A Rogues Proposal c-4 Page 18

  He was driving dangerously fast. He didn't want to, but he drew back on the reins, slowing to a safer pace. He'd taken a circuitous route; it wasn't necessary to stop and turn in order to return to Hillgate End. Which was just as well. Stopping with him in his present mood and her in her curious one was the definition of unwise.

  She'd been listening carefully; he heard the frown in her voice as she repeated, "Prescribed pattern."

  "Society dictates that I can squire you about, but I can't press my suit too openly, certainly not forcefully. That would be improper. I have to be subtle. I shouldn't tell you how I feel outright-that's not the way things are done. I shouldn't seek to see you in any clandestine manner. I shouldn't kiss you-and I should certainly not mention that I desire you-even let you get any hint of that fact. You're not supposed to know about desire."

  He checked the bays for a corner, then set them pacing again. "In fact, this entire conversation shouldn't be occurring-Mrs. Pemberton and company would unhesitatingly class it as exceedingly improper."

  "That's ridiculous! How will I know if I don't ask? And I can't ask anyone else about this-only you."

  Demon heard the uncertain note in her voice; much of his tension left him, swamped by a surge of emotion he was growing accustomed to-one Flick and only Flick could evoke. It encompassed an urge to protect, but that wasn't the sum of it.

  He sighed, but didn't look at her-he wasn't yet sure how much in control he was, wasn't yet sure he could resist that puzzled, questioning look in her blue eyes. "It's all right to ask me as long as we're alone. You can say whatever you wish to me, but you must be careful not to let anything we discuss privately influence how you behave when we're not private."

  Flick nodded. The possibility that he might forbid her to question him, especially about subjects like desire, had shaken her-for an instant she'd feared he would erect a wall between them. Thankfully not.

  Yet she still didn't entirely understand.

  That he seriously wanted to marry her was hard enough to accept. That he wanted to marry her because he desired her-that was beyond her comprehension. She'd assumed she'd always be a child in his eyes. Apparently not.

  As the curricle rolled on, she pondered desire. The whole concept, both in general and specifically, intrigued her. She recalled very well the shimmering net he could throw, the temptation, the promise in the moonlight. Her experience beyond that was nonexistent-all she'd known previously came from overhearing maids comparing notes on their swains. But… there was one point that, no matter how she construed it, remained unexplained.

  Drawing a deep breath, her gaze, like his, fixed on the ribbon of lane stretching before them, she asked, "If you desire me"-she felt her blush heat her cheeks, but she doggedly plowed on-"as a man desires a woman, why do you go rigid when we touch?"

  When he didn't immediately answer, she expanded, "Like that night in the courtyard when we kissed-you stopped suddenly. Was that due to society's strictures"-she risked a glance at him-"or something else?"

  He went rigid as she looked at him; she could both sense it and see it. Sense the sudden clenching as if it was her own gut, see the muscles beneath his sleeve tense until each band was clearly delineated. As for his face, when she glanced up in surprise, she found it as hard as stone.

  Amazed, she lifted a finger and poked his upper arm-it was like stubbing her finger against rock. "Like that." She frowned at him. "Are you sure it's not aversion?"

  "It's-not-aversion." Demon didn't know how he got the words out; his hands were locked so tightly about the reins that he could only pray the bays didn't choose this particular moment to act up. "Believe me," he reiterated, and had to struggle to draw breath. "It's not aversion."

  After a moment, she prompted, "Well?"

  He'd told her she could ask. If he didn't get her wed and into bed soon, she might kill him with her questions. He exhaled; his chest felt as tight as a drum. Dredging deep for strength, he took a death grip on his inner demons. His voice almost quavering with the effort of not reacting, he explained, "That night in the moonlight, if I hadn't stopped when I did-hadn't got you back into the drawing room in short order-you would have found yourself ravished under the magnolia in the vicarage courtyard."

  "Oh?"

  Fascinated consideration rang in her tone.

  "I'd even worked out how to accomplish the deed. I would have laid you on the stone edging around the tree and lifted your skirts-you wouldn't have stopped me."

  He risked a glance at her; blushing lightly, she shrugged. "We'll never know the truth of that."

  He bit back a retort; narrow-eyed, he focused his gaze on her.

  She glanced up, met it, and blushed more deeply. She looked ahead. After a moment, she wriggled, shifting on the seat. "All right. I understand about the courtyard, but why does it happen-you freezing like that-now? You even did it yesterday on the Heath when I accidentally bumped into you." Frowning, she looked up. "You can't want to ravish me every time we meet."

  Oh, yes, he could. Demon gritted his teeth and let the bays lengthen their stride. "Desire is like a disease-once you've caught it, every further encounter makes it worse."

  He was exceedingly thankful when she accepted that comment with a humph. She stared ahead, then he felt another of her considering glances.

  "I won't break, you know. I won't have hysterics, or-"

  "Very likely." He uttered the words as repressively as he could.

  She humphed again. "Well, I still don't understand. If you want to marry me anyway…"

  He couldn't miss her implication-couldn't stop himself from turning his head-and reading, blazoned in the blue of her eyes, her curiosity, and a very definite invitation…

  Swallowing a virulent curse, he swung his gaze back to the lane. Explaining might just have made things worse. He'd thus far managed to hold his demons in check-but what if she picked up the whip?

  Oh no, no, no, no, no. He knew what he was, and what she was, and they were literally eons apart. It would take her years-at least an intensive six months-to even come close to comprehending the level of sexual knowledge he possessed. But he could guess what she was thinking, what route her innocent thoughts had taken. He had to head her off, quash any thoughts she had of jumping into that particular sea feet first. It simply couldn't happen like that. At least, not with him.

  Unfortunately, at no point had she become wary of him, much to his disgust. She'd somehow gone from regarding him as an uncle to regarding him as an equal. Which was equally erroneous. His jaw ached, along with most of his body. As for his brain, that simply hurt. "It's not going to happen like that." The effort of explaining things he didn't want to risk thinking about was wearing him down.

  "Oh?"

  She had those Ohs down to a fine art-they always prodded him to explain.

  "Desire leads to physical seduction but, in your case-in our case-that is not going to translate to any quick, rushed, illicit tumble in a courtyard or anywhere else."

  He waited for her Oh; instead, she asked, "Why?"

  Because he was going to train her to be his very own fallen angel. He shook aside the thought. "Because…" He struggled, then blinked; if he hadn't been driving, he would have flung up his hands in defeat. Setting his jaw, he reached for the whip. "Because you're an innocent, and you deserve better than that. And I know better than that." Oh, yes-this impinged on his ego as well. "I'll seduce you as you deserve to be seduced-slowly. Innocence isn't something you should discard like an old shoe. It has a physical value-a passionate value-all its own."

  His frown deepening, he kept his gaze fixed on his leader's ears. "Innocence shouldn't be tarnished, it shouldn't be crushed. It should be made to bloom. I know." Those last two words were as much realization as assurance. "Getting innocence to bloom takes time, takes care and attention and expertise." His voice deepened. "It takes passion and desire, commitment and devotion to coax innocence from bud to bloom, to encourage it to unfurl into full flower without a single
petal bruised."

  Was he still talking of her innocence, or did he mean something more-something of which he was as innocent as she?

  To his relief, she said nothing but sat silently and considered. He considered, too-all that he wanted, the totality of his desire.

  He was acutely conscious of her sitting beside him. He could feel his own heartbeat, thudding in his chest, pulsing in his fingertips, throbbing in his loins. For long moments, the only sounds about them were the steady clack of the bays' hooves and the repetitive rattle of the wheels.

  Then she stirred.

  He shot her a glance, saw her frown-saw her open her mouth-

  He jerked his gaze forward. "And for God's sake, don't you dare ask why."

  He felt her glare; from the corner of his eye, he saw her stick her nose in the air, shut her lips, primly fold her hands, and pointedly look over the landscape.

  Jaw clenched, he whipped up his horses.

  By the time they reached the gates of Hillgate End, he'd regained sufficient use of his brain to remember what he'd intended to tell Flick during the drive.

  Setting the bays pacing up the shady avenue, he slanted a glance at her and wondered how much to reveal. Despite his distraction with her, he hadn't forgotten about the syndicate; he knew she hadn't, either.

  The truth was, he was growing uneasy. They'd been following Bletchley for weeks and had learned nothing about the syndicate other than that it appeared exceedingly well organized. In the circumstances, he didn't feel happy about fixing all their hopes on Bletchley.

  So he'd racked his brain for alternatives. He'd considered requesting help from the rest of the Bar Cynster but had yet to do so. Vane and Patience were in Kent; Gabriel and Lucifer were in London, but needed to keep their eyes on the twins. Richard was, at last report, rather busy with his witch in Scotland. And Devil would be busy with spring planting. Be that as it may, Devil was reasonably close at Somersham. If things got difficult, he'd call on Devil, but, given that all matters to do with racing fell within his particular area of expertise, there seemed little point in summoning aid just yet. He needed to sight the enemy first, before he called in the cavalry.

  To which end…

  He drew the curricle up before the steps with a flourish and stepped down. Taking Flick's hand, he helped her alight, then fell in beside her as she headed for the steps.

  "I'm going to London tomorrow-there's some business I need to see to." He stopped at the base of the steps.

  Already two steps up, she halted and swung to face him, a whole host of questions in her eyes.

  "I'll be back the day after tomorrow, probably late."

  "But… what about Bletchley?"

  "Don't worry about him." He trapped her blue gaze. "Gillies, Hills and Cross will keep an eye on him."

  Flick blinked at him. "But what if something happens?"

  "I doubt it will, but Gillies will know what to do."

  Flick had far less confidence in Gillies than she had in his master. However… she nodded. "Very well." She held out her hand. "I'll wish you a safe journey, then."

  Taking her hand, he lifted a brow. "And a speedy return?"

  She raised her brows haughtily. "I dare say I'll see you when you get back."

  He trapped her gaze. His fingers shifted about her hand-raising it, he turned it and pressed his lips fleetingly to her wrist.

  Her pulse leapt; she caught her breath.

  He smiled devilishly. "Count on it."

  Releasing her hand, he swept her an elegant bow and strode back to his waiting horses.

  Flick watched as he leapt up to the seat, then wheeled the bays with matchless authority and set them pacing down the drive. She watched until he disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the shadows beneath the trees.

  A frown slowly forming in her eyes, she turned and climbed the steps. The door was unlatched; she went in, closing it behind her. Crossing the hall, she greeted Jacobs with an absentminded smile, then continued on through the house, out on to the terrace and so onto the lawn. The lawn she had so often in recent times strolled with Demon.

  If anyone had told her even three weeks before that the thought of not seeing a gentleman for two whole days would dim her mood-would sap her anticipation for those same days-she would have laughed.

  She wasn't laughing now.

  Not that she was about to succumb to listless lassitude, she had far too much to do. Like deciding how she felt about desire.

  She considered the point as she passed beneath the trees and on into the wisteria-shaded walk. Hands clasped behind her, she fell to slowly pacing up and down the gravel.

  He wanted to marry her-he intended to marry her. He expected her to say yes-he clearly believed she would.

  After this afternoon, and their frank conversation, she at least knew precisely where he stood. He wanted to marry her for all the socially acceptable reasons, and because he desired her.

  Which left her facing one very large, formidable question. Would she accept him?

  It wasn't a question she'd expected to face. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that he, her idol-her ideal gentleman-would want to marry her. Would look at her, a pigtailed brat reborn, and feel desire. The only reason she could state that point, and view the prospect with quite amazing equanimity, was that, deep down, she was still struggling to believe it.

  It still seemed like a dream.

  But…

  She knew he was in earnest.

  Reaching the end of the walk, she squinted at the clock above the stable arch. There was still an hour before luncheon; all about her was silent, no one else was in sight. Turning, she fell to pacing again, trying to organize her thoughts into a sensible sequence.

  The first point she had to consider was obvious. Did she love Demon?

  Somewhat to her surprise, the answer was easy.

  "I've been secretly in love with him for years," she muttered. The admission left her with a very odd feeling in her stomach.

  She was so disconcerted, so startled to find her heart had made up its mind long ago and not told her, that she reached the end of the walk before she could set the point aside, accept that it was decided, and move on.

  "Next, does he love me?"

  No answer came. She mentally replayed their conversations, but there was nothing he'd said that shed light on that point.

  She grimaced. "What if he doesn't love me?"

  The answer to that was absolute. If he didn't love her, she couldn't marry him. Her certainty was unshakeable, deeply embedded within her.

  To her mind, love and marriage went hand in hand. She knew that wasn't society's view, but it was hers, formed by her own observations. Her parents had loved deeply-it had shown in their faces, in their demeanor, whenever they'd been in the same room. She'd been seven when she'd last seen them, waving good-bye from the rail of their boat as it pulled away from the dock. While their features had blurred with the years, that glow that had always been theirs had not-it still shone strongly in her memory.

  They'd left her a fortune, and they'd left her a memory-she was grateful for the fortune, but she valued the memory more. The knowledge of what love and marriage could be was a precious, timeless legacy.

  One she would not turn her back on.

  She wanted that glow for herself-she always had. She'd grown up with that expectation. From all she'd gleaned about the General and his wife, Margery, theirs, too, had been a union blessed.

  Which brought her back to Demon.

  Frowning, she paced back and forth, considering his reasons for marrying her. His socially acceptable reasons were all very well, yet superficial and not essential. They could be dismissed, taken for granted.

  Which left her with desire.

  One minute was enough to summarize all she knew on that subject. Questions like Did desire encompass love? Did love encompass desire? were beyond her ability to answer. Until this past week, she hadn't even known what desire was, and while she now knew wh
at it felt like, her experience of it remained minimal. A fact their recent discussion had emphasized.

  There was clearly much she had to learn about desire-love or no love.

  For the next half hour, she paced and pondered; by the time the lunch gong sounded, she'd reached one clear conclusion, which raised one simple question. She had, she thought, as she strolled back to the house, made good progress.

  Her conclusion was absolute and inviolable-utterly unchangeable. She would marry with love, or not at all. She wanted to love, and be loved in return-it was that or nothing.

  As for her question, it was straightforward and pertinent: Was it possible to start with desire-strong desire-and progress to love?

  Lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes. She felt reassured, certain of what she wanted, how to face what was to come.

  If Demon wanted to marry her, wanted her to say yes when he asked for her hand, then he would need to teach her more about desire, and convince her that her question could be answered in the affirmative.

  Opening her eyes, she lifted her skirts; climbing the steps, she went in to lunch.

  Chapter 11

  Demon set out for London just after dawn. He kept the bays up to their bits, eager to reach the capital and the offices of Heathcote Montague, man of business to the Cynsters. After considerable thought, he'd hit upon a possible alternative means of identifying members of the syndicate.

  Unbeknown to Flick, he'd visited Dillon and extracted a list of the races he'd fixed. He'd then called in favors from all around Newmarket to get the figures, including various bookmakers' odds, necessary to gauge just how much money had been realized through the fixes. His rough estimations had sent his brows rising high-the amount had been startling enough to suggest Montague might be able to trace it. Even a portion of the total should have left some discernible mark somewhere in the financial capital.