A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Guilford Street. As fast as you can.” Demon pulled the door shut and sat back.

  The jarvey took him at his word; neither Demon nor Flick spoke as they rattled through the streets and swung around corners. On reaching Guilford Street, Demon told the jarvey to head for Berkeley Square, following the directions he relayed from Flick. Sitting forward, she scanned the streets, unerringly picking out their way.

  “It was just a little farther—there!” She pointed to the little tavern on the corner. “He was there, standing by that barrel.” Bletchley wasn’t, unfortunately, there now.

  “Sit back.” Demon tugged her back from the window, then ordered the jarvey to draw up after the next corner. As the coach rocked to a halt, Gillies swung down and came to the door. With his head, Demon indicated the tavern. “See what you can learn.”

  Gillies nodded. Hands in his pockets, he sauntered off, whistling tunelessly.

  Sinking back against the leather seat, Flick stared into the night. Then she looked down and played with her fingers. Two minutes later, she drew in a deep breath and lifted her head. “The countess is very beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “No.”

  Startled, she looked at Demon. “Don’t be ridiculous! The woman’s gorgeous.”

  Turning his head, he met her gaze. “Not to me.”

  Their eyes locked, silence stretched, then he looked down. Lifting one hand, he reached out, tugged one of hers from her lap, and wrapped his long fingers about it. “She—and all the others—they came before you. They no longer matter—they have no meaning.” He slid his fingers between hers, then locked their palms together.

  “My taste,” he continued, his tone even and low as he rested their locked hands on his thigh, “has changed in recent times—since last I visited Newmarket, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed.” There was the ghost of a smile in his voice. “These days, I find gold curls much more attractive than dark locks.” Again, he met her eyes, then his gaze drifted over her face. “And features that might have been drawn by Botticelli more beautiful than the merely classical.”

  Something powerful stirred in the dark between them—Flick felt it. Her heart hitched, then started to canter. Her lips, as his gaze settled on them, started to throb.

  “I’ve discovered that I much prefer the taste of sweet innocence, rather than more exotic offerings.”

  His voice had deepened to a gravelly rumble that slid, subtly rough, over her flickering nerves.

  His chest swelled as he drew breath. His gaze lowered. “And I now find slender limbs and firm, svelte curves much more fascinating—more arousing—than flagrantly abundant charms.”

  Flick felt his gaze, hot as the sun, sweep her, then it swung up again. He searched her eyes, then lifted his other hand, shoulders shifting as he reached for her face. Fingers closing about her chin, his gaze locked with hers, he held her steady, and slowly, very slowly, leaned closer.

  “Unfortunately”—he breathed the word against her yearning lips—“there’s only one woman who meets my exacting requirements.”

  She deserted the sight of his long, lean lips—lifting her lids, she looked into his eyes. “Only one?”

  She could barely get the words out.

  He held her gaze steadily. “One.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then his lids fell as he leaned the last inch nearer. “Only one.”

  Their lips touched, brushed, molded—

  Gillies’s tuneless whistle rapidly neared.

  Smothering a curse, Demon let her go and sat back.

  Flick nearly cursed, too. Flushed, breathless—absolutely ravenous—she struggled to steady her breathing.

  Gillies appeared at the door. “It was Bletchley, right enough. He’s somebody’s groom, but no one there knows who his master is. He’s not a regular. The place is the local haunt for the coachmen waiting for their gentlemen to finish at the—” Gillies stopped; his features blanked.

  Demon frowned. He leaned forward, looked out at the street, then sank back. “Houses?” he suggested.

  Gillies nodded. “Aye—that’s it.”

  Flick glanced along the row of well-tended terrace houses. “Maybe we could learn which houses had guests tonight, then ask who the guests were?”

  “I don’t think that’s a viable option.” Demon jerked his head; Gillies leapt at the chance to scramble up top. “On to Berkeley Square.”

  The carriage lurched forward. Demon sat back and pretended not to notice Flick’s scowl.

  “I can’t see why we couldn’t ask at the houses—what harm could there be?” She sat back, folding her arms. “They’re perfectly ordinary residences—there must be some way we can inquire.”

  “I’ll put some people onto it tomorrow,” Demon lied. Better a lie than have her decide to investigate herself. That particular row of ordinary residences hosted a number of high-class brothels, none of which would welcome inquiries as to the identity of their evening’s guests. “I’ll see Montague first thing tomorrow, and swing all our people into the fashionable areas.” Inwardly, Demon nodded. Things were starting to make sense.

  Flick merely humphed.

  Demon had the hackney drop them off just around the corner from Berkeley Square, then take Gillies on to Albemarle Street. He checked the Square, but it was late—there was no one about to see him bring Flick the lad home. He only hoped he could sneak her past Highthorpe.

  “Come on.” He strolled along the pavement; Flick strolled beside him.

  As they climbed the steps to his parents’ door, he glanced down at her. “Go straight up the stairs as silently as you can—I’ll distract Highthorpe.” He gripped the doorknob and turned it—“Damn!” He turned the knob fully and pushed. Nothing happened. He swore. “My father must have come home early. The bolts are set.”

  Flick stared at the door. “How will I get in?”

  Demon sighed. “Through the back parlor.” He glanced around, then took her hand. “Come on—I’ll show you.”

  Striding back down the steps, he led her down the narrow gap between his parents’ house and the next, into a lane running along the backs of the mansions. A stone wall, more than seven feet tall, lined the lane.

  He tried the gate in the wall; it, too, was locked.

  Flick eyed the wall and groaned. “Not again.”

  “ ’Fraid so. Here.” Demon linked his hands. Grumbling, Flick placed her boot in them—he threw her up. As in Newmarket, he had to slap his hand under her bottom and heave her over—she grumbled even more.

  Demon caught the top of the wall, hauled himself up, then dropped down to join Flick in the bushes below. Grabbing her hand, he led her through the rhododendrons, across the shadowed lawn, and onto the back terrace. He signalled her to silence, then, using a small knife, he set to work on the French doors of the back parlor. In less than a minute, the lock clicked and the doors swung open.

  “There you are.” Pocketing the knife, he gestured Flick in. Hesitantly, she crossed the threshold. He stepped in behind her to get off the open terrace—

  She clutched his sleeve. “It all looks so different in the dark,” she whispered. “I’ve never been in this room—your mother doesn’t sit here.” Her fingers tightened; she looked up at him. “How do I get to my room?”

  Demon stared at her. He wanted to see her alone—to talk to her privately—but a more formal setting in daylight was imperative, or he’d never get out what he had to say. Not before he forgot himself and kissed her. Screened by the dark, he scowled. “Where’s your room?”

  “I turn left from the gallery—isn’t that the other wing?”

  “Yes.” Stifling a curse, he locked the French doors, then found her hand. “Come on. I’ll take you up.”

  The house was large, disorientating in the dark, but he’d slipped through its corridors on countless nights past. He’d grown up in this house—he knew his way without looking.

  Flick bided her time, trailing him up the stairs and i
nto the long gallery. The curtains at the long windows were open; moonlight streamed in, laying silver swaths across the dark carpet. She waited until they drew abreast of the last window, then she tripped, stumbled—

  Demon bent and caught her—

  Quick as a flash, she straightened, lifted her arms, framed his face and kissed him, wildly, wantonly—she wasn’t going to wait to learn if he was planning to kiss her. What if he wasn’t?

  Her preemptive action rendered Demon’s plans academic. Curses rang in his head—he didn’t hear them. Couldn’t hear them over the sudden pounding of his blood, the sudden roar of his needs. Her lips were open under his; before he’d even thought, he was deep inside, tasting her, exulting in the sweet mystery of her, drinking her deep.

  And she met him—not tentatively or shyly, but with a demand so flagrant it left him giddy.

  He pulled back from the kiss to draw in a huge breath, conscious to his toes of the firm swells of her breasts compressed against his expanding chest. He straightened; hands sliding to his nape, she held tight. Eyes glinting under heavy lids, she drew his lips back to hers.

  He went readily, urgently hungry for more heady kisses, his pulse pounding in anticipation of the deeper satiation her body, pressed to his in sweet abandon, promised. His arms had locked about her, but it was she who sank against him, a simple surrender so evocative he shook.

  Pulling back, he dragged in a breath; dazed, he looked into her face, subtly lit by the moonlight. From under heavy lids, she studied him, then with one finger, traced his lower lip.

  “Lady Osbaldestone said you’ve been keeping your distance because that’s what society demands.” She arched one fine brow. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.” He went back for another taste of her, so sweetly intoxicating she was making him drunk. She gave her mouth freely, sliding her tongue around his, then drawing back.

  “She said by driving me in the park you made a declaration.” She whispered the words against his lips, then kissed him.

  This time, it was he who gave, then drew back, rakish senses alert to some subtle shift in the scene. He blinked down at her. Inwardly swearing, he fought to realign his spinning wits. She was, as usual, setting the pace. And he was left scrambling in her wake.

  Reaching up, she drew his lips down to hers for another slow, intimate kiss that left them both simmering.

  “Did you intend the drive in the park as a declaration?”

  “Yes.”

  His lips were back on hers. She pulled away. “Why?”

  “Because I wanted you.”

  Relentless, he drew her back. For long moments, silence reigned; locked together, they heated, then burned. When next they broke for breath they were panting. Hearts racing, eyes dark and wild under heavy lids, they paused, lips not quite touching.

  “Lady Osbaldestone said you would have wanted to pressure me—why didn’t you?”

  He shuddered; the supple strength of her, so much less than his, struck through to his bones and left him weak. Aching to have her. “God knows.”

  He went to kiss her, but she stopped him—by running one hand down one locked bicep, then up, across his shoulder and his chest. Stopping with her palm over his heart, she splayed her fingers and tried to press them in—they made no impression on the already tensed muscle.

  “She said you were frustrated.” She looked up into his eyes. “Is she right?”

  He sucked in a breath and tensed even more. “Yes!”

  “Is that why you won’t let me close—near—even when we’re together?”

  He hesitated, looking deep into her eyes. “Put that down to the violence of my feelings. I was afraid they’d show.” He was never, ever, going to tell her she glowed.

  As if in vindication, she did. He swooped and took her mouth—she surrendered it eagerly, sinking deeper against him, openly, joyously, feeding his need. Her lips were soft under his, her tongue ready to tangle; he took what she freely gave and returned it full-fold.

  “I couldn’t bear to see you surrounded by those puppies—and the others were even worse.”

  “You should have rescued me—carried me off. I didn’t want them.”

  “I didn’t know—you hadn’t said.”

  Where the words were coming from, he didn’t know, but they were suddenly flowing. “I hate seeing you waltz with other men.”

  “I won’t—not ever again.”

  “Good.” After another searching kiss, he added, “Just because I’m not forever by your side doesn’t mean that’s not precisely where I want to be.”

  Her “Mmm” sounded deeply content. She softened in his arms; his breath hitched, his wits reeled—even in her breeches, her body flowed with the promise of warm silk over his erection. He gritted his teeth and heard himself admit, “I nearly went mad thinking you would fall in love with one of them—prefer one of them—over me.”

  She drew back. In the moonlight he saw surprise and shock in her face, then her expression softened; slowly, she smiled at him—glowed at him. “That won’t ever happen.”

  He looked into her eyes, and thanked God, fate—whoever had arranged it. She loved him—and she knew it. Perhaps he could leave it at that, now he’d admitted so much, and soothed her silly fears that his caution had been disinterest, that his towering restraint had been coolness. He studied her eyes, basked in her glow. Perhaps he could leave things to ease by themselves . . .

  A second later, his chest swelled; he bent his head and kissed her—deeply, demandingly, until he knew her head was spinning, her wits in disarray. Then he drew back and whispered against her lips, “I wanted to ask . . .”

  Drawing back a fraction further, he drank in the sight of her angelic face—the finely drawn features, smooth ivory skin, swollen, rosy lips, large eyes lustrous under heavy lids, her bright curls gleaming gold even in the moonlight. Her cap had disappeared, as had her muffler. As had his wits. “I hadn’t meant it to be like this. You had engagements all day today—I was going to call on you tomorrow to speak to you formally.”

  Her lips curved; her arms tightened about his neck. “I prefer this.” Arching lightly, she pressed against him; he caught his breath. “What were you going to ask?”

  Flick waited, and wondered, with what little wit she still possessed. She felt so happy, so reassured. So wanted. Deeply, sincerely, uncontrollably wanted.

  His eyes held hers—she both sensed and felt him steeling himself.

  “What will it take to make you say yes?” After a moment, he clarified, “What do you want from me? What do you want me to do?”

  She wanted his heart—she wanted him to lay it at her feet. Flick heard the words in her head, which was suddenly spinning much too fast. She dragged in a too-shallow breath—

  “Just tell me.” His voice was so low she felt it more than heard it.

  Eyes wide, she held his darkened gaze and dazedly considered it—considered asking the one question she’d told herself she never could. Searching his face, she saw his strength, and a new, more visible devotion, both unswerving, unfailing—there for her to lean on. Neither surprised her. What did—what made her breath catch and her head swim—was the raw hunger in his eyes, in the harsh planes of his face; for the first time, she saw his naked need. She shivered, deeply thrilled by the sight, shaken by its consequence.

  He’d asked for the price of her heart. She would have to tell him it was his.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she steadied, calmed. This was, without doubt, the highest fence she’d ever faced. She felt his arms about her, felt his heart thudding against her breast. Her eyes locked with his, so dark in the night, she drew in a last breath, and threw her heart over. “I need to know—to believe—that you love me.” Her lungs seized; she forced in a quick breath. “If you love me, I’ll say yes.”

  His expression didn’t change. He looked at her for a long, long moment. She could feel her heart thudding in her throat. Then he shifted, one arm sliding more completely around her, holding her
locked against him; with the other, he lifted her hand from his shoulder. He held her gaze, then carried her hand to his lips.

  His kiss seared the back of her hand.

  “I could say ‘I love you’—and I do.” Raising his lids, he met her gaze. “But it’s not that simple . . . not for me. I never wanted a wife.” He drew in a breath. “I never wanted to love—not you, not any woman. I never wanted to risk it—never wanted to be forced to find out if I could handle the strain. In my family, loving’s not easy—it’s not a simple sunny thing that makes one merely happy. Love for us—for me—was always going to be dramatic—powerful, unsettling—an ungovernable force. A force that controls me, not the other way about. I knew I wouldn’t like it—” His eyes met hers. “And I don’t. But . . . it isn’t, it appears, something I have a choice about.”

  His lips twisted. “I thought I was safe—that I had defenses in place, strong and inviolable, far too steely for any mere woman to break through. And none did, not for years.” He paused. “Until you.

  “I can’t remember inviting you in, or ever opening the gates—I just turned around one day and you were there—a part of me.” He hesitated, studying her eyes, then his face hardened, his voice deepened. “I don’t know what will convince you, but I won’t ever let you go. You’re mine—the only woman I could ever imagine marrying. You can share my life. You know a hock from a fetlock—you know as much about riding as I do. You can be a partner in my enterprises, not a distant spectator standing at the periphery. You’ll stand at the center of it all, by my side.

  “And I’ll want you there always, by my side—in the ton as much as at Newmarket. I want to build a life with you—to have a home with you, to have children with you.”

  He paused; Flick held her breath, very conscious of the steely tension investing his muscles, of the brutal strength holding her gently trapped, of the power in his voice, in his eyes, so totally focused on her.

  Releasing her hand, he tucked one stray curl back behind her ear. “That’s what you mean to me.” The words were gravelly, raw, compelling. “You’re the one I want—now and forever. The only future I want lies with you.”