorbell. Releasing it, he held her gaze for an instant, then bowed, exquisitely correct. "I'll leave you then. Good-bye."

He turned and strolled down the steps, her hesitant farewell drifting after him. The front door opened as he climbed into the curricle and took up the reins; as he wheeled his team, he glimpsed her, parasol still open, standing on the steps watching him drive away.

His lips curved. It wasn't difficult to envision the look on her face-the puzzled frown in her big blue eyes. Smiling more definitely, he whipped up his horses and headed for the Heath.

He returned to the manor at eleven o'clock the next morning, ostensibly to see the General.

Jacobs opened the door to him; Demon crossed the threshold to discover a sermon in progress. Fittingly, it was being delivered by the vicar's wife, Mrs. Pemberton, a trenchantly good-hearted lady. Her venue was the front hall, her audience Mrs. Fogarty and Jacobs, who, Demon noted, had left the front door wide open. He deduced Mrs. Pemberton was on the point of departure.

His appearance proved a distraction, making Mrs. Pemberton lose her thread. Then she recognized him and regrouped. "Mr. Cynster! Perfect!"

Demon suppressed a wince.

Mrs. Pemberton bustled up. "I've just been asking after the General-I understand he's presently 'not to be disturbed.' " Casting a severe glance at Fogarty, Mrs. Pemberton laid a hand on Demon's sleeve. "I have a very important message for him-I would take it most kindly if you would convey it to him when next you have the pleasure of seeing him."

Mrs. Pemberton was no fool. Taking the hand she offered, Demon shook it. "Only too pleased, ma'am." He could hardly refuse.

"Excellent. Now my point is this-" She fixed her eye on Fogarty. "Thank you-I won't need to disturb you further, Mrs. Fogarty."

Fogarty sent a meaningful look Demon's way, then curtsied and withdrew.

Turning, Mrs. Pemberton fixed her sights on Jacobs. "Mr. Cynster will see me to the door. Please convey my compliments to Miss Parteger when she comes in."

Jacobs stiffened but had to bow, close the door, and withdraw, too.

Mrs. Pemberton sighed and met Demon's eye. "I know they're only trying to protect the General, but really! He can't simply go to ground in his library all the time-not when he's the guardian of a young lady."

Elegantly, Demon gestured to the padded seat lining the alcove at the rear of the hall. Mrs. Pemberton consented to sit. Folding her hands over her reticule, she fixed her gaze on his face as he sat alongside her.

"My purpose in calling is to bring the General to an understanding of his duties in relation to Miss Parteger. It's all gone reasonably well until now, but she's reached an age where he really needs to take a more active role."

Demon raised his brows innocently, encouragingly.

Mrs. Pemberton pursed her lips. "That girl must be nineteen if she's a day, and she barely sets foot outside this house, at least not in a social sense. We-the ladies of the district-have done all we can in sending invitations to Hillgate End, but, thus far, the General has refused to bestir himself." Mrs. Pemberton's double chins firmed. "I'm afraid that's not good enough. It would be a crying shame if that lovely girl is left to molder into an old maid purely because the General won't shake himself out of his library and properly perform his duties as a guardian."

"Hmm," Demon replied, entirely noncommittal.

"I particularly wished to speak with him because I'm hosting a small dance at the vicarage-just for the local young people-three evenings from now. We-the other ladies and I-think it absolutely vital that the General puts more effort into taking Miss Parteger about. How else will the poor girl ever find a husband?"

Spreading her hands, she appealed to Demon; luckily, she didn't expect a reply.

"The dance at the vicarage will be just the way to start-not too many people to overwhelm the child. Will you carry my message to the General? And, perhaps, if you could put the argument that he really needs to pay more attention to Miss Parteger's future?"

Demon met her gaze, then nodded decisively. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good!" Mrs. Pemberton beamed as Demon walked her to the door. "I'll be off, then. If you see her, do mention to Miss Parteger that I called."

Demon inclined his head as Mrs. Pemberton took her leave, considering her parting words.

He would, he decided, tell Miss Parteger she'd called, but not immediately.

Turning, he sauntered toward the library.

Half an hour later, he found Flick in the back parlor. She was ensconced amid the cushions on the settee, her legs curled under her skirts, a dish of shelled nuts on a side table beside her. She was reading a book, utterly absorbed. He watched as, without taking her eyes from the page, she reached out and picked up a nut; without missing a word, she brought the nut to her lips and popped it into her mouth, continuing to read as she crunched.

With Mrs. Pemberton's sermon ringing in his head, he scanned the round blue gown presently concealing Miss Parteger's charms. While her wardrobe would not qualify as "all the crack," there was, to his mind, nothing whatever amiss with her simple gowns. Their very simplicity enhanced, underscored and emphasized the beauty of the body within.

Which, he'd decided, was all definitely to his taste.

The body, the beauty, and her simple gowns.

Pushing away from the doorframe, he strolled into the room.

Flick looked up with a start. "Oh! Hello." She started to smile one of her innocently welcoming smiles, but as he halted before her, full awareness struck, and the tenor of her greeting changed. She still smiled in welcome, but her eyes were watchful, her smile more controlled.

He returned the gesture easily, inwardly pleased that she was, at long last, starting to see him differently. "I've finished talking horses with the General. He invited me to lunch and I've accepted. It's lovely outside-I wondered if you'd care to stroll until the gong?"

With him there, large as life, asking, she really had very little choice. While one part of Flick's mind acidly noted that fact, another part was rejoicing, eager to further explore their new, oddly thrilling, not-quite-safe interaction. She didn't understand it-she'd yet to determine where he thought he was headed. But she wanted to know. "Yes-by all means, let's stroll."

She gave him her hand and let him pull her to her feet. Minutes later, they were on the lawn, ambling side by side.

"Has anything happened with Bletchley?"

Demon shook his head. "All he's done is make tentative overtures toward a number of jockeys."

"Nothing else?"

Again he shook his head. "They seem to be concentrating on the Craven meeting, and that's still weeks away" I suspect the syndicate will have given Bletchley time to make the arrangements-it's possible his masters won't put in an appearance down here just yet."

"You think they'll leave it until closer to the meeting to check on Bletchley's success?"

"Closer, but not too close. It takes time to put all the players in place to milk the maximum return from a fix."

"Hmm." Pondering that fact, and the likelihood that Dillon would have to remain in the ruined cottage for some weeks yet, Flick frowned into the distance.

"Have you ever been to London?"

"London?" She blinked. "Only when I stayed with my aunt just after my parents died. I was only there for a few weeks, I think."

"I confess myself amazed that you've never succumbed to the urge to cut a dash in the capital."

She turned her head and studied him; to her surprise, he wasn't teasing-his gaze was steady, his expression open-well, as open as it ever was. "I…" She considered, then shrugged. "I've never really thought of it. It's all so far away and unknown. Indeed"-she raised her brows-"I'm not even sure what 'cutting a dash' entails."

Demon grinned. "Being noticed by society due to one's dress, or exploits."

"Or conquests?"

His smile deepened. "That, too."

"Ah, well. That explains my disinterest, then. I'm not particularly interested in any of those things."

Demon couldn't restrain his smile. "A young lady uninterested in dresses and conquests-my dear, you'll break the matchmakers' hearts."

Her expression as she shrugged said she cared not a whit.

"But," he continued, "I'm surprised you don't like dancing-most ladies who enjoy riding also enjoy a turn about the dance floor."

She grimaced. "I haven't spent much time dancing. There aren't a lot of balls around here, you know."

"But there are the usual dances. I vaguely remember my great-aunt prodding me to attend, a few many years ago."

"Well, yes-there are dances and the odd ball as one might expect. We do get cards periodically. But the General is always so busy."

"Does he even see the cards?"

Flick glanced up, but she could read nothing in his very blue eyes. Still… she tilted her chin. "I deal with his correspondence. There's no point bothering him with such invitations-he's never attended such affairs."

"Hmm." Demon glanced at her face-what he could see beneath her golden halo. Without warning, he reached for her hand; stepping swiftly, he raised it and twirled her, unsurprised that, startled though she was, she reacted smoothly, graceful and surefooted, innately responsive.

He met her wide eyes as she slowed to a halt, her billowing skirts subsiding. "I really think," he murmured, lowering her hand, "that you'll enjoy dancing."

Flick hid a frown and wondered if that remark was intended to be cryptic. Before she could pursue it, the gong for lunch echoed over the lawn.

Demon offered his arm. "Shall we join the General?"

They did. Sitting at the dining table with the General to her right and Demon opposite was a familiar, comfortable situation. Flick relaxed; her nerves, in recent times slightly tense whenever Demon was near, eased. Chatting with her usual effervescence, she felt subtlely more in control.

Until the General laid down his fork and fixed her with a direct look. "Mrs. Pemberton called this morning."

"Oh?" Flick knew she had-that was why she'd taken refuge in the back parlor. But she was genuinely surprised that the General knew-she, Foggy and Jacobs had a long standing agreement to ensure the local matrons didn't bother him with their demands.

She scanned the room, but Jacobs had withdrawn. Had Mrs. Pemberton bullied her way past their defenses?

"Hmm," the General went on. "Seems she's giving a dance for the local young people. Us older folk are allowed to come and watch." He caught Flick's startled eye. "I rather think we should attend, don't you?"

Flick didn't-she foresaw all sorts of complications. Including the likelihood of the General learning just how many similar invitations he'd refused in recent times. She glanced at Demon, and was struck by inspiration. "I really don't have anything to wear."

The General chuckled. "I thought you might say that, so I had a word with Mrs. Fogarty-she tells me there's a very good dressmaker in the High Street. She'll go with you tomorrow and see about a dress."

"Oh." Flick blinked. The General was smiling at her, a hopeful question in his eyes. "Er… thank you."

Delighted, he patted her hand. "I'm quite looking forward to the outing-haven't been about in years, it seems. Used to enjoy it when Margery was alive. Now I'm too old to dance myself, I'm looking forward to sitting and watching you take to the floor."

Flick stared at him; guilt at having deprived him of innocent enjoyment for years tickled at her mind-but she couldn't quite believe it. He didn't like socializing-he'd given his opinion on the mesdames of the district, and their entertainments, often enough. She couldn't understand what had got into his head. "But…" She grabbed her last straw. "I don't know any of the local gentlemen well enough to stand up with them."

"Oh, you won't have to worry about that. Demon here has offered to accompany us-he'll stand up with you, teach you a few steps, and all that. Just what you need."

Flick didn't think so. Blank-faced, she looked at Demon. He met her gaze, the quality of the smile in his eyes stating louder than words that it was he who had got into the General's head.

Despite the fact that his eyes were blue, Flick saw red. But he had her trussed up tight-no matter how she wriggled, the General stood firm. And as it quickly became clear he was, beneath his placid exterior, gruffly worried about her lack of social experience, she found herself acquiescing with a sweetness entirely out of step with her temper.

Her tormentor, of course, beat a strategic retreat once he'd secured his goal. Flick gritted her teeth-she would now have to learn to dance-with him. Excusing himself on the grounds that he wanted to be early to the Heath for afternoon stables, he left them at the table.

All her steel went out of her once he'd gone. She chatted easily with the General, while making a very large, very red mental note to tell his protege just what she thought of his maneuvering, especially his fostering of the General's worry, the instant she next had a moment alone with him.

That moment did not occur until they were standing by the side of the vicarage drawing room, with every eye in the room upon them. Flick stood, head up, hands lightly clasped, beside the General's chair. Demon, large, lean and hideously elegant, stood immediately by her side.

The stares directed her way, while disconcerting, did not greatly surprise Flick; the vision she presented had stunned her, too. All she'd done was don her new dress and the aquamarine necklace and earrings the General had given her for her last birthday, but the resulting vision that had stared back at her from her mirror had been a revelation.

She'd dutifully gone to the dressmaker with Foggy, a sudden convert to the notion of a dance. The dressmaker, Clotilde, had been surprisingly ready to put aside her other work to create a suitable gown for her. Suitable, Clotilde had insisted, meant pale blue silk, the exact same shade as her eyes. Imagining the cost, she'd demurred, suggesting a fine voile, but Clotilde had waved that aside and named a price that had been impossible to refuse. She'd agreed on the silk, only to be surprised again.

The dress whispered about her, sliding over her in quite a different way from the fine cottons she was used to. It clung, and shifted, and slithered; it was cool and at the same time warm. As for how she appeared in it-she hadn't recognized the slender, golden-haired beauty blinking huge blue eyes at her.

The color of the dress highlighted her eyes, making them appear larger, wider; the texture emphasized curves she normally paid very little attention to.

Demon, on the other hand, had paid a great deal of attention-to her, to those curves, to her eyes. When she'd descended the stairs and found him waiting in the hall, he'd blinked, then slowly smiled. Too intently for her liking. He'd come forward, handing her down the last stairs, then twirling her before him.

As she'd slowed, then halted, he'd trapped her gaze, lifted her hand, and brushed his lips across her fingertips. "Very nice," he'd purred, his blue eyes alight.

She'd felt like a blancmange he was just about to eat. Luckily, the General had appeared, and she'd escaped to fuss over him.

Their journey to Lidgate had been filled with the usual discussion of horses, but once they'd entered the vicarage, that subject was, by tacit agreement, not further pursued. Mrs. Pemberton had greeted them with great good cheer-she'd been particularly delighted to welcome Demon.

Flick slid a glance his way; he was idly scanning the room, slowly filling as more guests arrived. The General had insisted they be on time, so they'd been among the first to arrive. But the rest had followed on their heels; since taking up their positions, they'd had no chance to converse, too busy nodding politely as new arrivals nodded at them.

And stared. Half stared at her-the rest stared at him.

Hardly surprising. He was wearing black, a color that rendered his fair hair a brilliant blonde and deepened the blue of his eyes. The severe cut of his coat, pearl satin waistcoat and trousers emphasized his height, the breadth of his shoulders, his long, strong legs. He always looked elegant, but usually in a lazy, negligent way. Tonight, he was every inch the London rake, a predator stepped straight from the ton's ballrooms to prowl the vicarage dance floor.

Flick inwardly grinned at the thought.

As if sensing her gaze, he glanced down at her, then raised a quizzical brow. She hesitated, but with the General so close, she couldn't upbraid him as he deserved for getting her into this-into this room, into this gown, into this situation. With a speaking glance, she elevated her chin and haughtily looked away.

Mrs. Pemberton materialized before them. "Allow me to present Mrs. March and her family from the Grange."

Mrs. March nodded approvingly at Flick's curtsy, smiled appreciatively at Demon's elegant bow, then turned to chat with the General.

"And this is Miss March, who we all know as Kitty."

A young girl in a white dress blushed furiously and curtsied.

"And her friend, Miss Avril Collins."

The second young lady, a brunette in yellow muslin, curtsied rather more assuredly.

"And Henry, who is squiring his sister and Miss Collins tonight."

Henry was obviously a March, as fair as his sister. He blushed furiously while executing the stiffest bow Flick had ever seen. "It's a g-great pleasure, M-Miss Parteger."

Mrs. Pemberton turned away; a second later, together with Mrs. March, she led the General away to where the older guests were gathering to chat and gossip.

"I say-have you lived in these parts long?"

Flick turned to find Henry March earnestly regarding her. His sister, too, lifting her gaze from a perusal of her blue silk gown, looked interested in the question.

Not so Avril Collins, who was brazenly looking interested in Demon.

"Most of my life," Flick answered, her gaze on Avril Collins's face. "I live with the General at Hillgate End, south of the racecourse."

Avril's pouting lips-they had to be rouged-lifted in a little smile. "I know," she said on a breathless giggle, one finger reaching out to tap Demon's coat, "that you live in London, Mr. Cynster."

Flick glanced at Demon's face. He smiled-not a smile she was used to, but one coolly, distantly polite.

"Actually, I live in London only part of the time. The rest of the time I live near Hillgate End."

"The General keeps a studbook, doesn't he?" Henry March appealed to Flick. "That must be exciting-do you help him keep track of the horses?"

Flick smiled. "It is interesting, but I don't help all that much. Of course, all the talk in the house is about horses."

Henry's eager expression suggested such a household was his idea of heaven.

"Oh, horses!" Avril wrinkled her nose and cast an openly inviting glance at Demon. "Don't you find them the most boring of creatures?"

"No." Demon met her gaze. "I breed them."

Flick could almost feel sorry for Avril Collins-Demon purposely let the silence stretch for one exceedingly uncomfortable instant, then turned to Henry March. "I own the stud farm to the west of the Lidgate road. Stop by some time if you're interested. If I'm not there, my foreman will show you around. Just mention my name."

"T-thank you," Henry stammered. "I'd l-like that immensely."

Mrs. Pemberton appeared with another group of young people. The fresh round of introductions allowed Kitty March to remove her unfortunate friend. Kitty tugged at her brother's sleeve, but he frowned at her, then returned to his open adoration of Flick.

In that pursuit he was joined by the two male members of the new group, both young gentlemen from nearby estates. Somewhat disconcerted by their soulful looks, Flick did her best to encourage rational conversation, only to be defeated by their patent silliness.

Their silliness, however, was nothing compared to their sisters' witlessness, their vapidity. Flick was not sure which she found more distracting.

"No." She drew a patient breath. "I don't watch every race. The Jockey Club sends all the results to the General."

"Do you get to name all the new foals?" One of the young ladies stared wide-eyed up at Demon.

Wearily resigned, he raised his brows. "I suppose I do."

"Oh! That must be so wonderful." The young damsel clasped her hands to her breast. "Thinking up sweet names for all those lovely little foals, staggering around on their shaky legs."

Flick immediately looked back at her group of swains. "Do any of you come to Newmarket to see the races?"

She struggled on, racking her brain for topics on which they might have more than two words to contribute. Most of such topics concerned racing, horses and carriages-within minutes, Demon insinuated a comment into their conversation. A minute later, he somehow managed to merge the two groups, which left the young ladies a trifle miffed, but they didn't move away.

Which was a pity, as Mrs. Pemberton arrived with another wave of admirers, both for her and Demon. Flick found herself facing five males, while Demon had his hands full, figuratively speaking, with six young girls. And one not-so-young, not-so-innocent young madam.

"What a delightful surprise, Mr. Cynster, to discover a gentleman of your standing at a gathering such as this. In case you missed my name, I'm Miss Henshaw."

The throaty voice had Flick quickly turning.

"I say-you ride that pretty little mare, don't you? The one with the white hocks."

Distracted, Flick glanced back at one of the new male additions. "Yes. That's Jessamy."

"Do you jump her?"

"Not especially."

"Well, you should. I've seen conformations like that around the traps-she'll do well, mark my words."

Flick shook her head. "Jessamy's not-

"Dare say you might not know, being a female, but take my word for it-she's got good legs and good stamina." The bluffly genial youth, the local squire's son, grinned at her, the epitome of a patronizing male. "If you like, I could organize a jockey and trainer for you."

"Yes, but-" one of her earnest admirers cut in. "She lives with the General-he keeps the stud records."

"So?" Bluff-and-genial raised a dismissive brow. "What's dusty old records got to do with it? This is horseflesh we're talking about."

A throaty laugh came from beyond Demon. Flick gritted her teeth. "For your information"-her tone stopped all argument and made Bluff-and-genial blink-"Jessamy is an investment. As a broodmare, she has arguably the best bloodlines in the country. You may be very certain I will not be risking her in any steeplechase."

"Oh," was all Bluff-and-genial dared say.

Flick turned to deal with the throaty-voiced Miss Henshaw-and saw a black-haired beauty, smiling and laughing, leaning close to Demon, her face tipped up to his. She was, Flick saw in that one chilling instant, a lot taller than she herself was-so her face, tilted up, was much closer to Demon's, her lips closer to his-

"Now, my dears!"

Every head in the room lifted; everyone looked to where Mrs. Pemberton stood, clapping her hands for attention. "Now," she reiterated, when everyone was silent, "it's time to find your partners for the first dance."

There was an instant of silence, then a rush as all the young men jockeyed for position. A chorus of invitations and acceptances filled the air.

Flick found herself facing three earnest young men-Bluff-and-genial had been shouldered aside.

"My dear Miss Parteger, if you will-

"I pray, kind lady, that-

"If you would honor me with this dance-"

Flick blinked at their youthful faces-they all seemed so young. She didn't need to look to know that the seductive Miss Henshaw was batting her long lashes at Demon. She didn't need to look, but she wanted to. She wanted to-

"Actually," a deep drawling voice purred just above her right ear, "Miss Parteger's first dance is mine."

Demon's hand closed firmly about hers; Flick looked up to see him smile with a shatteringly superior air at her youthful admirers. There was no chance in heaven they would argue.

The relief she felt was quite definite, the reasons for it less clear. Luckily, she didn't need to dwell on it. Demon glanced down at her and raised one brow. Gracefully, she inclined her head. He set her hand on his sleeve; the others fell back as he led her onto the rapidly clearing floor.

The dance was to be a cotillion. As Demon led her to a set, Flick whispered, "I know the theory, but I've never actually danced one of these in my life."

He smiled reassuringly. "Just copy what the other lady does. If you wander off in the wrong direction, I'll grab you."

Despite all, despite her dismissive humph, she found that promise comforting.

They took their positions and the music started; despite her worries, she quickly found the rhythm. The dips and sways and hand-clasped twirls were heavily repetitive; it wasn't that hard to keep her place. And Demon's touch was reassuring-every time his fingers closed about hers, he steadied her, even if she wasn't drifting.

As the dance progressed, she felt increasingly assured-assured enough to stop frowning and smile when her eyes touched his. She laughed up at him, over her shoulder, as he twirled her into their final pose, then she sank into an extravagantly deep curtsy as he bowed, equally extravagantly, to her.

Demon raised her; he wondered if she knew how brightly her eyes were shining, how gloriously unabashed, unfettered in her enjoyment she was. She was so different from the other young ladies in the room, all careful to mind their words, their expressions, if not to artfully deploy them. She was unrestrained in her appreciation-something tonnish ladies rarely were. Exuberance, even if honest, was not the ton's way.

It was Flick's way-her wide smile and laughing eyes had him smiling, equally honestly, in reply. "And now," he said, and had to draw a deeper breath as he drew her closer and looked into her eyes, "we must return to our duty."

She laughed. "Which duty is that?"

The duty he alluded to was to dance with all the other young people gathered at the vicarage for that purpose. They had barely returned to the side of the room before Flick's hand was solicited for a country dance.

Her other hand still rested on Demon's sleeve. She looked up at him-he smiled reassuringly, squeezed her fingers lightly, then let her go.

As she twirled down the room, Flick noticed Demon twirling, too, with the vicar's daughter. Letting her gaze slide away, she smiled easily at her partner, Henry March.

Dance followed dance, but with time between to allow the dancers to chat. To get to know each other better, to find their feet socially. That was, after all, what the evening was about. The older members of the company sat at the rear of the room, smiling and nodding, watching benignly as their youngsters mingled.

Mrs. Pemberton, her duty as hostess done, sank into a chair beside the General. Luckily, the General was deep in discussion with the vicar; Mrs. Pemberton did not interrupt. Relieved, Flick looked away. Beside her, Demon shifted. Flick looked up, and he caught her eye. And raised a knowing brow. She stared into his eyes, at the comprehension therein, then put her nose in the air and looked away. And straggled to ignore the frisson that shot through her when his hand shifted and his fingers brushed hers amid her skirts.

The dances that followed proved a trial. It was increasingly difficult to keep her mind on her steps. As for her eyes, they rarely rested on her partner. Twirling, whirling, she shot glances through the throng, through the constantly moving mass. Looking, searching…

She located Demon-he was dancing with Kitty March. Flick relaxed.

The next measure, however, he partnered Miss Henshaw.

Flick collided with another lady in her set, and nearly ended on her bottom. Flustered, she gasped, "I think" she didn't have to feign her shaking voice-"that I'd better sit out the rest of this dance."

Her partner, a Mr. Drysdale, was only too willing to solicitously help her from the floor.

By the time Demon returned to her side at the end of the dance, as he had at the end of every dance thus far, Flick had herself well in hand. She'd lectured herself more sternly than she ever had in her life.

It was ridiculous! What on earth was she doing-thinking? Watching over him as if she was jealous. How foolish-making a cake of herself like that. Pray God he hadn't noticed, or he'd tease her unmercifully. And she'd deserve it. There was nothing between them-nothing!

She greeted him with a cool smile and immediately looked away.

His fingers found hers in her skirts-and tugged. She had to look up and meet his gaze.

It was serious, exceedingly intent. "Are you all right?"

His eyes searched hers; God alone knew what he saw. Flick dragged in a breath-and wished she could drag her gaze from his. "It was just a silly slip. I didn't fall."

A frown darkened his eyes; his lips firmed, but then he nodded and, very slowly, released her hand. "Be more careful-this is, after all, your first time at a dance."

If she'd been feeling at all normal she would have responded to that as it deserved. Instead, the lingering touch of his fingers had blown all her certainties to the wind.

Nothing? If this-the light that turned his eyes dark and smoldering, the sense of protection, of strength, she felt flowing from him, the answering hitch in her breathing, the yearning that grew stronger, day by day, for him-if this was nothing, what would something be like?

More conscious of her heartbeat, of the rise and fall of her breasts than she'd ever been in her life, she looked away.

When she whirled down the next dance, she was conscious of him watching her, aware to her toes of the blue gaze that missed nothing, not a step, not a turn. He was waiting when her partner returned her to the side of the room. As if it was only natural, she slipped into the space beside him.

His gaze swept her face, but he said nothing.

Until the music started up again.

"My dance, I believe."

His tone brooked no argument-from her potential partners, or her. She inclined her head graciously, as if she'd been expecting his claim. Perhaps she had.

For him to dance with her a second time while there were other young ladies he had not yet favored lent the action a particularity it would otherwise not have had-he was clearly singling her out. Despite her lack of social experience, she knew it-and knew beyond doubt that he did, too.

It was a simple country dance that left them partnered throughout, without interaction with other dancers; they had no need to shift their attention from each other. From the instant the music started and their fingers touched, their focus was fixed. For her part, she barely heard the music. She moved instinctively, matching his actions, responding to directing touches so light she felt them more with her senses than with her nerves.

His eyes held her. His gaze, as brilliantly blue as a summer sky, wrapped her in its warmth. And she knew-knew that he was squiring her, deliberately, intentionally. Intent as only he could be. He was wooing her-even if the idea seemed so wild and impossible that her mind could not accept it, her senses did. Her first impulse was to step back-to safety, to a point where she could look about and understand. But while she whirled and twirled, her eyes never leaving his, there was no place of safety, nowhere she could hide from the smoldering glow in his eyes-and the very last thing she wanted to do was run.

His gaze held her effortlessly, yet without compulsion; she was fascinated, and that alone was power enough to keep her whirling. The sliding brush of his ringers as their hands met and parted, the gliding caress, so delicate, as he steered her into a sweeping turn-each was planned deliberately, executed with intent. In that single dance, he wove a net about her-one invisible to the eye but very clear to her senses.

Her nerves tingled, tightened; each heartbeat heightened her awareness. Until his every touch held a temptation and a promise, echoed by their movements in the dance.

She swayed closer, looking up as he drew her nearer, and felt the temptation to surrender. To surrender to the conviction of what he was telling her, to give in and believe that he wanted her to be his wife. And would have her.

The dance moved on, and she drew away, until their fingers barely touched. And heard his promise, unspoken, that if she surrendered she'd enjoy-experience-the full pleasures of the flesh.

He was adept at sending that message, expert at making the temptation grow, and the promise shine and beckon like gold.

The music ended. And they stopped. But the temptation and the promise still shone in his eyes.

She felt like Cinderella when he raised her hand and brushed his lips gently across her fingertips.