A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 9

When the next dance commenced, Demon was, courtesy of Mrs. Pemberton, at the opposite end of the room from Flick. Within seconds of their leaving the floor, the vicar's wife had descended on them; with irresistible energy, she'd insisted on taking Demon to introduce him to others of the company.

Her "others" were the collected matrons of the district; Demon was amused to realize their fell purpose in speaking with him was to subtlely encourage his pursuit of Flick.

"She's such a pretty little thing, and quite assured," Mrs. Wallace, of the Hadfield-Wallaces of Dullingham, nodded sagely. "As experienced as you are, you'll have noticed-she's not just in the common way."

Demon smiled, content to let them convince him of the lightness of his cause. He didn't need convincing, but it wouldn't hurt his campaign to have the matrons' support.

Because of his height, he could track Flick's crowning glory. As the ladies' comments continued, he started to chafe at the bit. He understood very well the reasons behind their reactions-those reasons were gathered about Flick like swarming bees about a honeypot.

Their sons looked set to make cakes of themselves over her-their fond mamas could read the script with ease. It was, therefore, in their best interests to have Demon waltz Flick off her feet, out of reach of their moonfaced sons, so said sons could recover quickly and apply themselves to the real business of the upcoming Season-finding themselves suitable wives.

Flick, of course, was highly suitable, but the ladies had accepted that their sons were not in the running, just as they'd accepted that their daughters had no chance of catching Demon's eye. It was therefore best on all counts to get him and Flick quickly paired and out of contention, before they caused any major disruptions to the good ladies' matrimonial plans.

Such was their strategy. As their plans marched so well with his, Demon was perfectly ready to reassure them as to his intentions. "Her knowledge of horses is extensive." He made the comment offhandedly, yet appreciatively. "And, of course, she is the General's ward."

"Indeed," Mrs. Wallace nodded approvingly. "So very appropriate."

"A happy circumstance," Mrs. Pemberton concurred.

With an elegant bow, quite sure they all understood each other well, Demon left them. He ambled down the side of the room, scanning the dancers. He couldn't see Flick.

Halting, he searched more carefully-she wasn't there.

He located the General, chatting with a group of older gentlemen-Flick wasn't with him.

Swallowing a curse directed at milksops who couldn't be trusted to keep a quick-witted girl in line, Demon strolled as swiftly as he could to where he'd last seen her, at the far end of the room. He reached the corner, wondering what had got into her head. Surely her disappearance didn't have anything to do with Bletchley and the syndicate?

The idea that she might have been identified, followed, and lured away chilled him. He shook the thought aside-that was fanciful, unlikely. The main door stood beyond the matrons; he was sure she hadn't gone that way. But the only other doors led deeper into the house.

Where the hell had she gone?

He was searching the throng again when a flicker at the edge of his vision had him turning. The lace curtain over the long window in the corner drifted in a light breeze. The narrow casement was partly open; it extended from head height to a foot above the floor. He couldn't fit through it. Flick, however, was smaller than he.

It took him five minutes to return back up the room, smiling and nodding and avoiding invitations to chat. Regaining the front hall, he slipped out the front door and headed around the side of the vicarage.

The garden beyond the drawing room's corner window was empty. The moon was full; steady silver light illuminated a flagged path and burgeoning flowerbeds edging a neat lawn. Frowning, Demon scanned the shadows, but there were no nooks, no benches set under overhanging boughs-no angel in pale blue communing with the night.

The garden was sunk in silence, the drifting strains of the violins a superficial tune causing barely a ripple in the deep of the night. A lick of fear touched his spine, flicked toward his heart. He was about to turn and retrace his steps, to check she hadn't returned to the drawing room before he panicked, when his gaze fell on the hedge lining one side of the lawn.

A path ran beside it, between the lawn and the deep green wall. The hedge was high; he couldn't see over it. Silently, he prowled the wall, searching, wondering if he was wrong in remembering a small courtyard…

The opening lay in shadow, just a simple gap in the hedge. He stepped into the gap. And saw her.

The courtyard was a flagged square with a raised central bed in which stood an old magnolia, draping its branches over a small pond. Flick paced slowly back and forth before it, the moonlight washing the blue from her gown, leaving it an unearthly silver.

Demon watched her, transfixed by the sway of her hips, the artless grace with which she turned. Until that instant, he hadn't realized how tightly unnamed fears had seized him; he recognized the tension only as it eased, as relief replaced it.

She felt his gaze and looked up, halting, stiffening-then relaxing as she recognized him. She said nothing, but raised a brow.

"In that gown, in the moonlight, you look like a silver sprite." Come to steal this mortal's heart. His voice was gravelly, revealingly deep.

If she noticed, she gave no sign; instead, she looked down at her gown, holding out the skirts to inspect them. "It is a very pale blue. I rather like it."

He liked it, too-it was the same pale, pure blue as her eyes. The gown was well worth the price he'd paid. Of course, she'd never know he'd offset the gown's cost. Clotilde was an excellent dressmaker; he made a mental note to send some extra token of appreciation her way.

He hesitated… but they were here, alone in the moonlight, the violins a distant whisper in the dark. Unhurriedly, he strolled forward, his gaze, intent, on her.

Flick watched him approach, large, elegant-dangerous. The moon silvered his hair, rendering his face harsh in its stark light. The angular planes seemed harder, like pale stone; his eyes were deeply shadowed beneath their heavy lids.

How his presence could be reassuring and unnerving simultaneously she didn't know. Her nerves were tightening, her senses stretching… The yearning she'd felt as they'd danced returned with a rush.

She'd come here to be quiet, to breathe the cool air, to let it soothe her overheated brain, her flushed skin. She'd come here to ponder. Him. Part of her wondered if she'd read him aright. The rest of her knew she had. But she still couldn't bring herself to believe it.

It was like a fairy tale.

Now he was here… Her nerves skittered even before she formed the thought. Abruptly, she recalled she was annoyed with him. Folding her arms, she tilted her chin; as he drew near, she narrowed her eyes at him. "You conspired with Mrs. Pemberton-Foggy told me she sent her message to the General via you."

He halted before her. "Mrs. Pemberton conjured a vision of you moldering into an old maid-that didn't seem a good idea."

His deep drawl slid over, then under, her skin, effortlessly vanquishing her annoyance. Refusing to shiver, she humphed. "I can't see how an evening like this is going to change things." She gestured toward the house. "I'm certainly not going to find a husband in there."

"No?"

"You saw them. They're so young!"

"Ah-them."

His voice deepened; she sensed that net of fascination flow about her again. His lips curved, lifting just a little at the ends, drawing her mentally closer, nearer. "No," he said, the word a deep rumble. "I agree-you definitely shouldn't marry any of them."

The ensuing pause stretched, then his lids rose and he met her gaze. "There is, however, an alternative."

He said no more, but his meaning was clear, written in the planes of his face, in his eyes. He watched her, his gaze steady; the night held them in soft darkness, alive and yet so silent that she could feel her own pulse filling the air.

Then came the music.

Haunting strains drifted over the lawns, flowed over the hedges. The opening bars of a waltz reached them-he angled his head slightly, then, his gaze never leaving her face, he held out his hands.

"Come-waltz with me."

The net drew tight-she felt its shimmering touch as it settled about her. But he didn't tug; it was her choice to step forward, to accept, if she would.

Flick wondered if she dared. Her senses reached for him-she knew how it felt to be held against his warm chest, how it felt to have his arms close about her, how her hips would settle against his hard thighs. But…

"I don't know how."

Her voice was surprisingly even; his lips curved a fraction more.

"I'll teach you"-a hint of wickedness invested his smile-"all you need to know."

She managed not to shiver. She knew very well they weren't talking of a mere waltz-that wasn't the invitation etched in his eyes, the challenge in his stance. Those hands, those arms, that body-she knew what he was offering. And, deep inside, she knew she could never walk away-not without trying, touching. Knowing.

She stepped forward, lifting her arms, tilting her face to his. He drew her to him, one arm sliding possessively about her, the other grasping her right hand. He drew her close, until they touched, until the silk of her bodice brushed his coat. His smile deepened. "Relax, and let your feet follow where they will."

He stepped back, then aside; before she knew it, she was whirling. At first, he took small steps, until she caught the rhythm, then they whirled, swooped, swung, trapped in the music, swept up in the effortless energy of the dance.

Then the mood of the music changed, slowed; they slowed, too. He drew her fractionally closer-she leaned her temple against his chest. "Isn't there some rule that I'm not supposed to waltz before someone or other approves?"

"That only applies in town at a formal ball. Young ladies have to learn to waltz somewhere, or no gentleman would ever stand up with them."

She suppressed a sniff-she hadn't stepped on his toes once. They were revolving slowly, the music soft and low.

It was she who stepped closer, fascinated by the slide of silk between their bodies. And by the heat of him.

He didn't step back. His fingers locked about hers, he laid her hand in the hollow of his shoulder. His arm tightened about her, his hand splaying below her waist, locking her to him so that they moved in truth as one.

His hand burned; so did his thighs as they pressed between hers as he steered her through a shallow turn. Her breasts firm against his coat, she laid her cheek against his chest, and listened to his heart.

Eventually, with a minor flourish they ignored, the music died. Their feet slowed, then halted; for one long instant, they simply stood.

Then she lifted her head and looked into his face. His temptation, his promise, were all around her, a shimmering veil, a glow suffusing her skin. She knew she wasn't imagining it; she didn't know enough to imagine this. She knew what was there, what it was, what might be.

She didn't know why.

So she simply asked, her eyes on his, deeply shadowed by his lids, "Why are you doing this?"

He searched her eyes, then raised one brow. "I would have thought that was obvious." After a moment, he stated, "I'm wooing you-courting you-call it what you will."

"Why?"

"Why else? Because I want you to be my wife."

"Why?"

He hesitated, then his hand left hers. His fingers slid beneath her chin, tipping her face up. His lips closed over hers.

It started as a gentle caress. That satisfied neither of them. Whether it was she or he who deepened the kiss was impossible to say-his lips were suddenly harder, firmer, more demanding; hers were correspondingly softer, more beguiling, more inviting.

Greatly daring, she parted her lips, just a little, then more, thrilled to her toes when he took instant advantage. Angling his head, he tasted her, then, like a conqueror, simply took more.

She shivered, and gave, and welcomed him in; his arms tightened about her, impressing her soft flesh with the hardness of his. She sighed, and felt him drink-her breath was his and his was hers; her head reeled as the kiss went on.

Again, it was she who took the next step, who, in all innocence, stretched her arms up, slid her hands to his nape and sank against him. She felt a rumble in his chest-a groan that never made it to his lips.

Their kiss turned ravenous.

Hot. Hungry.

His lips seared hers; his hunger whipped, and licked, and tempted. She sensed it clearly-there-beneath the smooth control, the elegant facade. Ever bold, she reached for it.

He froze.

The next instant, she was standing, unsteadily, on her feet, the air cool between them. Her breasts ached oddly; all her skin felt hot. She blinked, and focused on him-he was breathing every bit as raggedly as she. He was just recovering faster-her wits were still whirling.

His hands fell from her; it was impossible to read his eyes. "We should get back."

Before she had time to consider, long before she could gather her wits and think, they were back in the drawing room. They mingled with the other guests while she struggled to find her mental feet. Beside her, he was his usual elegant self, cool and disgustingly controlled, while her lips were tingling, her breathing still too shallow. And she ached, bone-deep, with a sense of having been denied.

The next morning, a stack of books under her arm, Flick stepped out of the side door, looking down as she tugged on her gloves-and ran into a brick wall.

"Ooof!" All the breath was knocked out of her. Luckily, the wall was covered in resilient muscle, and had arms that locked around her, preventing her and her books from tumbling to the ground.

She dragged in a breath, her breasts swelling against Demon's soft jacket, then she blew aside the curls that had tumbled into her eyes. The exhalation ruffled the blonde locks about his ear.

He stiffened. All over.

Rigid, he awkwardly unlocked his arms, grasped her upper arms, and set her back from him.

She blinked at him. He scowled at her.

"Where are you going?"

His tone, that of one having the right to know, was guaranteed to make her bridle; putting her nose in the air, she stepped around him. "To the lending library."

He smothered a curse, spun on his heel and followed. "I'll take you in my curricle."

Not so much as a by-your-leave! Let alone a "Good morning, my dear, and how are you?" So much for last night! Entirely unimpressed, Flick kept her gaze fixed stubbornly ahead, ruthlessly denying the impulse to glance at him as he ranged alongside. "I'm perfectly capable of returning and selecting my novels myself, thank you."

"I dare say."

His tone was as stubborn as hers.

She opened her mouth to argue-and caught sight of the pair of blacks harnessed to his curricle. Her face softened, her eyes lit. "Oh-what beauties!" Her tone was reverent, a fitting tribute to the surely matchless horses impatiently pawing the gravel. "Are they new?"

"Yes." Demon strolled in her wake as she circled the pair, exclaiming over their points. When she paused for breath, he nonchalantly added, "I thought I'd take them for a short outing, just to get them used to town traffic."

Eyes still round, fixed on the blacks' sleek hides, she wasn't paying attention; seizing the moment, he took her hand and helped her into the curricle.

"They hold their heads so well." She settled on the seat. "What's their action like?"

Barely pausing for his answer, she rattled on knowledgeably; by the time she'd run through all her questions and exclamations they were rolling down the drive. Demon kept his gaze on his horses, waiting for her to suddenly realize and berate him for taking advantage. Instead, she set her books on the seat between them and leaned back with a soft sigh.

As the peace unexpectedly lengthened, he shot her a glance; she was sitting easily, one hand braced on the side railing, her gaze fixed, not on the blacks, but on his hands.

She was watching him handle the ribbons, watching his fingers flick and slide along the leather strips. There was an eager light in her eyes, a wistful expression on her face.

He faced forward; a moment later, he clenched his jaw.

Never in his entire career had he let a female drive his cattle.

The blacks, although new, were well broken; thus far, they'd proved well behaved. And he would be sitting beside her.

If he did it once, she'd expect him to do it again.

When riding, she had a more delicate touch on the reins than even he.

Turning out of the manor drive, he set the curricle bowling down the road to Newmarket, but he didn't slacken the reins. Instead, drawing in a breath, he turned to Flick. "Would you like to take the reins for a stretch?"

The look on her face was payment enough for his abused sensibilities-stunned surprise gave way to eager joy, swiftly tempered.

"But…" She looked at him, hope warring with imminent disappointment. "I've never driven a pair before."

He forced himself to shrug lightly. "It's not that different from a single horse. Here-shift those books and come closer." She did, eagerly sliding along the seat until her thigh brushed his. Ignoring the heat that shot straight to his loins, he transferred the reins to her small hands, keeping his fingers tensioning the leather until he was sure she had them.

"No." Expertly, he relaid the reins across her left palm. "Like that, so you've got simultaneous control over them both with just one hand."

She nodded, looking so excited that he wondered if she could speak at all. Sitting back, one arm along the seat behind her, ready to grab her if anything did go wrong, he watched her, his gaze flicking ahead now and again to check the road. But he knew it well, and so did she.

She had a little difficulty checking the pair for a curve; he gritted his teeth and managed not to reach out and lay his hand over hers. Thereafter, however, she adjusted; gradually, as the fields rolled past, they both relaxed.

There was, he discovered, one benefit in being driven by a lady-one he trusted not to land them in a ditch. He could keep his gaze wholly on her-on her face, on her figure, in this case, neat and trim in cambric. Her hair, those lovely golden curls, was constantly ruffling in the wind of their passage, a living frame for her delicate face.

A face flushed with pleasure, with an excitement he understood. She was thrilled and delighted. He felt decidedly smug.

She cast him a dubious glance as the first stables by the racecourse came into sight. From there on, there would be other horses, people, even dogs about-all things to which the blacks might take exception. Demon nodded; sitting up, he expertly lifted the reins from her hands. He readjusted the reins, letting the blacks know he had them again.

Flick sat back with an ecstatic sigh. She had always-forever-wanted to drive a curricle. And Demon's blacks! They were the most perfect young pair she'd ever seen. Not as powerful as his champion bays, but so very elegant, with their slim legs and long, sleekly arched necks.

And she'd driven them! She could hardly wait to tell the General. And Dillon-he would be green with envy. She sighed again; with a contented smile, she looked around.

Only then did she remember their earlier words-only then did she realize she'd been kidnapped. Lured away. Enticed into a gentleman's curricle with tempting promises and whisked into town.

She slanted a glance at her abductor. He was looking ahead, his expression easy but uninformative. There was nothing to say he'd planned this-that he'd purposely had the blacks put to that morning just so he could distract her.

She wouldn't mind betting he had.

Unfortunately, after enjoying herself so thoroughly, it would be churlish indeed to cavil. So she sat back and enjoyed herself some more, watching as he deftly tacked through the increasing traffic to pull up before the lending library, just off the High Street halfway through the town.

As was usual, the sight of a magnificent pair had drawn a gaggle of boys in their wake. After handing her to the pavement, Demon selected two and, with strict instructions, left the blacks in their care.

That surprised Flick, but she was too wise to show it; carrying her books, she headed for the library door. Demon followed on her heels; he reached over her shoulder and pushed the door wide.

She walked through into familiar surroundings-the wide front bay where two old gentlemen sat, dozing over their history books, the narrow aisles leading away toward the back of what had once been a hall, each aisle lined on both sides with bookshelves crammed to overflowing.

"Hello, Mrs. Higgins," Flick whispered to the large, homely woman who presided over her domain from behind a table near the entrance. "I'm returning these."

"Good, good." Perching her pince-nez on her nose, Mrs. Higgins peered down at the titles. "Ah, yes, and did the General enjoy the Major's biography?"

"He did indeed. He asked me to see if there were any more like it."

"You'll find all we have in the second aisle, dear-about midway down…" Mrs. Higgins's words trailed away. Looking past Flick, she slowly raised her hand and removed her pince-nez, the better to take in who had strayed into her castle.

"Mr. Cynster's escorting me," Flick explained. Facing Demon, she gestured to the chairs in the front bay. "Would you like to wait there?"

He glanced at the two old gents, then looked back at her, his expression utterly blank. "I'll follow you."

He proceeded to do so, strolling directly behind her as she wandered down the aisles.

Flick tried to ignore him and concentrate on the books, but novels and literary heroes could not compete with the masculine presence prowling in her wake. The more she tried to shut him out, the more he intruded on her mind, on her senses. Which was the very last thing she needed.

She was confused enough about him as it was.

After spending the hours until dawn reliving their second dance, reliving that amazing waltz, and replaying everything they'd said in the moonlight, over her breakfast toast she'd made a firm resolution to put the entire matter from her-and wait and see.

Wait for him to make the next move-and see if it made any more sense than his last.

She had a very strong notion she was misinterpreting, through lack of experience, reading more into his words, his actions, than he intended. He was accustomed to dallying with sophisticated ladies of the ton. Doubtless, that matter of their second dance, and the waltz, and his warm words in the moonlight-and, of course, that kiss-were all simply tonnish dalliance, the way ladies and gentlemen of his ilk entertained themselves of an evening. A form of sophisticated teasing. The more she thought of it, the more that seemed likely.

In which case, the last thing she should do was place any great emphasis on any of it.

Determinedly, she halted before the bookshelf housing her favorite novels-those of Miss Austen and Mrs. Radcliffe. Ignoring the disapproving humph from behind her, she stubbornly scanned the shelves.

Demon propped one shoulder against a bookshelf, slid his hands into his pockets, and watched her with a distinctly jaundiced eye. If she wanted romance, why the hell was she looking at books?

The fact she was didn't auger well for his plans. He watched as she pulled books out and studied them, returning some, retaining others-and wondered if there was any way he could step up his campaign. Unfortunately, she was young and innocent-and strong-willed and stubborn.

Which meant that if he pushed too hard, drove too fast, she might turn skittish and difficult.

Which would slow things down all the more. He'd gentled enough high-couraged horses to know the value of patience. And, of course, this time, there was no question of him not succeeding-he intended to get his ring on her finger no matter how long it took.

This time, he refused to entertain any possibility of defeat. Last time, when he'd turned up at the manor, ready to offer himself up on a sacrificial matrimonial altar, he hadn't known what he was about. He hadn't stopped to think-he'd reacted instinctively to the situation about him. Discovering that Flick had made everything right so there was no need for them to marry had brought him up short. He'd been stunned, but not with joy. He had, in fact, been distinctly unamused, and even less amused by that fact.

That had certainly made him think. He'd spent the next twenty-four hours doing precisely that, doggedly separating his real desires from the disguise of convenience he'd wrapped them in, only to discover that, as usual, his instincts hadn't misled him.

He wanted to marry the chit-never mind why-and having her compromised so innocently had been a convenient, if not perfect, avenue by which to stake his claim. His wish to marry her was not at all innocent-his thoughts, even then, had been colored by desire. His disappointment had been so acute that he'd actually felt hurt, which had annoyed him all the more.

No woman had ever made him feel this uncertain, had made him ache with desire with no surety of relief.

His sudden susceptibility-his need for an angel-was something he wanted dealt with quickly. Once he had her safely wedded and bedded, he was sure he'd feel better-back to his usual, assured, self-reliant, self-confident self.

Which was why he proposed to dog her every step until she agreed to marry him. He could only pray it wouldn't take too long.

With three books in her arms, she finally quit that bookshelf and strolled farther down the aisle. Pushing away from his resting place, Demon ambled after her. She paused to select a cookbook; he glanced at the title as she lifted it down. Italian Renaissance Recipes.

"Are you planning to entertain an Italian count?"

She glanced at him. "It's for Foggy-she loves reading recipes." The book was large and heavy; she juggled it, trying to settle it in her arms.

"Here." He reached for the book.

"Oh-thank you." With a grateful smile, she handed him the cookbook and her three novels.

Lips setting, Demon accepted them all, reminding himself that none of his acquaintances, not even Reggie, were likely to come in and discover him wandering the aisles at an angel's beck and call, loaded with cookbooks and romantic novels.

Flick's next stop was the biographies. "The General likes reading about gentlemen connected with horses. The last book I got for him was about a cavalry major." Frowning, she studied the shelves. "Do you know of any work he might find interesting?"

Demon glanced at the leather and gilt spines. "I don't read much."

"Oh?" Brows rising, she looked up. "What do you do of a quiet evening?"

He trapped her wide gaze. "Active endeavors are more to my taste."

A puzzled frown formed in her eyes. "You must relax sometime."

Lips curving, he let his gaze grow intent, let his voice deepen. "The endeavors I favor are guaranteed to relax."

A faint blush tinged her cheeks; she held his gaze for an instant, then raised a haughty brow and looked away.

Inwardly grinning, Demon looked back at the books. At least she no longer viewed him as a benevolent uncle. "What about this one?" Reaching over her head, he tugged a volume free.

"Colonel J.E. Winsome: Memoirs of a Commander of Horse," Flick read as he put the book in her hands. She opened it and quickly perused the description at the front. "Oh, yes! This is perfect. It's about the cavalry in the Peninsula War."

"Excellent." Demon straightened. "Can we go now?"

To his relief, Flick nodded. "Yes, that's it."

She led the way to the front of the hall.

Mrs. Higgins pursed her lips in silent disapproval as Demon set the books on her desk. Flick appeared not to notice; she chatted blithely as Mrs. Higgins wrote her selections on a card. Stepping back, Demon cast a last glance around-he wouldn't be paying a second visit if he could help it.

One of the old gentlemen in the overstuffed armchairs had woken; he sent a suspicious look his way, frowning direfully from under shaggy brows.

Turning back to Flick, Demon relieved her of the pile of books she'd just settled in her arms. "Come-I'll drive you home."

Flick smiled, bid Mrs. Higgins good-bye, and preceded him to the door; Demon followed, his gaze on her hips, his mind busy with plans to cure her of all future need for fictional romantic stimulation.