A Rogue's Proposal Read online

  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 10

  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 admonished 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 still 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 flicked 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.”

  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.