A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Cynster!”

  “Indeed.” Straightening, Demon swept Remington a taunting bow. His gaze was steely, as were the undercurrents in his voice. “As you’re unable to show Miss Parteger the etchings you promised her, might I suggest you depart? Not just this room, but the house.”

  Remington snorted, but eyed him uncertainly. Which was wise—Demon would happily take him apart given the slightest provocation. “I’m sure,” he drawled, “you can see that’s the best way.” Strolling forward, he stopped beside Flick and trapped Remington’s now wary gaze. “We wouldn’t want there to be any whispers—if there were, I’d have to explain how you’d misled Miss Parteger over the existence of etchings in the Monckton House library.” Raising his brows, he mused, “Difficult to find a rich wife if you’re not invited to the balls any more.”

  Remington’s expression didn’t succeed in masking his fury. But he was a good deal shorter and slighter than Demon; swallowing his ire, he nodded, bowed curtly to Flick, then swung on his heel and stalked to the door.

  Beside Demon, grateful for his intimidating, reassuring presence, Flick frowningly watched the door close behind Remington. “Is he a fortune hunter?”

  “Yes!” With an explosive oath, Demon lifted both hands, then appeared not to know what to do with them. With another oath, he swung away, pacing. “He is! Half those about you are—some more so than others.” His blue gaze stabbed her. “What did you imagine would happen once you let it be known how much you’re worth?”

  Flick blinked. “Worth?”

  “You can’t be that innocent. Now the news is out that you come with ten thousand a year in tow, they’re all flocking around. It’s a wonder you haven’t been mown down in the rush!”

  Understanding dawned, along with her temper—she swung to face him. “How dare you!” Her voice quavered; she drew in a huge breath. “I didn’t tell anyone anything about my fortune. I haven’t spoken about it at all.”

  Demon halted; hands on hips, he looked at her. Then he scowled. “Well you needn’t look at me. I’m hardly likely to fashion a rod for my own back.” He started to pace again. “So who spread the news?” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Just tell me, so I can wring their neck.”

  Flick knew exactly how he felt. “I think it must have been my aunt. She wants me to marry well.” She wanted her to marry Demon, so her aunt had let it be known that she was an heiress. She assumed, avaricious as she was, that the news would prompt him to grab her, regardless of how wealthy he was.

  “Was that what she said to upset you at that ball?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “In a way.”

  Demon glared at her. First his mother, now her aunt.

  Elderly ladies were lining up to make his life difficult. That, however, wasn’t the cause of the black, roiling, clawing rage that filled him, fighting to get loose, spurred by the knowledge of what would have happened if he hadn’t been watching her so closely.

  “Whatever—whoever.” He bit off the words. Towering over her, his hands on his hips, he captured her gaze. “Bad enough you’re surrounded by a gaggle of fortune hunters—that doesn’t excuse your behavior tonight. You know damn well not to go anywhere alone with any man. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  Her spine stiffened; her chin rose. Her eyes flashed a warning. “You heard. I happen to like etchings.”

  “Etchings!” Jaw clenched, he only just managed not to roar. “Don’t you know what that means?”

  “Etchings are prints made from a metal plate on which someone has drawn with a needle.”

  She capped the comment by putting her pert nose in the air; Demon tightened his fingers about his hips against the urge to tighten them about her. He bent forward, lowering his face so it was closer to hers. “For your information, a gentleman offering to show a lady etchings is the equivalent of him inviting her to admire his family jewels.”

  Flick blinked. Puzzled, she searched his eyes. “So?”

  “Aargh!” He swung away. “It’s an invitation to intimacy!”

  “It is?”

  He swung back to see her lip curl.

  “How like the fashionable to corrupt a perfectly good word.”

  “Remington was looking to corrupt you.”

  “Hmm.” She looked at him, her expression stony. “But I do like etchings. Do you have any?”

  “Yes.” The answer was out before he’d thought. When she raised a brow, he grudgingly elaborated, “I have two scenes of Venice.” They hung on either side of his bed. When he invited ladies to see his etchings, he meant literally as well as figuratively.

  “I don’t suppose you’d invite me to see them?”

  “No.” Not until she agreed to marry him.

  “I thought not.”

  He blinked, and scowled at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her cryptic utterances were driving him crazy.

  “It means,” Flick enunciated, her accents as clipped as his, “that it’s become increasingly clear that you want me merely as an ornament, a suitable, acceptable wife to parade on your arm at all the family gatherings. You don’t want me powerfully at all! That doesn’t impress me—and I’ve been even less impressed by your recent behavior.”

  “Oh?”

  The single, quietly uttered syllable was a portent of danger; she ignored her reactive shiver. “You’re never there—never about! You don’t deign to waltz with me—you’ve driven me in the park precisely once!” Looking into his face, fists clenched, she let loose her pent-up frustrations.

  “You were the one who insisted on bringing me to London—if you thought this was the way to get me to marry you, you’ve seriously miscalculated!”

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked into his. “Indeed, coming to London has opened my eyes.”

  “You mean it’s shown you how many puppies and fortune hunters you can have at your beck and call.” His growl was a grating rumble she had to concentrate to hear; her reply was a sweet smile. “No,” she said, her tone that of one explaining a simple matter to a simpleton. “I don’t want puppies or fortune hunters—that wasn’t what I meant. I meant I’ve seen the light about you!”

  Eyes mere slits, he raised one brow. “Indeed?”

  “Oh, indeed!” Buoyed on an outrush of pure release, Flick gestured wildly. “Your women—ladies, I’m sure. Particularly Celeste.”

  He stiffened. “Celeste?”

  There was demand in his tone, along with a clear warning. Flick heeded the first but not the second. “You must remember her—dark hair, dark eyes. Enormous—”

  “I know who Celeste is.” The steely words cut her off. “What I want to know is what you know of her.”

  “Oh, nothing more than anyone with eyes knows.” Her own eyes, filled with fury, told him precisely how much that was. “But Celeste is by the way. At least, if we’re ever to marry, she will certainly have to be ‘by the way.’ My principal point, however, is this.”

  Halting directly in front of him, she looked into his face, and hissed, “I am not your cousin, to be watched over in this dog-in-the-manger way!”

  He opened his mouth—quick as a flash, she pointed a finger at his nose. “Don’t you dare interrupt—just listen!”

  He shut his mouth; the way his jaw set, she felt reasonably sure he wouldn’t open it again soon. She drew in a deep breath. “As you well know, I am not some eighteen-year-old innocent.” With her eyes, she dared him to contradict her; his lips thinned ominously, but he remained silent.

  “I want to talk, walk, waltz and drive—and if you wish to marry me, you’d better see it’s with you!”

  She waited, but he remained preternaturally still. A sense of being too close to something dangerous, something barely controlled, tickled her spine. Hauling in a breath, she kept her eyes steady on his, unusually dark in the weak candlelight. “And I will not be marrying you unless I’m convinced it’s the right thing for me. I will not be browbeaten, or pressured in any way.”

  Demo
n heard her words through a smothering fog of seething rage. Muscles in his shoulders flickered, twitched—his palms itched. The injustice in her words whipped him. He’d done nothing for any reason other than to protect her. His body was about to explode, held still purely by the force of his will, which was steadily eroding.

  She’d paused, searching his face; now she drew herself up and coolly stated, “I will not be managed by you.”

  Their gazes locked; for one long moment, absolute silence held sway. Neither moved—they barely breathed. The conflagration within him swelled; he locked his jaw, and endured.

  “I refuse—”

  He reached out and pulled her into his arms, cutting the statement off with his lips, drawing whatever repudiation she’d thought to make from her mouth, then he plundered, searched, took all she had and demanded, commanded, more.

  He drew her against him, hard against the unforgiving rock his body had become. His mind was a seething cauldron of emotions—rage colliding hotly with passion and other, more elemental needs. He was coming apart—a volcano slowly cracking, outer walls crumbling, blown asunder by a force too long compressed. Only dimly did he recall that he’d wanted to shut her up, wanted to punish her—that wasn’t what he wanted now.

  Now, he simply wanted.

  With a desire so primitive, so primally powerful he literally shook. For one instant, he stood on the cusp, quivering, the last shreds of restraint sliding through his grasp—in that moment of blinding clarity he saw, understood, that he’d asked too much of himself, too much of who he really was. Remington had provided the last straw, piling it on top of more amorphous fears—such as what he would do if she fell in love with someone else. How he would cope if she did.

  He’d assumed he could control the thing that was inside him—the emotion she and only she evoked. In that quivering, evanescent instant, he knew he’d assumed wrong.

  With the last shreds of his will, he forced his arms to ease just enough to give her leeway to pull away, to escape. Even in extremis, he didn’t want to hurt her. If she struggled, or even remained passive, he could fight, hold back, endure, and eventually releash his demons.

  She grabbed the chance and pulled her arms from between them; something inside him howled. He braced himself for her shove on his chest—whipped himself to let her go—

  Her hands caught his face, framed it. Her lips firmed, then angled under his; her fingers slid into his hair.

  She kissed him hungrily. Voraciously. As powerfully demanding as he.

  His head spun. Desire exploded. He was lost.

  So was she—no angel, now, but a woman wild, demonically demanding, flagrantly inciting—

  Madness.

  It caught them up—set them free.

  Flick gloried in the rush, gloried in the sense of being impossibly alive. Gloried in the hard body against hers, the chest like rock against her aching breasts, the thighs like pillars trapping hers. His lips bruised hers and she exulted; his hard hands held her brutally close, lifting her, rocking her—she only wanted to be closer.

  She wanted him more than she wanted to breathe. Flinging her arms about his shoulders, she levered herself up in his punishing embrace, then held tight so their faces were closer, nearly level. His hands wrapped over her bottom, he held her high against him; she could feel the hard ridge of him grinding against her mound.

  She wanted him inside her. Here. Now. Immediately. His tongue plundered remorselessly, his lips more ruthlessly demanding than ever before—she had no breath to tell him. Her skirts were just wide enough for her to grip his hips with her thighs; she did, then moved against him.

  His breathing hitched; muscles tensed, then quivered. Beneath her hands, he felt like tensile steel, coiled, compressed, ready to let fly.

  She moved again. He caught his breath and resumed his heated ravishing of her mouth. But his hands on her bottom shifted; supporting her with one hand, he reached down, caught the hem of her gown, and flicked, sliding first one hand under, then, palm to her bare bottom, changing hands and slipping the other, too, under her silk skirts.

  Her fine chemise was short—no impediment. His hands were beneath it from the start. Hauling in a breath, she gripped tighter with her thighs, locked her arms about his neck, and flagrantly wriggled in his hands.

  He got the message—his hands drifted, his touch driven, demanding, over the backs of her splayed thighs, over the globes of her bare bottom, then, holding her high with one hand, he slid the other down and around, hard fingers exploring the soft, slick folds between her thighs.

  He found her entrance—one finger slid deep. She gasped and arched lightly. The finger left her—a second later, two returned, pressing deep, drawing back, then stabbing once, twice, hard and deep.

  She couldn’t catch her breath—heat raged beneath her skin. Her body quivered, ready to fly apart. But that wasn’t what she wanted.

  Locking one arm about his neck, she slid her other hand between them—down to where his engorged flesh throbbed, rampant and hard as iron. She closed her fingers greedily, sliding them down as far as she could—

  He groaned. And shuddered. “God—!”

  Voices reached them. Footsteps steadily approached the library. Panting, senses screaming, Flick turned her head and stared at the door. The unlocked door.

  Like the procession of thoughts said to presage death, Demon saw in his mind’s eye Remington closing the door behind him. Saw the image he and Flick would present to those nearing the library. They were both beyond dishevelled, barely able to breathe; Flick’s arms would never release in time—nor would his.

  Three giant strides had them at the French doors; with two more, he got them out of sight.

  The library door opened.

  Swinging Flick against the wall, he pressed her into the soft creeper—the scent of jasmine wafted about them. Chest heaving, he leaned into her, pinning her there, physically wracked by the effort of exerting his will. His entire body had been focused on doing only one thing—burying himself inside her.

  Voices from inside reached them clearly; he couldn’t separate the sounds through the drumming in his ears.

  He tried to think, but couldn’t. Flexing every mental muscle, he tried to pull back from the soft body his rock-hard limbs were holding fast against the creeper-covered stone. And failed. Just thinking about that soft body had hurled him back into the volcano of his need.

  Molten desire rose, battered at his senses, broke and consumed his will.

  His breathing harsh in the moonlit night, he slowly lifted his head, raised his lids and looked into her face. He expected to see shock, fright—even fear—surely he had to be scaring her? Even fear of discovery—a real possibility—would do; anything to help him hold back from doing what he would do.

  Instead, he saw a face sultry with desire, heavy-lidded eyes fixed hungrily on his lips. Saw her swollen lips part, her tongue briefly lick the lower. She felt his gaze and looked up—her eyes searched his briefly, then her chin firmed. “Now.”

  The demand reached him on a determined whisper. Her lips curved—he could have sworn in ruthless triumph. Then he felt her hand, still trapped between them.

  She closed it, slid her fingers down, then up—he closed his eyes and shuddered. Her wicked chuckle was a warm breath against his lips as she trailed her fingers higher—to his waistband. She’d worn male attire herself; in seconds, she’d slipped the buttons and had him free. He leapt in her palm, iron hard, ready to explode.

  With a gasping groan he only just suppressed, he reached between them, caught her hand and hauled it up, leaning even harder into her, teeth gritted against the sensation of her silk skirts sliding over his sensitized flesh.

  He met her eyes, mere inches from his. If he could have glared, he would have. But his features were set, graven—impossible to shift—hers looked the same way. Driven, muscles locked and quivering, he teetered on the brink—

  She met his hard gaze directly, challengingly. “Do it!” she
hissed against his lips. Then kissed him ravenously.

  The conversation inside the library droned on; mere yards away, in the moonlight on the terrace, hot and frenzied needs held sway. A bare second was all it took for him to lift her skirts, to smooth them up, out of the way. His staff slid seeking between her thighs; she gripped him hard and pulled him to her.

  He found her entrance and plunged—drove into her heat—straight into a vortex of shattering need.

  His—and hers.

  The combination was too powerful for either of them to control; it buffeted them, battered them, drove them. Their bodies bucked and strained, desperate for release, locked in a battle with no foe.

  Lips frantically locked to stifle the sounds that clawed their throats, they took all they could, grabbed and held on, clutched for each precious moment—there, against the wall in the moonlight.

  The sounds from the library washed over them, gentle, soothing, heightening their awareness.

  Of the heated slickness where they joined, of skin too hot to touch, of the raging tide in their blood—of the driven fusing of their bodies.

  Crushed blossoms released perfume in a cloud about them—an evocative scent as deeply illicit, deeply intimate as their mating. Gasping, Flick dragged the scent deep. Demon’s hips flexed again, ruthlessly driving into her. His lips cut off her glad cry as he plunged. Again and again he filled her—a sword slamming into its sheath. She gripped him lovingly and gloried in the power—the power that drove them both.

  The ride was wild—wilder than she’d imagined anything could be. She clung tight, drunk on that power, delirious with speed, drugged with pleasure. Then the peak was before them—they rode faster, gripped by compulsive urgency.

  And then they were there—the mountain exploded, erupted, melting them in its massive heat.

  No! Don’t leave me! Flick silently begged, clinging tightly for one heartbeat, then, accepting that he would have to, she sighed and relaxed her hold.

  He withdrew from her; she closed her eyes against the sudden emptiness. Cool air slid between them, chilling her flushed skin. She gripped his shoulder as he shifted, sliding her down, carefully guiding her back to earth.