A Rogue's Proposal Read online

  He didn’t want that to happen, either.

  He’d consorted with too many women who manufactured their emotions, who in reality cared little for anyone or anything. Flick’s transparent joy was precious to him—had been from the first. He couldn’t bring himself to douse the golden glow in her eyes, not even for this.

  Which meant . . . he was going to have to find some way to protect her.

  He watched her go down a country dance, laughing gaily but without that special delight she reserved just for him. Despite his worry, despite the irony, his lips quirked at the sight. Ambling around the ballroom, his gaze fixed on her—his delight, his desire—he considered how best to protect her good name.

  Part of his answer was a drive in the park. Simple, effective—and she wouldn’t know enough to realize what he was doing. He drove into Berkeley Square at the earliest possible hour. Ignoring Highthorpe’s smugly understanding look, he climbed the stairs to his mother’s private parlor, knocked once, then entered.

  Seated on the chaise, a pair of spectacles perched on her nose, his mother looked up, then smiled. As he’d expected, she was sorting the morning’s invitations. Seated on an ottoman before her, Flick was assisting.

  “Good morning, Harry—and to what do we owe this pleasure?” Removing her glasses, his mother raised her face for his kiss.

  He dutifully obliged, ignoring her teasing look. Straightening, he turned to Flick, who’d quickly risen to her feet.

  “I came to ask if Felicity would care for a drive in the park.”

  Flick’s eyes lit up. Her face was transformed by her smile. “That would be delightful.” Stepping forward, she held out her hand.

  Demon took it—and held it, and her, at a safe distance, ruthlessly denying the urge to draw her—allow her—closer. For one instant, he looked into her face, drank in her eager enthusiasm—then, lids lowering, he smiled urbanely and waved her to the door. “There’s a brisk breeze blowing—you’ll need your pelisse.”

  Not for a split second had his polite mask slipped; Flick blinked at him, her smile fading slightly. “Yes, of course.” She turned to Horatia. “If it’s agreeable to you, ma’am.”

  “Of course, my dear.” Horatia smiled and shooed; Flick bobbed a curtsy and went.

  If Demon had had any doubt as to the reality of the threat posed by Flick’s revealing countenance, encountering the suddenly sharp gaze of his mother dispelled it. The instant the door shut behind Flick, Horatia shot him a speculative, potentially rigid, disapproving look—but the question to which she wanted an answer was not one she could ask.

  And he was, after all, proposing to drive Flick in the park.

  As confusion rose in Horatia’s eyes, Demon inclined his head with his usual cool grace. “I’ll meet Felicity downstairs—I need to walk my horses.” Without intercepting Horatia’s narrow-eyed look, he turned and made good his escape.

  Flick didn’t keep him waiting—she came tripping down the stairs as he descended rather more leisurely. Her contempt for feminine preening gave them a rare moment alone. Demon smiled easily, relieved to be able to drop his mask for a moment—he reached for her hand, set it on his sleeve, and drew her close.

  She laughed softly, delightedly; smiling gloriously, she turned her face to his. He felt the soft tremor that ran through her, sensed the tensing of her nerves, the tightening of her breathing, the sheer awareness that raced through her as their bodies fleetingly touched. Her eyes widened, pupils distending; her lips parted—her whole face softened. And glowed.

  Even in the poor light on the stairs, it was impossible to mistake the sensuality behind the sight. He’d initiated her all too well. She yearned, now, as did he. The temptation to sweep her into his arms, to bend his head and set his lips to hers had never gripped him so hard; need had never driven him so mercilously.

  Drawing an unsteady breath, he glanced down—and spied Highthorpe by the door. He drew back, moving fractionally away, ruthlessly sliding his elegantly bored facade back into place. “Come—the bays will be cooling.”

  She sensed his withdrawal, but then she saw Highthorpe. She nodded, and strolled down the stairs by his side.

  Leaving the house, handing her into the curricle, then driving to the park gave him time to reestablish complete control. Flick remained silent—she’d never been one for aimless chatter—but her pleasure in the outing was in her face, displayed for all to see. Luckily, the curricle was sufficiently wide for there to be a good foot between them, so the display was one of simple joy and happiness, rather than of anything more.

  “Have you written to Dillon yet?” With a deft flick, he turned his horses through the park gates.

  “Yes, this morning. I told him that while we’ve temporarily lost Bletchley, we’re sure to come up with him again, and that meanwhile, we’re searching for the money from the fixed races.” Her gaze distant, Flick frowned. “I hope that will keep him at the cottage. We don’t want him imagining he’s been deserted and so go investigating himself. He’s sure to get caught.”

  Demon glanced at her, then looked forward.

  The carriages of the grandes dames appeared ahead of them, lining the Avenue. “I’ve been considering sending The Flynn to Doncaster. How do you think he’d handle the change of track?”

  “Doncaster?” Flick pursed her lips, then launched into an animated answer.

  It wasn’t hard to keep her talking, speculating, arguing, analyzing all the way down the line of fashionable carriages, then all the way back again. He doubted she truly saw the matrons watching them—she certainly didn’t notice the interest their appearance provoked, or the meaningful, smugly approving glances exchanged by the senior hostesses. When the ladies whose opinions controlled the reactions of the ton graciously inclined their heads, he responded with a suavity that confirmed their supposition. Flick, without a blink, inclined her head, too, absentmindedly mimicking him, unaware of how her following his lead so smoothly appeared.

  “If you’re serious about developing The Flynn as a ’chaser,” she concluded, “you’re going to have to move him to Cheltenham.”

  “Hmm, possibly.”

  Turning the bays’ heads for the gates, Demon was seized by a sense of triumph. He’d pulled it off—done the deed—made his declaration, albeit unspoken. Every matron they’d passed had heard it loud and clear.

  And it hadn’t, somewhat to his surprise, abraded his sensitivities—if anything, he felt immeasurably relieved to have so definitively staked his claim. Every matron who mattered now understood he fully intended to marry Miss Felicity Parteger. All would assume there was an understanding between them. Most importantly, the good ladies would see it as entirely proper that he, being so much older than she, with so much more worldly experience, would declare his hand in this fashion, then allow her to enjoy her Season without keeping by her side.

  No one would now think it odd if he kept a safe distance between them.

  “I’ll take you back to Berkeley Square, then I’ll call on Montague and see what he’s learned.”

  Flick nodded, the joy in her eyes dimming. “Time is getting on.”

  Chapter 17

  Time was indeed passing, but not as Flick had hoped.

  Four evenings later, she sat in the shadows of Lady Horatia’s carriage and tried not to feel let down. Any other young lady would be enjoying herself hugely, caught up in the frantic whirl. She’d been to Almack’s, to parties, balls, musicales and soirees. What more could she possibly want?

  The answer was sitting on the seat opposite, clothed in his usual black. As the carriage rocked, his shoulders swayed. She could see his fair hair, and the pale oval of his face, but not his features. Her mind, however, supplied them—set in his customary social mask. Ineffably polite with just a touch of cool hauteur, that mask conveyed mild boredom. No hint of interest, sensual or otherwise, was ever permitted to show.

  Increasingly, Flick wondered if such interest still existed.

  She virtually never
saw him in daylight. Since that drive in the park, he hadn’t called again, nor had he appeared to stroll the lawns by her side. She appreciated he might be busy with other matters, but she hadn’t expected him to bring her here, then leave her so terribly alone.

  If it wasn’t for the twins’ friendship and the warmth of his family, she’d be lost—as alone as she’d been when her parents had died.

  Yet she got the distinct impression he still wished to marry her—that everyone expected they’d soon wed. Her words to the twins haunted her; she’d chosen, but she’d yet to declare her choice. If that choice meant leading a life like this, then she wasn’t at all sure she could stand it.

  The carriage halted, then rocked forward, then halted again, this time under the brilliantly lit portico of Arkdale House. Demon uncoiled his long legs—the door opened and he stepped down, turned and handed her down, then helped his mother from the carriage. Horatia shook out her skirts, smoothed her coiffure, then claimed the butler’s arm and swept inside, leaving Demon to lead Flick in.

  “Shall we?”

  Flick glanced at his face, but it was his mask she saw; his tone held the same boredom. Studiously correct, he offered his arm; inclining her head, she rested her fingertips on his sleeve.

  She kept a sweet smile on her lips as they progressed through the door and on up the curving staircase—and tried not to dwell on his stiff stance, his bent arm held away from his body. It was always thus, these days. No longer did he draw her close, as if she was special to him.

  They greeted Lady Arkdale, then followed Horatia to a chaise by the wall. Demon immediately requested the first cotillion and the first country dance after supper, then melted into the crowd.

  Stifling a sigh, Flick held her head high. It was always the same—he assiduously escorted her to every ball, but all that ever came of it was her laying her hand on his sleeve on the way in, one distant cotillion, one even more distant country dance, a stilted supper surrounded by her admirers, a few glimpses through the crowd, then her placing her hand on his sleeve as they departed. How anyone could imagine there was anything between them—anything with the potential to lead to marriage—she couldn’t comprehend.

  His departure was the signal for her court to gather. Infusing her features with appropriate delight, she set herself to manage the youthful gentlemen who, if she let them, would fawn at her feet.

  In no way different from the evenings that had preceded it, this evening, too, rolled on.

  “I say—careful!”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry.” Flick blushed, quickly shifted her feet, and smiled apologetically at her partner, an earnest young gentleman, Lord Bristol. They were swinging around the floor in a waltz; unfortunately, she found dancing with anyone but Demon more a trial than a delight.

  Because, if she wasn’t dancing with him, she was forever trying to catch glimpses of him as he stood conversing by the side of the floor.

  It was a dreadful habit, one she deplored, one she lectured herself on constantly. To no avail. If he was there, her eyes were drawn to him—she was helpless to prevent it. Luckily, the ton’s ballrooms were large and excessively crowded; a quick glimpse was all she ever caught. Her partners, as far as she knew, had not noticed her fixation.

  Even when she stepped on their toes.

  Inwardly wincing, she sternly told herself to pay attention. She hated the taste her silly behavior left in her mouth. Once again, she was a besotted girl peering through the banisters for a glimpse of him. Her idol. The one man she’d wanted but who’d been out of her reach. More and more, she was starting to feel he was still out of her reach.

  She didn’t like watching him, but she did—compulsively. And what she saw brought no joy. There was inevitably a woman by his side, some hideously beautiful lady, head tilted as she looked into his face, her own creasing into smiles as she laughed at some risqué quip. It only needed a glimpse for her to take it all in—the languidly elegant gestures, the saber-witted remarks, the arrogantly seductive lift of a brow.

  The women pressed close, and he let them. Some even lifted their white hands to his arms, his shoulders, leaning against him while he charmed and teased, employing the seductive wiles he no longer used on her.

  Why she kept looking—fashioning a whip for her own back—she didn’t know. But she did.

  “Do you think the weather will hold fine tomorrow?”

  Flick refocused on Lord Bristol. “I suppose so.” The skies had been blue for a week.

  “I was hoping I might prevail upon you to honor me and my sisters with your presence on a drive to Richmond.”

  Flick smiled gently. “Thank you, but I’m afraid Lady Horatia and I are fully committed tomorrow.”

  “Oh—yes, of course. Just a thought.”

  Flick let regret tinge her smile—and wished it was Demon who’d asked. She didn’t care a fig for the constant round of entertainments; she would have enjoyed a drive to Richmond, but she couldn’t encourage Lord Bristol to imagine he had any chance with her.

  Supper had come and gone; Demon had coolly claimed her, stiffly escorted her into the supper room, then sat by her side and said not a word as her court endeavored to entertain her. This waltz had followed immediately; she performed without thought, waiting for their revolutions to bring them once more in sight of her obsession. He was standing at the end of the room.

  Then Lord Bristol swung her into the turn. She looked—and nearly gasped. Whirling away, she dragged in a breath, struggling to mask her shock. Her lungs constricted; she felt real pain.

  Who was she—the woman all but draped over him? She was stunningly beautiful—dark hair piled high over an exquisite face atop a body that flaunted more sumptuous curves than Flick had imagined possible. Much worse, her cloying closeness, the way she looked into his face, positively screamed their relationship.

  Blissfully unaware, Lord Bristol swung her up the room. Blankness descended, blessed relief from the clawing, shrieking jealousy that had raked her. The change left her dizzy.

  The music faded, the dance came to an end. Lord Bristol released her—she nearly stumbled, only just remembering to curtsy.

  Flick knew she was pale. Inside she was trembling. She smiled weakly at Lord Bristol. “Thank you.” Turning, she walked into the crowd.

  She hadn’t known he had a mistress.

  That word kept repeating in her mind—incessantly. As she tacked through the crowd all but blind, instinct came to her aid; she headed for a group of potted palms. There was no alcove, but in the shadow cast by the large fronds close by the wall, she found sanctuary.

  Not once did she question the correctness of her assumption; she knew she was right. What she didn’t know was what to do. She’d never felt so lost in her life.

  The man she’d just glimpsed, heavy lids at half-mast as he traded sensuous quips with his mistress, was not the man she’d met on Newmarket Heath—the man to whom she’d willingly given herself in the best bedchamber at The Angel.

  Her mind wouldn’t work properly—bits of her problem surfaced, but she couldn’t see the whole.

  “Can’t see her at present, but she’s a pretty little thing. Quite suitable. Now that Horatia’s taken her under her wing, all will, no doubt, go as it should.”

  The words came from the other side of the palms, in accents of matriarchal approval. Flick blinked.

  “Hmm,” came a second voice. “Well, one can hardly accuse him of being besotted, can one?”

  Flick peeked through the fringed leaves—two old ladies were leaning on their sticks, scanning the ballroom.

  “As it should be,” the first intoned. “I’m sure it’s precisely as Hilary Eckles said—he’s had the sense to recognize it’s time for him to take a wife, and he’s chosen well—a gently reared chit, ward of a friend of the family. It’s not a love match, and a good thing, too!”

  “Indeed,” the second old biddy nodded decisively. “So tiresomely emotional, these love matches. Can’t see the sense in them, mys
elf.”

  “Sense?” The first snorted. “That’s because there isn’t any to see. Unfortunately, it’s the latest fashion.”

  “Hmm.” The second lady paused, then, with a puzzled air, said, “Seems odd for a Cynster to be unfashionable, especially on that point.”

  “True, but it appears Horatia’s boy’s the first one in a while to have his head screwed on straight. He may be a hellion but in this, he’s displayed uncommon sense. Well”—the lady gestured—“where would we have been if we’d allowed love to rule us?”

  “Precisely. There’s Thelma—let’s see what she says.”

  The two ladies stumped off, leaning heavily on their canes, but Flick no longer felt safe behind the palms. Her head was still spinning; she didn’t feel all that well. The withdrawing room seemed her safest option.

  She slipped through the crowd, avoiding anyone she knew, especially any Cynsters. Reaching the door to the corridor, she stepped into the shadows. A little maid jumped up from a stool and led her to the room set aside for ladies to refresh themselves.

  The room was brightly lit along one side, which was lined with mirrors, leaving the rest of the room heavily shadowed. Accepting a glass of water from the maid, Flick retreated to a chair in the gloom. Sipping the water, she simply sat. Other ladies came and went; no one noticed her in her dim corner. She started to feel better.

  Then the door swung wide, and Demon’s mistress stepped through. One of the ladies preening before the mirrors saw her; smiling, she turned. “Celeste! And how goes your conquest?”

  Celeste had paused dramatically just inside the door; hands rising to her voluptuous hips, she scanned the room. Her gaze stopped, briefly, on Flick, then lifted to her friend. She smiled, a gesture full of feminine sensuality. “Why it goes, cherie—it goes!”

  The lady before the mirrors laughed; others smiled, too.

  In a sensuous glide that focused attention on her bounteous hips, tiny waist and full breasts, Celeste crossed the room. Stopping before a long mirror, hands on hips, she critically examined her reflection.