“Closer, but not too close. It takes time to put all the players in place to milk the maximum return from a fix.”
“Hmm.” Pondering that fact, and the likelihood that Dillon would have to remain in the ruined cottage for some weeks yet, Flick frowned into the distance.
“Have you ever been to London?”
“London?” She blinked. “Only when I stayed with my aunt just after my parents died. I was only there for a few weeks, I think.”
“I confess myself amazed that you’ve never succumbed to the urge to cut a dash in the capital.”
She turned her head and studied him; to her surprise, he wasn’t teasing—his gaze was steady, his expression open—well, as open as it ever was. “I . . .” She considered, then shrugged. “I’ve never really thought of it. It’s all so far away and unknown. Indeed”—she raised her brows—“I’m not even sure what ‘cutting a dash’ entails.”
Demon grinned. “Being noticed by society due to one’s dress, or exploits.”
“Or conquests?”
His smile deepened. “That, too.”
“Ah, well. That explains my disinterest, then. I’m not particularly interested in any of those things.”
Demon couldn’t restrain his smile. “A young lady uninterested in dresses and conquests—my dear, you’ll break the matchmakers’ hearts.”
Her expression as she shrugged said she cared not a whit.
“But,” he continued, “I’m surprised you don’t like dancing—most ladies who enjoy riding also enjoy a turn about the dance floor.”
She grimaced. “I haven’t spent much time dancing. There aren’t a lot of balls around here, you know.”
“But there are the usual dances. I vaguely remember my great-aunt prodding me to attend a few many years ago.”
“Well, yes—there are dances and the odd ball as one might expect. We do get cards periodically. But the General is always so busy.”
“Does he even see the cards?”
Flick glanced up, but she could read nothing in his very blue eyes. Still . . . she tilted her chin. “I deal with his correspondence. There’s no point bothering him with such invitations—he’s never attended such affairs.”
“Hmm.” Demon glanced at her face—what he could see beneath her golden halo. Without warning, he reached for her hand; stepping swiftly, he raised it and twirled her, unsurprised that, startled though she was, she reacted smoothly, graceful and surefooted, innately responsive.
He met her wide eyes as she slowed to a halt, her billowing skirts subsiding. “I really think,” he murmured, lowering her hand, “that you’ll enjoy dancing.”
Flick hid a frown and wondered if that remark was intended to be cryptic. Before she could pursue it, the gong for lunch echoed over the lawn.
Demon offered his arm. “Shall we join the General?”
They did. Sitting at the dining table with the General to her right and Demon opposite was a familiar, comfortable situation. Flick relaxed; her nerves, in recent times slightly tense whenever Demon was near, eased. Chatting with her usual effervescence, she felt subtlely more in control.
Until the General laid down his fork and fixed her with a direct look. “Mrs. Pemberton called this morning.”
“Oh?” Flick knew she had—that was why she’d taken refuge in the back parlor. But she was genuinely surprised that the General knew—she, Foggy and Jacobs had a longstanding agreement to ensure the local matrons didn’t bother him with their demands.
She scanned the room, but Jacobs had withdrawn. Had Mrs. Pemberton bullied her way past their defenses?
“Hmm,” the General went on. “Seems she’s giving a dance for the local young people. Us older folk are allowed to come and watch.” He caught Flick’s startled eye. “I rather think we should attend, don’t you?”
Flick didn’t—she foresaw all sorts of complications. Including the likelihood of the General learning just how many similar invitations he’d refused in recent times. She glanced at Demon, and was struck by inspiration. “I really don’t have anything to wear.”
The General chuckled. “I thought you might say that, so I had a word with Mrs. Fogarty—she tells me there’s a very good dressmaker in the High Street. She’ll go with you tomorrow and see about a dress.”
“Oh.” Flick blinked. The General was smiling at her, a hopeful question in his eyes. “Er . . . thank you.”
Delighted, he patted her hand. “I’m quite looking forward to the outing—haven’t been about in years, it seems. Used to enjoy it when Margery was alive. Now I’m too old to dance myself, I’m looking forward to sitting and watching you take to the floor.”
Flick stared at him; guilt at having deprived him of innocent enjoyment for years tickled at her mind—but she couldn’t quite believe it. He didn’t like socializing—he’d given his opinion on the mesdames of the district, and their entertainments, often enough. She couldn’t understand what had got into his head. “But . . .” She grabbed her last straw. “I don’t know any of the local gentlemen well enough to stand up with them.”
“Oh, you won’t have to worry about that. Demon here has offered to accompany us—he’ll stand up with you, teach you a few steps, and all that. Just what you need.”
Flick didn’t think so. Blank-faced, she looked at Demon. He met her gaze, the quality of the smile in his eyes stating louder than words that it was he who had got into the General’s head.
Despite the fact that his eyes were blue, Flick saw red. But he had her trussed up tight—no matter how she wriggled, the General stood firm. And as it quickly became clear he was, beneath his placid exterior, gruffly worried about her lack of social experience, she found herself acquiescing with a sweetness entirely out of step with her temper.
Her tormentor, of course, beat a strategic retreat once he’d secured his goal. Flick gritted her teeth—she would now have to learn to dance—with him. Excusing himself on the grounds that he wanted to be early to the Heath for afternoon stables, he left them at the table.
All her steel went out of her once he’d gone. She chatted easily with the General, while making a very large, very red mental note to tell his protégé just what she thought of his maneuvering, especially his fostering of the General’s worry, the instant she next had a moment alone with him.
That moment did not occur until they were standing by the side of the vicarage drawing room, with every eye in the room upon them. Flick stood, head up, hands lightly clasped, beside the General’s chair. Demon, large, lean and hideously elegant, stood immediately by her side.
The stares directed her way, while disconcerting, did not greatly surprise Flick; the vision she presented had stunned her, too. All she’d done was don her new dress and the aquamarine necklace and earrings the General had given her for her last birthday, but the resulting vision that had stared back at her from her mirror had been a revelation.
She’d dutifully gone to the dressmaker with Foggy, a sudden convert to the notion of a dance. The dressmaker, Clotilde, had been surprisingly ready to put aside her other work to create a suitable gown for her. Suitable, Clotilde had insisted, meant pale blue silk, the exact same shade as her eyes. Imagining the cost, she’d demurred, suggesting a fine voile, but Clotilde had waved that aside and named a price that had been impossible to refuse. She’d agreed on the silk, only to be surprised again.
The dress whispered about her, sliding over her in quite a different way from the fine cottons she was used to. It clung, and shifted, and slithered; it was cool and at the same time warm. As for how she appeared in it—she hadn’t recognized the slender, golden-haired beauty blinking huge blue eyes at her.
The color of the dress highlighted her eyes, making them appear larger, wider; the texture emphasized curves she normally paid very little attention to.
Demon, on the other hand, had paid a great deal of attention—to her, to those curves, to her eyes. When she’d descended the stairs and found him waiting in the hall, he’d blinked, the
n slowly smiled. Too intently for her liking. He’d come forward, handing her down the last stairs, then twirling her before him.
As she’d slowed, then halted, he’d trapped her gaze, lifted her hand, and brushed his lips across her fingertips. “Very nice,” he’d purred, his blue eyes alight.
She’d felt like a blancmange he was just about to eat. Luckily, the General had appeared, and she’d escaped to fuss over him.
Their journey to Lidgate had been filled with the usual discussion of horses, but once they’d entered the vicarage, that subject was, by tacit agreement, not further pursued. Mrs. Pemberton had greeted them with great good cheer—she’d been particularly delighted to welcome Demon.
Flick slid a glance his way; he was idly scanning the room, slowly filling as more guests arrived. The General had insisted they be on time, so they’d been among the first to arrive. But the rest had followed on their heels; since taking up their positions, they’d had no chance to converse, too busy nodding politely as new arrivals nodded at them.
And stared. Half stared at her—the rest stared at him.
Hardly surprising. He was wearing black, a color that rendered his fair hair a brilliant blonde and deepened the blue of his eyes. The severe cut of his coat, pearl satin waistcoat and trousers emphasized his height, the breadth of his shoulders, his long, strong legs. He always looked elegant, but usually in a lazy, negligent way. Tonight, he was every inch the London rake, a predator stepped straight from the ton’s ballrooms to prowl the vicarage dance floor.
Flick inwardly grinned at the thought.
As if sensing her gaze, he glanced down at her, then raised a quizzical brow. She hesitated, but with the General so close, she couldn’t upbraid him as he deserved for getting her into this—into this room, into this gown, into this situation. With a speaking glance, she elevated her chin and haughtily looked away.
Mrs. Pemberton materialized before them. “Allow me to present Mrs. March and her family from the Grange.”
Mrs. March nodded approvingly at Flick’s curtsy, smiled appreciatively at Demon’s elegant bow, then turned to chat with the General.
“And this is Miss March, who we all know as Kitty.” A young girl in a white dress blushed furiously and curtsied.
“And her friend, Miss Avril Collins.”
The second young lady, a brunette in yellow muslin, curtsied rather more assuredly.
“And Henry, who is squiring his sister and Miss Collins tonight.”
Henry was obviously a March, as fair as his sister. He blushed furiously while executing the stiffest bow Flick had ever seen. “It’s a g-great pleasure, M-Miss Parteger.”
Mrs. Pemberton turned away; a second later, together with Mrs. March, she led the General away to where the older guests were gathering to chat and gossip.
“I say—have you lived in these parts long?”
Flick turned to find Henry March earnestly regarding her. His sister, too, lifting her gaze from a perusal of her blue silk gown, looked interested in the question.
Not so Avril Collins, who was brazenly looking interested in Demon.
“Most of my life,” Flick answered, her gaze on Avril Collins’s face. “I live with the General at Hillgate End, south of the racecourse.”
Avril’s pouting lips—they had to be rouged—lifted in a little smile. “I know,” she said on a breathless giggle, one finger reaching out to tap Demon’s coat, “that you live in London, Mr. Cynster.”
Flick glanced at Demon’s face. He smiled—not a smile she was used to, but one coolly, distantly polite.
“Actually, I live in London only part of the time. The rest of the time I live near Hillgate End.”
“The General keeps a studbook, doesn’t he?” Henry March appealed to Flick. “That must be exciting—do you help him keep track of the horses?”
Flick smiled. “It is interesting, but I don’t help all that much. Of course, all the talk in the house is about horses.”
Henry’s eager expression suggested such a household was his idea of heaven.
“Oh, horses!” Avril wrinkled her nose and cast an openly inviting glance at Demon. “Don’t you find them the most boring of creatures?”
“No.” Demon met her gaze. “I breed them.”
Flick could almost feel sorry for Avril Collins—Demon purposely let the silence stretch for one exceedingly uncomfortable instant, then turned to Henry March. “I own the stud farm to the west of the Lidgate road. Stop by some time if you’re interested. If I’m not there, my foreman will show you around. Just mention my name.”
“T-thank you,” Henry stammered. “I’d l-like that immensely.”
Mrs. Pemberton appeared with another group of young people. The fresh round of introductions allowed Kitty March to remove her unfortunate friend. Kitty tugged at her brother’s sleeve, but he frowned at her, then returned to his open adoration of Flick.
In that pursuit he was joined by the two male members of the new group, both young gentlemen from nearby estates. Somewhat disconcerted by their soulful looks, Flick did her best to encourage rational conversation, only to be defeated by their patent silliness.
Their silliness, however, was nothing compared to their sisters’ witlessness, their vapidity. Flick was not sure which she found more distracting.
“No.” She drew a patient breath. “I don’t watch every race. The Jockey Club sends all the results to the General.”
“Do you get to name all the new foals?” One of the young ladies stared wide-eyed up at Demon.
Wearily resigned, he raised his brows. “I suppose I do.”
“Oh! That must be so wonderful.” The young damsel clasped her hands to her breast. “Thinking up sweet names for all those lovely little foals, staggering around on their shaky legs.”
Flick immediately looked back at her group of swains. “Do any of you come to Newmarket to see the races?”
She struggled on, racking her brain for topics on which they might have more than two words to contribute. Most of such topics concerned racing, horses and carriages—within minutes, Demon insinuated a comment into their conversation. A minute later, he somehow managed to merge the two groups, which left the young ladies a trifle miffed, but they didn’t move away.
Which was a pity, as Mrs. Pemberton arrived with another wave of admirers, both for her and Demon. Flick found herself facing five males, while Demon had his hands full, figuratively speaking, with six young girls. And one not-so-young, not-so-innocent young madam.
“What a delightful surprise, Mr. Cynster, to discover a gentleman of your standing at a gathering such as this. In case you missed my name, I’m Miss Henshaw.”
The throaty voice had Flick quickly turning.
“I say—you ride that pretty little mare, don’t you? The one with the white hocks.”
Distracted, Flick glanced back at one of the new male additions. “Yes. That’s Jessamy.”
“Do you jump her?”
“Not especially.”
“Well, you should. I’ve seen conformations like that around the traps—she’ll do well, mark my words.”
Flick shook her head. “Jessamy’s not—”
“Dare say you might not know, being a female, but take my word for it—she’s got good legs and good stamina.” The bluffly genial youth, the local squire’s son, grinned at her, the epitome of a patronizing male. “If you like, I could organize a jockey and trainer for you.”
“Yes, but—” one of her earnest admirers cut in. “She lives with the General—he keeps the stud records.”
“So?” Bluff-and-genial raised a dismissive brow. “What’s dusty old records got to do with it? This is horseflesh we’re talking about.”
A throaty laugh came from beyond Demon. Flick gritted her teeth. “For your information”—her tone stopped all argument and made Bluff-and-genial blink—“Jessamy is an investment. As a broodmare, she has arguably the best bloodlines in the country. You may be very certain I will not be risking her in
any steeplechase.”
“Oh,” was all Bluff-and-genial dared say.
Flick turned to deal with the throaty-voiced Miss Henshaw—and saw a black-haired beauty, smiling and laughing, leaning close to Demon, her face tipped up to his. She was, Flick saw in that one chilling instant, a lot taller than she herself was—so her face, tilted up, was much closer to Demon’s, her lips closer to his—
“Now, my dears!” Every head in the room lifted; everyone looked to where Mrs. Pemberton stood, clapping her hands for attention. “Now,” she reiterated, when everyone was silent, “it’s time to find your partners for the first dance.”
There was an instant of silence, then a rush as all the young men jockeyed for position. A chorus of invitations and acceptances filled the air.
Flick found herself facing three earnest young men—Bluff-and-genial had been shouldered aside.
“My dear Miss Parteger, if you will—”
“I pray, kind lady, that—”
“If you would honor me with this dance—”
Flick blinked at their youthful faces—they all seemed so young. She didn’t need to look to know that the seductive Miss Henshaw was batting her long lashes at Demon. She didn’t need to look, but she wanted to. She wanted to—
“Actually,” a deep drawling voice purred just above her right ear, “Miss Parteger’s first dance is mine.”
Demon’s hand closed firmly about hers; Flick looked up to see him smile with a shatteringly superior air at her youthful admirers. There was no chance in heaven they would argue.
The relief she felt was quite definite, the reasons for it less clear. Luckily, she didn’t need to dwell on it. Demon glanced down at her and raised one brow. Gracefully, she inclined her head. He set her hand on his sleeve; the others fell back as he led her onto the rapidly clearing floor.
The dance was to be a cotillion. As Demon led her to a set, Flick whispered, “I know the theory, but I’ve never actually danced one of these in my life.”
He smiled reassuringly. “Just copy what the other lady does. If you wander off in the wrong direction, I’ll grab you.”
A Rogue's Proposal Page 15
