A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  “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 watche
d 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 planni
ng 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.