A Rogues Proposal c-4

by Stephanie Laurens

"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.

  Chapter 1O

  For Flick, their journey to the library was the start of a most peculiar week.

  Demon drove her back to the manor by the longest possible route, ostensibly to try the blacks' paces. As he consented to let her handle the ribbons again, she refrained from making any comment on his high-handed arrogance-as it happened, she hadn't had anything better to do.

  At least, nothing to compare with the sensation of bowling along, the breeze ruffling her hair, the ribbons taut in her hands. The sheer exhilaration of tooling his curricle, well-sprung and built for speed, with the blacks high-stepping down the lanes, had worked its addictive magic-she was hooked.

  When he drew up before the manor, she was smiling so brightly that she couldn't possibly have admon
ished him.

  Which, from the gleam in his eye, was precisely as he'd planned.

  He was back the next morning, although this time, it wasn't her he had come to see; he spent an hour with the General, discussing a line of horses the General was investigating. Of course, the General invited him to stay for luncheon, and he accepted.

  Later, she strolled with him to the stable. She waited, but, other than an artful comment about enjoying the view-it was a brisk day and her skirts were flapping-he said nothing. His eyes, however, seemed unusually brilliant, his gaze especially attentive; despite the breeze, she didn't feel cold.

  Day followed day; his visits highlighted each one. She could never be certain when or where he would appear, which was doubtless why she found herself listening for his footsteps.

  And it wasn't just his gaze that was attentive.

  Occasionally, he would touch her, just a hand at her back, or a sliding of his fingers from her hand to her wrist. Such touches always made her catch her breath-and flush in a most peculiar way.

  Her worst moment came when he called one afternoon and inveigled her into joining him to watch the strings exercising on the Heath-he was still watching Bletchley during morning and afternoon stables.

  "Hills and Cross are doing the bulk of it these days. They're less identifiable than Gillies or me."

  They were standing by the Heath, she with her hands clasped on the handle of her furled parasol. "Has Bletchley made any further arrangements-fixed any more fixes?"

  Demon shook his head. "I'm starting to wonder…"

  When he said nothing more, she prompted, "What?"

  He glanced at her, then grimaced and looked across the close-cropped turf to where his string was going through their paces. Bletchley lounged under his favorite oak; from there, he could see three separate strings working.

  "I'm starting to wonder," Demon mused, "whether he's got any more fixes to place. He's been chatting up the jockeys, true enough, but lately it's been more in the nature of ingratiating himself with them. Other than those three fixes we know of, all of which are for major Spring Carnival races, he hasn't made any further arrangements."

  "So?"

  "So it's possible all the fixes the syndicate want for the Spring Carnival are now in place-just those three. Considering the races involved, they should clear enough for the greediest of men. I'm wondering if Bletchley is simply whiling away time until his masters are due to check with him, and putting in his hours by learning as much as he can about the race jockeys with a view to making his next round of fixes, most likely in a few months-maybe at the July meeting-easier to arrange."

  Flick studied Bletchley. "He's looking for weaknesses? Something to give him a hold over the jockeys?"

  "Hmm. Possibly."

  She knew the instant he switched his gaze from Bletchley to her, knew precisely when his mind shifted from fixes to… whatever it was he was thinking about her.

  A gentle tug on one curl had her turning her face, only to find him much nearer, closer…

  "Stop staring at him so deliberately-he'll notice."

  "I'm not staring at Bletchley." She was staring at his lips. They curved, then drew fractionally nearer…

  She stiffened, blinked and dragged her eyes up to his. "Perhaps we'd better stroll." Dalliance was all very well, but she was not about to indulge in any of his mind-whirling kisses-not on the open Heath.

  His lips quirked, but he inclined his head. "Perhaps we had."

  He turned her; with her hand on his sleeve, they strolled along the Heath's edge-while she hoped he'd exercise his usual initiative and find an empty stable.

  To her unreasoning annoyance, he didn't.

  The next morning, he took her into town, so they could savor the scones at The Twig and Bough, which he insisted were a cut above excellent. After their repast, they strolled down the High Street, where Mrs. Pemberton beamed at them from her carriage, exchanging gracious greetings.

  Flick was quite sure the vicar's wife had never before looked at her with such patent approval.

  Which, more than anything else-far more than the insistence of her silly senses or the wonderings of her ill-informed mind-made her question what Demon was about. Really about.

  She'd ridden high-bred horses all her life; she'd long ago learned the knack of putting aside all unnerving thoughts and emotions. She had, she thought, been doing an excellent job of ignoring the uncertainties his constant squiring of her had evoked. But after their meeting with Mrs. Pemberton, she could no longer ignore the fact that it really did appear that he was wooing her. Courting her.

  Just like he'd said.

  Had the moonlight addled his wits-or hers?

  The question demanded an answer, not least because his continuing presence was stretching her nerves taut. As it was the same question, albeit in slightly different form, that had been circling in her brain for the past week without answer, there was obviously only one way forward.

  And, after all, it was Demon-she'd known him nearly all her life. She hadn't shied away from asking for his help with Dillon, and he'd given it. So…

  She waited until they were rolling down the manor drive the next morning for a tool about the lanes so she could hone her driving skills on his powerful bays. He was still holding the reins. Without giving herself time to think, to balk, she asked, "Why are you behaving like this-spending so much time with me?"

  His head whipped around; an incipient frown darkened his eyes. "I told you. I'm wooing you."

  She blinked; the storm warning in his eyes wasn't encouraging, but she was determined to have all clear. "Yes," she admitted, evenly, carefully. "But that was just…" With one hand, she gestured airily.

  His frown crystallized; he slowed the bays. "Just what?"

  "Well," she shrugged. "Just that night. In the moonlight."

  Demon hauled the bays to a halt. "What about the past days? It's been nearly a week." He was appalled. Swearing, not entirely under his breath, he pulled on the brake, tied off the reins and faced her. "Don't tell me"-narrowing his eyes, he trapped her gaze-"that you haven't noticed. That you haven't been paying attention."

  She stared at him, her eyes widening, and widening, as she read the message in his. "You're serious."

  Her patent astonishment nearly did him in.

  "Serious?" He clenched one fist on the railing in front of her, slapped the other on the seat behind her and locked his gaze on her face. "Of course I'm serious! What in all creation do you imagine these last days have been about?"

  "Well…" Given the anger vibrating in his tone, Flick decided she'd be wiser not to say. He wasn't yelling-she almost wished he was. His clipped, forcefully enunciated words were somehow more menacing than bellows.

  "I am not in the habit of dancing attendance on fresh-faced chits just for the pleasure of their innocent smiles."

  She blinked. "I suppose not."

  "You may be certain not." His jaw hardened to match the rest of his face; his eyes narrowed to slits. "So what the devil have you been imagining?"

  If there had been a way of avoiding the question, she'd have taken it, but the look in his eyes declared he wasn't about to drop the subject. And she had been the one to bring it up-and she did still want to know. Holding his gaze, she carefully said, "I thought it was just dalliance."

  It was his turn to blink. "Dalliance?"

  "A way to fill in the time." Spreading her hands, she shrugged. "For all I know, telling a lady you're wooing her while alone in a courtyard in the moonlight might be standard practice, entirely unremarkable behavior for-"

  Caution caught her tongue. She glanced at him; he smiled-all wolf. "For a rake such as I?"

  She suppressed a glare. "Yes! How am I supposed to know how you go on?"

  Narrow-eyed, he studied her face; his softened not at all. "You may take it from me that when I say I'm courting you, I am." Turning forward, he started to untie the reins.

  Flick straightened. "Yes, all right. But you s
till haven't told me why."

  His gaze on his horses, Demon exhaled through set teeth. He released the brake. "Because I want to marry you, of course."

  "Yes, but that's what I don't understand. Why do you want to marry me?"

  He was going to throttle her if she didn't leave off with her whys; jaw setting, he nicked the reins-the bays stepped out. He felt her irate glance.

  "You can't expect me to believe you've suddenly taken it into your head that you need to marry me. You didn't even know I existed-well, not other than a pigtailed brat-not until you caught me on The Flynn's back." She swung on the seat to face him. "So why?"

  Feathering the turn into the road, he set the bays pacing. "I want to marry you because you're the right wife for me." Anticipating her next why, he stated, "You're an eligible parti-you're well-born, your connections are commendable. You're the General's ward-you've grown up around here, and you're remarkably knowledgeable about horses." He had his excuses down pat. "All in all, we're an excellent match." He glanced at her sharply. "A fact everyone seems to have realized except you."

  She looked ahead, and he turned back to his horses. He wasn't sure he trusted his ears, but he thought she sniffed. She certainly put her nose in the air.

  "That sounds horridly cold-blooded to me."

  Cold-blooded? He was going to throttle her. Just the thought of how heated his blood had been, simmering uncomfortably for more than a week, hot need flaring every time she drew close-and as for those times she'd been in his arms, stretched, flush, body to body against him…

  He set his teeth and heard his jaw crack. His leader jibbed; dragging in a breath, he held it, carefully resettled his horses, then exhaled slowly.

  "I also want to marry you"-he forced the words out through gritted teeth-"because I desire you."

  He felt her questioning, innocently curious gaze-he wasn't fool enough to meet it-that puzzled look that invited him to demonstrate, to teach her. She'd perfected that look until it could lure even him into deep waters. His gaze locked on his leader's ears, he kept driving.

  "What, exactly?…"

  He hauled in a breath. "I want you warming my bed." He wanted her warming him. "The fact that I desire you as a man desires a woman is incidental. It merely adds another element to my wooing of you, and our eventual marriage." He quickly changed tacks, focusing on the one aspect he suspected had most contributed to her confusion. She was direct and straightforward-she'd misinterpreted his subtlety. She equated subtleties with playing, with teasing-by definition not serious. "Given your age and lack of experience, as I wish to marry you, a period of courtship is deemed mandatory, during which time my behavior must follow a prescribed pattern."