A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  His lips lifted in a slight smile. “So you did.”

  Flick stifled a sniff at his tone; she had, indeed, expected his thanks, once he’d had time to consider, to realize what his offer would have meant. She supposed he would marry sometime, but he was only thirty-one, and he definitely didn’t want to marry her.

  But he made no further comment. Instead, he lounged, shoulders propped against the wall, and, with the same lazy, unnerving air, watched her place her flowers. As the silence stretched, it occurred to her that perhaps he thought she didn’t fully appreciate the sacrifice he’d been prepared to make. “It’s not that I’m not grateful.” She kept her gaze firmly fixed on her blooms.

  Her comment succeeded in dissipating a little of his indolence. She felt the sudden focusing of his attention.

  “Grateful?”

  She continued to snip and set. “For your kind offer to save my reputation. I appreciate it would have entailed a considerable sacrifice on your part—thankfully, there was no need.”

  His gaze locked on her profile, Demon fought to remain where he was—and not haul her into his arms and kiss her, just to shut her up. “Sacrifice? Actually, I hadn’t viewed taking you to wife in quite that light.”

  “Hadn’t you?” She blinked at him in patent surprise, then smiled and turned back to her flowers. “I dare say you would have, once you’d stopped to think the idea through.”

  Demon simply stared at her. He’d never felt so . . . dismissed in his life.

  “Luckily, there was no reason for worry. I did tell you so.”

  Luckily for her, what next he might have said, and done, neither of them were destined to learn; Jacobs appeared in the doorway with the information that lunch was awaiting them in the dining parlor.

  Flick led the way. Demon no longer expected anything else; he prowled just behind her, making no effort to fully catch up—in his present mood, it was probably wisest if she remained just out of reach.

  Lunch was not a success.

  Flick grew increasingly impatient with their guest as the meal progressed. He contributed nothing to the conversation beyond answering questions the General threw his way. Instead, broodingly intent, he watched her, as if studying some incomprehensible being of whom he nevertheless disapproved, leaving her to chatter with increasingly feigned brightness until her head ached.

  By the time the meal ended and they pushed back their chairs, she was ready to snap at him—if he deigned to give her the chance.

  “Well, m’boy—let me know if you detect any weakness in those horses.” The General shook hands with Demon, then smiled at Flick. “Why don’t you see Demon to the stable, m’dear? It’s a lovely day out there.” With his usual benign smile, the General waved at the French doors, open to the terrace. “Enjoy the fine weather while you may.”

  Across the table, Flick met Demon’s level gaze. The last thing she wanted to do was, all sweet comfort, accompany him to the stable—she was annoyed with him, at the way he was behaving. It was as if he’d been denied something he wanted, for heaven’s sake. He was sulking! All because things hadn’t gone as he’d planned—because she’d rescripted his grand gesture for him, and he hadn’t got to play the role he’d expected. That of heroic sacrifice.

  Drawing a deep breath, she held it; lips compressed, she held his gaze challengingly. Very nearly belligerently.

  He merely raised one brow—even more challengingly, more defiantly; stepping back, he gestured to the terrace.

  Flick could almost hear the gauntlet thud down on the table between them.

  Lifting her head, she stepped around the table, preceding him out the doors, down the steps and across the lawn. Pacing briskly, irritatedly, she was halfway across the lawn before she realized he wasn’t with her.

  Abruptly stopping, she glanced back. He was strolling slowly, leisurely, exceedingly unhurriedly, in her distant wake. Gritting her teeth, she waited, and waited, for him to catch up. The instant he did, she turned and, elevating her nose to an angle worthy of her ire, she matched her pace to his, strolling at crawling pace just ahead of him.

  Two paces later, a warm flush washed over her nape, exposed above her neckline. The odd sensation drifted lower, spreading across her shoulders, then sliding down her spine. It lingered in the hollow of her waist, then, at a telling pace, washed lower, and yet lower—

  She caught her breath and stopped to brush an imaginary wrinkle from her skirts. The instant Demon drew level with her, she straightened and stepped out—at his side—praying her fading blush was no longer visible.

  Biting her tongue against all manner of heated phrases, she preserved a tense silence. He strolled calmly beside her and gave her not one opening to snipe at him.

  The grooms saw them as they emerged from beneath the wisteria, and they ran to get his bays.

  Halting at the entrance to the stable yard, Flick’s patience came to an end. “I can’t see why you’re not grateful,” she hissed. She kept her gaze on the grooms as they fussed with his horses.

  “Can’t you? Perhaps that’s the problem.”

  “There isn’t any problem.”

  “Permit me to disagree.” He paused, then added, “Aside from anything else, you’re glaring.”

  She whirled and faced him. “I’m glaring at you.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “You are impossible!”

  “Me?”

  For an instant, his blue eyes blinked wide—she could actually imagine he was sincere in his surprise. Swiftly, his eyes searched hers; his gaze sharpened. “Tell me,” he murmured, glancing at the lads harnessing the bays, “do you think to marry Dillon eventually?”

  “Dillon?” She stared at him, unmindful of the fact that her mouth had fallen open. “Marry Dillon? You are out of your mind. As if I’d marry such a . . . a . . . nobody—an inconsequential boy. A man of no real substance. A nincompoop! A—”

  “All right—forget I asked.”

  “For your information, I have no intention of marrying any gentleman unless I want to. I will certainly not marry simply because of some nonsensical social stricture.” Her voice cracked with the effort of screaming in whispers. She drew breath and forged on, “And as for your offer—well, you might as well say I must marry because of a mouse!”

  The bays came trotting up, led by an eager groom. Tersely, Demon nodded his thanks and took the reins. Climbing to the box seat, he sat and looked at her.

  Eyes kindling, she tartly remarked, “I can’t see why you aren’t grateful—you know perfectly well you don’t want to marry me.”

  He looked down at her, his expression like stone, his eyes hard as blue diamonds. He held her defiant gaze, then his chest swelled.

  “You have no idea,” he murmured, his diction frighteningly precise, “what I want at all.”

  He clicked the reins; the bays surged. He swept out of the stable yard and bowled away down the drive.

  Chapter 8

  “I wondered if you’d care for a drive?”

  Gasping, Flick whirled; the large vase she was carrying shook, slipped—

  Demon reached out and steadied it; his fingers brushed hers.

  Flick trembled. She drew her hands away, leaving him holding the vase. Standing in the sunshine streaming through the gallery windows, she stared at him, disjointed phrases tangling on her tongue. She wanted to rail at him for creeping up on her—again. She wanted to scowl or at least frown—she hadn’t forgiven him for his behavior of yesterday.

  She wanted to ask what he’d meant by his parting comment. “A drive?” Her head was still whirling.

  He shrugged, his lids veiling his eyes. “Just a tool about the lanes for half an hour or so.”

  She drew in a steadying breath. Twenty-four hours had passed since he’d driven away—twenty-four hours in which she’d thought of little else but him. Swinging to the windows, she looked out on another glorious spring day. Simultaneously, she felt the warm flush she was growing accustomed to slide down her bac
k.

  “The breeze is warm. You won’t need a spencer.”

  Just as well; she didn’t have one that wouldn’t look hideous with this gown—white mull muslin sprinkled with tiny gold and purple daisies. Flick nodded, determination filling her. “A drive would be very nice.”

  She turned to face him—he was still holding the vase.

  “Where do you want this?”

  She gestured down the gallery. “If you’ll put it on the table at the end, I’ll get my parasol and meet you in the hall.”

  She didn’t wait for his nod but headed for her room—her steps eager, her heart lighter, even if she’d yet to meet his eyes directly. They had to get past this silly hitch in their friendship, over the hurdle of yesterday—a drive would be a good start.

  A good start to what she was no longer sure by the time Demon turned his bays back up the manor drive. She’d imagined they’d simply slide back to their earlier, easy friendship—she’d expected, after the initial, inevitable stiffness evaporated, to once again encounter the teasing light she’d so often seen in his blue eyes.

  Instead . . .

  Angling her parasol, she studied his face as he tooled the curricle up the drive. Shadows from the enclosing trees wreathed his features, but they did nothing to soften the patriarchal lines of his nose and chin. His was an angular face, high cheekbones shadowing the long planes of his cheeks, a broad forehead above large eyes. A hard face, its austerity seductively flavored by the frankly sensual line of his thin lips, the brooding languor of his heavy lids.

  She had never really looked, not so deeply. His had been the face of a man she’d thought she’d known. She was no longer so sure of that.

  Realigning her parasol, she looked ahead as they swept out of the trees and bowled along beside the lawns. The end of the drive was in sight, and she’d yet to understand why his teasing looks had been replaced by glances much more direct, much more unnerving. Much more intent. She’d yet to determine where he thought they were heading. Only then could she decide whether she agreed with him or not.

  Demon sent the bays into a tight curve so that the curricle fetched up neatly before the steps. He tied off the reins and stepped down, hiding his satisfied smile, along with his awareness of the puzzled looks Flick continued to direct his way.

  Strolling around the carriage, he helped her down; releasing her hand, he strolled beside her up the steps. Glancing at her, he met her blue gaze, his expression mild and urbane. “If you would, tell the General that I’m checking into those horses he mentioned yesterday. I’ll call on him tomorrow.”

  She searched his eyes, then nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  He smiled easily. “I hope you enjoyed our drive.”

  “Oh—yes. It was very pleasant. Thank you.”

  His smile deepened. “Your enjoyment is all the thanks I need.” Reaching beyond her, he jangled the doorbell. Releasing it, he held her gaze for an instant, then bowed, exquisitely correct. “I’ll leave you then. Good-bye.”

  He turned and strolled down the steps, her hesitant farewell drifting after him. The front door opened as he climbed into the curricle and took up the reins; as he wheeled his team, he glimpsed her, parasol still open, standing on the steps watching him drive away.

  His lips curved. It wasn’t difficult to envision the look on her face—the puzzled frown in her big blue eyes. Smiling more definitely, he whipped up his horses and headed for the Heath.

  He returned to the manor at eleven o’clock the next morning, ostensibly to see the General.

  Jacobs opened the door to him; Demon crossed the threshold to discover a sermon in progress. Fittingly, it was being delivered by the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Pemberton, a trenchantly good-hearted lady. Her venue was the front hall, her audience Mrs. Fogarty and Jacobs, who, Demon noted, had left the front door wide open. He deduced Mrs. Pemberton was on the point of departure.

  His appearance proved a distraction, making Mrs. Pemberton lose her thread. Then she recognized him and regrouped. “Mr. Cynster! Perfect!”

  Demon suppressed a wince.

  Mrs. Pemberton bustled up. “I’ve just been asking after the General—I understand he’s presently ‘not to be disturbed.’ ” Casting a severe glance at Fogarty, Mrs. Pemberton laid a hand on Demon’s sleeve. “I have a very important message for him—I would take it most kindly if you would convey it to him when next you have the pleasure of seeing him.”

  Mrs. Pemberton was no fool. Taking the hand she offered, Demon shook it. “Only too pleased, ma’am.” He could hardly refuse.

  “Excellent. Now my point is this—” She fixed her eye on Fogarty. “Thank you—I won’t need to disturb you further, Mrs. Fogarty.”

  Fogarty sent a meaningful look Demon’s way, then curtsied and withdrew.

  Turning, Mrs. Pemberton fixed her sights on Jacobs. “Mr. Cynster will see me to the door. Please convey my compliments to Miss Parteger when she comes in.”

  Jacobs stiffened but had to bow, close the door, and withdraw, too.

  Mrs. Pemberton sighed and met Demon’s eye. “I know they’re only trying to protect the General, but really! He can’t simply go to ground in his library all the time—not when he’s the guardian of a young lady.”

  Elegantly, Demon gestured to the padded seat lining the alcove at the rear of the hall. Mrs. Pemberton consented to sit. Folding her hands over her reticule, she fixed her gaze on his face as he sat alongside her.

  “My purpose in calling is to bring the General to an understanding of his duties in relation to Miss Parteger. It’s all gone reasonably well until now, but she’s reached an age where he really needs to take a more active role.”

  Demon raised his brows innocently, encouragingly.

  Mrs. Pemberton pursed her lips. “That girl must be nineteen if she’s a day, and she barely sets foot outside this house, at least not in a social sense. We—the ladies of the district—have done all we can in sending invitations to Hillgate End, but, thus far, the General has refused to bestir himself.” Mrs. Pemberton’s double chins firmed. “I’m afraid that’s not good enough. It would be a crying shame if that lovely girl is left to molder into an old maid purely because the General won’t shake himself out of his library and properly perform his duties as a guardian.”

  “Hmm,” Demon replied, entirely noncommittal.

  “I particularly wished to speak with him because I’m hosting a small dance at the vicarage—just for the local young people—three evenings from now. We—the other ladies and I—think it absolutely vital that the General puts more effort into taking Miss Parteger about. How else will the poor girl ever find a husband?”

  Spreading her hands, she appealed to Demon; luckily, she didn’t expect a reply.

  “The dance at the vicarage will be just the way to start—not too many people to overwhelm the child. Will you carry my message to the General? And, perhaps, if you could put the argument that he really needs to pay more attention to Miss Parteger’s future?”

  Demon met her gaze, then nodded decisively. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good!” Mrs. Pemberton beamed as Demon walked her to the door. “I’ll be off, then. If you see her, do mention to Miss Parteger that I called.”

  Demon inclined his head as Mrs. Pemberton took her leave, considering her parting words.

  He would, he decided, tell Miss Parteger she’d called, but not immediately.

  Turning, he sauntered toward the library.

  Half an hour later, he found Flick in the back parlor. She was ensconced amid the cushions on the settee, her legs curled under her skirts, a dish of shelled nuts on a side table beside her. She was reading a book, utterly absorbed. He watched as, without taking her eyes from the page, she reached out and picked up a nut; without missing a word, she brought the nut to her lips and popped it into her mouth, continuing to read as she crunched.

  With Mrs. Pemberton’s sermon ringing in his head, he scanned the round blue gown presently concealing Miss Parteger�
��s charms. While her wardrobe would not qualify as “all the crack,” there was, to his mind, nothing whatever amiss with her simple gowns. Their very simplicity enhanced, underscored and emphasized the beauty of the body within.

  Which, he’d decided, was all definitely to his taste.

  The body, the beauty, and her simple gowns. Pushing away from the doorframe, he strolled into the room.

  Flick looked up with a start. “Oh! Hello.” She started to smile one of her innocently welcoming smiles, but as he halted before her, full awareness struck, and the tenor of her greeting changed. She still smiled in welcome, but her eyes were watchful, her smile more controlled.

  He returned the gesture easily, inwardly pleased that she was, at long last, starting to see him differently. “I’ve finished talking horses with the General. He invited me to lunch and I’ve accepted. It’s lovely outside—I wondered if you’d care to stroll until the gong?”

  With him there, large as life, asking, she really had very little choice. While one part of Flick’s mind acidly noted that fact, another part was rejoicing, eager to further explore their new, oddly thrilling, not-quite-safe interaction. She didn’t understand it—she’d yet to determine where he thought he was headed. But she wanted to know. “Yes—by all means, let’s stroll.”

  She gave him her hand and let him pull her to her feet. Minutes later, they were on the lawn, ambling side by side.

  “Has anything happened with Bletchley?”

  Demon shook his head. “All he’s done is make tentative overtures toward a number of jockeys.”

  “Nothing else?”

  Again he shook his head. “They seem to be concentrating on the Craven meeting, and that’s still weeks away. I suspect the syndicate will have given Bletchley time to make the arrangements—it’s possible his masters won’t put in an appearance down here just yet.”

  “You think they’ll leave it until closer to the meeting to check on Bletchley’s success?”