A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

Sipping her champagne, Flick abandoned all thoughts of Dillon. Dillon was safe at the cottage, and there he could remain until she and Demon had resolved the imbroglio he had mired them all in. On such a lovely afternoon, she refused to dwell on Dillon. A sense of pleasurable ease held her. A curious warmth, like the glow from a distant fire, enveloped her. It wasn’t the breeze, for her curls didn’t dance, and it wasn’t the sun, for it didn’t affect all of her at once. Instead, it washed like a warm wave over her, leaving her relaxed, oddly expectant.

  In expectation of what she had no idea.

  The fact didn’t worry her—with Demon, so large, so physically powerful beside her, nothing on earth could threaten her.

  The moment was perfect, serene—and strangely intriguing.

  There was something in the air—she sensed it with every pore. Which was odd, for she was hardly a fanciful chit. She was, however, abidingly curious—in this case, abidingly interested. Whatever it was that hung in the air, shimmering like a fairy’s spell in the bright sunshine, almost of this world but not quite substantial enough for mortal eyes to see—whatever that was, she wanted to know it, understand it.

  Whatever it was, she was experiencing it now.

  The buzz of the bees, the murmur of the stream, and that undefined, exciting something held her in silent thrall.

  Demon slowly sat up and reached for the basket. She turned to see him draw out the almost empty bottle. He refilled his glass, then glanced at hers, almost empty. He looked at her face, briefly searching her eyes, then reached over and tipped the last of the wine into her flute.

  It fizzed; she smiled and took a sip.

  The bubbles got up her nose.

  She sneezed. He looked up; she waved his concern aside. She took another, more careful sip as he returned the bottle to the basket, leaving it by the side of the rug. That done, he lay back again, this time propping on one elbow, his glass in his other hand.

  “So,” she asked, shuffling to face him, “how are we going to follow Bletchley?”

  His gaze on the stream, Demon fortified himself with a long sip of champagne, then turned his head and met her gaze, studiously ignoring the expanse of ivory skin, the warm swells promising all manner of earthly delights, now mere inches from his face. “It’s not a hard task. I’ve got Gillies and two stablemen rotating the watch. It’s a small town—now we know what he looks like, and where he’s staying, keeping an eye on him shouldn’t overtax us.”

  “But—” Flick frowned at a nearby willow. “If we don’t learn something soon, won’t he notice? Seeing a particular stableman forever about will surely make him suspicious. Newmarket stablemen don’t have nothing to do.”

  A warm flush swept her shoulders, her breasts. She looked at Demon; he was looking into his glass, his lids veiling his eyes.

  Then he looked at the stream. “You needn’t worry. He’ll presumably be at the Heath during morning and afternoon stables—I’ll watch him there and in the High Street.” He drained his glass. “Gillies and the stablemen will watch him in the inns and taverns—they won’t be so identifiable in a crowd.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps.” Flick stretched her stockinged feet to the sun. “I’ll help, too. About the tracks and in the High Street.” She met Demon’s gaze as he looked up at her. “He won’t suspect a young lady of watching him.”

  He stared at her for a moment, as if he’d lost the thread of the conversation, then he murmured, “Very likely not.” His gaze grew intent; he lifted one hand. “Hold still.”

  She froze so completely that she stopped breathing. A vise clamped about her lungs; her heart stuttered, skipped, then raced. She held quiveringly still as his fingers slid through the curls above one ear, ruffling the locks as he disengaged . . . something. When he withdrew his hand and showed her a long leaf, flicking it onto the grass, she dragged in a breath and smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

  His eyes met hers. “My pleasure.”

  The words were deep, rumbling; the tone set something inside her vibrating. Her gaze trapped in his, she felt flustered panic rise. She looked down and gulped a mouthful of champagne.

  The bubbles hit her again; this time, she nearly choked. Eyes watering, she waved a hand before her face and hauled in a much-needed breath. “I’m really not used to this.” She lifted her glass. “This is all new to me.”

  Demon’s gaze had remained steady, his eyes on hers. His lips lifted lightly. “Yes, I know.”

  Flick felt curiously warm, distinctly light-headed. There was a light in Demon’s eyes, an understanding she couldn’t fathom.

  Demon saw confusion grow in her eyes—he looked away, uncertain of how much of his interest, his curious, newfound obsession with innocence, showed in his. He gestured to the sylvan scene before them and looked at her, his expression easy, controlled. “If you haven’t been here before, you couldn’t have strolled the path by the stream. Shall we?”

  “Oh, yes! Let’s.”

  He retrieved her almost empty glass, drained it, then set both glasses back in the basket. Then he rose and held out his hands to her. “Come. We’ll investigate.”

  She gave him her hands; he drew her to her feet, then led her to where a beaten path followed the meandering stream. They strolled along; she ambled beside him, sometimes ahead of him, furling her parasol when it limited her view of his face. Demon was grateful—the parasol had prevented him from watching her—any of her. They saw a mother duck with a gaggle of tiny ducklings, all paddling furiously in her wake; Flick pointed and exclaimed, and smiled delightedly. A sleek trout broke the rippling surface, chasing a fat fly; a kingfisher swooped out of the shade, dazzling them with his brilliant plumage. Flick grabbed his arm in her excitement, then sighed as the bird flew on down the stream.

  “There’s a bronze dragonfly.”

  “Where?” She searched the banks.

  “Over there.” He leaned close; she leaned closer still, following his pointing finger to where the dragonfly hovered above a patch of reeds. Engrossed, she drew in a breath and held it; he did the same.

  The scent of her washed through him, sweet, fresh—quite unlike the cloying perfumes to which he was accustomed, to which he was immune. Her fragrance was light, airy; it reminded him of lavender and appleblossom, the essence of spring.

  “Ah.” The dragonfly darted away, and she exhaled.

  His head swam.

  She turned to him; they were so close that her skirts brushed his boots. If she took another deep breath, her breasts would touch his coat. His nearness surprised her; she looked up, eyes widening, lips parting on a silent gasp as her breath seized. Her eyes met his—for one fleeting instant, pure awareness invested the soft blue. Then puzzlement seeped in.

  He saw it, but had too much to do holding his own desires in check to attempt a distraction. For the last hours, he’d delighted in her—in her innocence, in the fragile beauty of a female untouched, unawakened. He’d seen, sensed, her first glimmerings of consciousness—of him, of herself, of their inherent sensuality.

  Sensuality was a quality he’d lived with daily for ten years and more; experiencing it anew, through her innocent eyes, had heightened his own far-from-innocent desires.

  Her eyes held his; about them, the pulse of burgeoning spring hummed and throbbed. He felt it in his bones, in his blood. In his loins.

  She felt it, too, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he said nothing, she relaxed, just a little, and smiled, tentatively yet without the slightest fear. “Perhaps we’d better head back.”

  He held her gaze for an instant, then forced himself to nod. “Perhaps we had.”

  His voice had deepened; she threw him another, slightly questioning look. Ignoring it, he took her hand and turned her back along the path.

  By the time they regained the swath of green, Flick’s puzzlement had grown. Absentmindedly, she helped him fold the rug, then, picking up her parasol, followed him to the curricle.

  After stowing the basket and rug, he returned to where she w
aited by the curricle’s side, her frowning gaze fixed on the grass where they’d lain. She looked up as he halted beside her. She said nothing, but her frown was etched in her eyes. He saw it, and read her unvoiced questions with ease.

  He had a very good idea what she was feeling—the disconcerting uncertainty, the nervous confusion. She was so open, so trusting, that she thought nothing of showing her vulnerability to him. He knew all the questions crowding her mind—the questions she couldn’t begin to formulate.

  He knew the answers, too.

  She waited, her eyes on his, clearly hoping for some hint as to what it was she sensed. Her stance was both a demand and a plea—a clear wish to know.

  Her face was tilted up to him; her tapered chin was firm. Her full lips, tinted delicate rose, beckoned. The soft blue of her eyes, clouded by the first flush of desire, promised heaven and more.

  If he’d stopped to think, he would never have risked it, but the web of her innocence held him, compelled him—assured him this was simple, straightforward, uncomplicated.

  His eyes locked with hers, he slowly lifted one hand and gently framed her jaw. Her breath caught; deliberately, still moving with mesmerizing slowness, he brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. The contact shook her—and him; he instinctively tightened his hold on his demons. Their gazes held, hers unwaveringly curious.

  He drew in a shallow breath and slowly lowered his head, giving her plenty of time to balk. Other than tightening her grip on her parasol, she moved not at all. Her gaze dropped to his lips; she sucked in a breath, only to have it tangle in her throat. Her lashes fluttered, then lowered; her eyes shut on a sigh as his lips touched hers.

  It was the most delicate kiss he could remember sharing—a communion of lips, nothing more. Hers were soft, as delicate as they looked, intensely feminine. He brushed them once, twice, then covered them, increasing the pressure only slightly, aware to his bones of her youth.

  He was about to draw back, to bring the light caress to an end, when her lips moved beneath his—in clear response, artless, untutored. Enthralling.

  She kissed him back—gently, tentatively—her question as clear as it had been in her eyes.

  Without thought, he responded, the hand framing her jaw tightening, holding her face steady as he shifted closer, angling his head as he deepened the kiss.

  Her lips parted under his.

  Just a little—just enough for him to taste her. He ran the tip of his tongue over her lower lip, caressing the soft flesh within, then briefly stroked her tongue, teasing her senses, already taut, quiveringly tight.

  They quaked; she shuddered delicately, then stepped closer, so her breasts met his chest, her hips his thighs. Completely trusting, she leaned into him, into his strength.

  Demon’s head reeled; his blood pounded urgently. The need to close his arms about her—to lock her against him and mold her to him—was almost overwhelming.

  But she was too young, too innocent, too new to this game for that.

  His demons wailed and demanded—with what wit he had left he fought to deny them.

  Even while he fell deeper into their kiss.

  Unaware of his problem, Flick reveled in the sudden heat that suffused her, in the heady sense of male strength that surrounded her, in the firm touch of his lips on hers, on the sensual slide of his tongue between her lips.

  This was a kiss—the sort of kiss she’d heard maids giggling over, a kiss that slowly curled her toes. It was enthralling, demanding yet unfrightening, an experience of the senses.

  The vicar’s son had once kissed her—or tried to. That had been nothing like this. There had been no magic shimmering in the air, no skittering sensations assailing her nerves. And none of the excitement slowly growing within her, as if this was a beginning, not an end.

  The idea intrigued her, but Demon’s lips, firm, almost hard, cool yet imparting heat, effortlessly held her attention, denying all her efforts to think. Leaning against him, her only certainty was a feeling of gratitude—that he’d consented to show her what could be, not just in a kiss but in one glorious afternoon of simple pleasure.

  The sort of pleasure a man and a woman could share, if the man knew what he was about. She was immensely grateful to him for explaining, for demonstrating, for enlightening her ignorance. Now, in the future, she’d know what to look for—know where to set her standards.

  As for today, she’d enjoyed his tutelage, enjoyed the afternoon—and this kiss. Immensely.

  Her unrestrained, open appreciation very nearly overwhelmed Demon. Inwardly shaking with the effort of resisting the powerful instincts that had for so long been a part of him, he finally realized his hand had fallen from her face to her shoulder. Raising his other hand, he gripped her upper arm as well and gently eased her back from him. Then, with gentle care and a reluctance he felt to his soul, he drew back and ended the kiss.

  He was breathing too fast. He watched as her lids fluttered, then rose to reveal eyes a much brighter blue than before. She met his gaze; he prayed she couldn’t read his state. He attempted a suave smile. “So now you know.”

  She blinked. Before she could speak, he turned her to the curricle. “Come—we should return to Hillgate End.”

  He drove her back directly. To his surprise, she was patently unflustered, sitting beside him, her parasol open, sweetly smiling at the sunwashed countryside.

  If anyone was flustered, it seemed it was he. He still felt disoriented, nerves and muscles twitching. By the time he turned the bays through the gates of Hillgate End, he was inwardly frowning, and feeling a touch grim.

  He wasn’t at all sure what had happened that afternoon, especially not who or what had instigated the proceedings. He’d certainly organized to spend a comfortable, enjoyable afternoon with an angel, but he couldn’t remember deciding to seduce her.

  Things had not gone according to any plan of his.

  Which was possibly not surprising—in this sphere, he was a rank amateur. He’d never dallied with anyone so young, so untouched—so damned innocent—before. Which was at least half his problem—half the reason he was increasingly attracted to her. She was a very fresh taste to his definitely jaded palate; awakening her was a rare pleasure, a sweet delight.

  But seducing an innocent carried responsibility—a heavy, unavoidable responsibility he’d happily steered clear of for all his years. He didn’t want to change—had no intention of changing. He was happy with his life as it was.

  The taste of her—apple and delicate spice—returned to him, and had him stiffening. Swallowing a curse, he drew the bays up before the front steps. He tied off the reins and stepped down; rounding the carriage, he helped her down.

  She smoothed her skirts, then straightened and smiled—gloriously, openly, entirely without guile. “Thank you for a delightful afternoon.”

  He stared at her, conscious to his bones of a demonic urge to taste her again. It took all his concentration to maintain a suitably impassive mien, to take the hand she held out to him, squeeze it gently—and let go.

  With a nod, he turned back to the curricle. “I’ll keep you informed of anything we learn. Do convey my respects to the General.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She watched him drive away, a smile on her lips; as the shadows of the drive enclosed him, a frown settled on Demon’s face.

  He was still frowning when he reached home.

  Chapter 6

  Demon ran Gillies to earth later that evening in the crowded tap of the Swan; he was nursing a pint and keeping a watchful eye on Bletchley. Their quarry was part of a genial group crowding one corner. Demon slid onto the bench beside Gillies. “Any action?”

  “Nah. He went back to the Ox and Plough this afternoon, seemingly to check the post. He got a letter. Looked like he was expecting it.”

  “Did he leave it there?”

  Glancing at Bletchley, Gillies shook his head. “He’s got it on him, in an inside waistcoat pocket. He’s taking no chances
of losing it.”

  Demon sipped his beer. “What did he do after he got it?”

  “Perked up, he did, and bustled right out again, back to the Heath for afternoon stables.”

  Demon nodded. “I saw him there—it looked like he had Robinson’s string in his sights.”

  “Aye—that’s my thought, too.” Gillies took another long pull from his pint. “Robinson’s got at least two favored runners in the Spring Carnival.”

  “I didn’t see Bletchley approach any of the riders.”

  “Nor did I.”

  “Did he make contact with any gentlemen?”

  “Not that I saw. And I’ve had him in sight since he came down the stairs this morning.”

  Demon nodded, Flick’s warning in mind. “Stay at the stud tomorrow. Cross can follow Bletchley to morning stables—I’ll take over after that.”

  “Aye.” Gillies drained his pint. “It wouldn’t do for him to get too familiar with my face.”

  Over the next three days, together with Cross and Hills, two of his stablemen, Demon and Gillies kept an unwavering watch on Bletchley. With activity on the Heath increasing in preparation for the Craven meeting—the official Spring Carnival of the English racing calendar—there was reason aplenty for Demon to be about the tracks and stables, evaluating his string and those of his major rivals. From atop Ivan the Terrible, keeping Bletchley in view in the relatively flat, open areas surrounding the Heath was easy; increasingly, it was Demon who kept their quarry in sight for most of the day. Gillies, Cross and Hills took turns keeping an unrelenting but unobtrusive watch at all other times, from the instant Bletchley came down for breakfast, to the time he took his candle and climbed the stairs to bed.

  Bletchley remained unaware of their surveillance, his obliviousness at least partly due to his concentration on the job in hand. He was careful not to be too overt in approaching the race jockeys, often spending hours simply watching and noting. Looking, Demon suspected, for any hint of a hold, any susceptibility with which to coerce the selected jockeys into doing his masters’ bidding.