A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  A hint of color rose to her cheeks, and her chin rose another notch. Her eyes flashed with what could only be defiance. “The notion to come here was mine—Gillies was good enough to come with me.”

  “I know it was your idea.” Demon heard his words and wondered at their evenness; inside him, ungoverned fury raged. “Gillies would never be such a sapskull as to even suggest bringing you here—into the middle of a prizefight crowd.” His anger broke through; ruthlessly, he reined it in. “Gillies has only obeyed my orders to stay with you at all times. I’m not about to upbraid him.” He held her gaze and quietly stated, “It’s not Gillies I’m furious with.”

  He held her wide eyes for an instant longer, then turned to the door. “I’ll be back shortly.” Opening the door, he stepped out, shut it—and locked it.

  Flick heard the bolt click home. Lips parting, arms falling to her sides, she stared at the closed door.

  Her temper soared.

  Just like that! Put into her room and locked in, while he—!

  Clenching her fists, she closed her eyes and gave vent to a frustrated scream.

  Demon returned to the dim first-floor corridor at the front of the inn two hours later.

  To find two young sprigs, decidedly the worse for the inn’s ale, serenading outside Flick’s door. His footfalls muffled by the corridor runner, he was upon them before they realized, materializing menacingly beside them.

  They jumped like scalded cats.

  “Ooh!”

  “Aaah!”

  Then they blinked and grinned inanely.

  “There’s a delightful widow behind the door.”

  “We’re attempting to entice her to come out and play, don’t y’know.”

  The first blinked again and stared myopically up at him. “Have you come to join us?”

  With satisfying abruptness, Demon disabused them of that notion. He sent them fleeing, stumbling on their way, their egos shredded, their ears burning, their rears bruised courtesy of his rather large shoes. He saw them back to the stairs before returning to Flick’s door. In the dimness, it took a few tries to get the key in the lock—eventually, he managed it. Straightening, he turned the key, lifted the latch and stepped inside.

  Only lightning-quick reflexes allowed him to catch and hold back the heavy earthenware jug that came swinging down from his left.

  Stretched on her toes, her hands clamped about the jug, Flick met his gaze. Darkly.

  “Oh. It’s you.”

  Leaving the jug in his hands, she swung away and stalked back across the room. She stopped before the fireplace, before the cheery flames, and swung to face him as she folded her arms.

  Demon took in her belligerent stance and mutinous expression, then shut the door. She held her fire while he locked it and set the jug down on a nearby side table.

  Then she let loose.

  “You locked me in here and left me at the mercy of those! . . .” she gestured eloquently. Her eyes flashed. “I’ve had to endure two hours of nonstop caterwauling—no, no—I mustn’t forget the poems. How could I forget the poems?” She flung her arms to the skies. “They were hideous! They didn’t even rhyme.”

  She was unrestrainedly furious. Demon considered the sight.

  “Anyway.” Abruptly deserting fury, she fixed him with a narrow gaze. “Where did Bletchley go?”

  Despite her ordeal with badly phrased poems, she was obviously all right.

  “The tap, then to his room.” Dropping his gloves on the side table, he pointed upward. “In the attics.” Shrugging out of his greatcoat, he dropped it on a chair, noting as he did the large number of lighted candles set about the room. Flick had obviously felt in need of light—and reassurance.

  She refolded her arms and frowned at him. “He didn’t speak to anyone?”

  Glancing around, Demon noted that the chamber was large and commodious, and well-appointed with decent furniture. The bed was long and wide, and made up with pristine linen. “No one of the ilk we’re looking for. He didn’t speak to anyone beyond the usual taproom chat.”

  “Hmm.” Frowning, Flick watched him as he strolled unhurriedly toward her. “Maybe he did just come here for the prizefight.”

  “So it appears.” His gaze returning to her face, he stopped directly in front of her, trapping her before the hearth. She frowned at him—more with her eyes than her expression. He considered her.

  After a moment, she asked, “What are you thinking?”

  How much I’d like to undress you, lay you on the bed and . . . “I was wondering,” he said, “what it will take to instill into your stubborn head that it is not acceptable for you to go hying off about the countryside chasing villains. Regardless of where I, or anyone else, might or might not be.”

  She humphed and tilted her chin at him. Lifting one hand, Demon closed his fingers firmly about her tapering jaw.

  Her eyes widened, then spat sparks. “There’s nothing you can say or do that will convince me I don’t have as much right as you to go hying after villains.”

  He raised one brow; his gaze fell to her lips. “Is that so?”

  “Yes!”

  His lips curved—not with humor but with satisfaction at her challenge—a challenge he was only too willing to meet. Tipping her chin up a fraction more, he lowered his head. “Perhaps we should put that to the test.”

  He murmured the words against her lips, hesitated for a heartbeat to let his warm breath bring her lips alive—then covered them with his.

  She held tight for an instant, then surrendered. Her stiffness eased; her lips softened under his. Although still new to this—to kissing, to giving her lips, her mouth, to him—she was eager; her responses flowed instinctively. She had none of the guile of a more experienced woman—she had a fresh enthusiasm, an innocent ardency that delighted him, enthralled him.

  He knew precisely what he was doing—distracting her from villains, from Bletchley and the syndicate, by giving her something else to think about. Something more exciting, more intriguing. He would bring her to life, and pique her curiosity so that she spent her time thinking about him, and this, rather than any villain. Sliding one arm about her waist, he drew her against him.

  And deliberately deepened the kiss.

  She responded sweetly, tipping her head back, parting her lips, welcoming him in. When his arm tightened in response, locking her to him, she eased against him readily, pert breasts pressing tight to his chest, hips sinking against his thighs. He caught his mental breath, locked an iron fist about his demons’ reins, and parted her lips further, so he could artfully, skillfully ravish her soft mouth and take what she offered so freely.

  The heady taste of her—so light and fresh, so teasingly alluring—went straight to his head, wreathed his senses, and set his demons straining. Wielding expertise like a whip, he held them back and set himself to enjoy the simple pleasure of her even more.

  It wasn’t anger that drove him, not even the wish to exercise his will over her and insist she stay out of danger. The compulsion steadily rising in his blood was simple desire—nothing more.

  During the hours he’d spent watching Bletchley, speaking with Gillies, his anger had dissipated; his inchoate rage over the risks she’d taken had faded. His knowledge was wide, his imagination consequently well-informed; the visions that, even now, formed too readily were guaranteed to set his teeth on edge. But he’d had time to appreciate her thinking, to realize that, from her point of view, innocent of prizefights, coming here had been not only the obvious step but one she’d felt compelled to take.

  He could understand. He still didn’t approve, but that was another matter, a different aspect of the day’s emotions. His anger had died, but the underlying tension hadn’t. The anger had been only a symptom of that deeper emotion—one that felt uncomfortably like fear.

  Fear was an emotion no Cynster male handled well. He’d had little experience of it—and he definitely didn’t like what he was experiencing now. That his fear was centered
on Flick was obvious; why it should be so was another of those somethings he preferred not to examine.

  If he’d known that deciding to bite the bullet and marry would bring all this down on his head, he would have thought twice. Three times. Unfortunately, it was now too late—the notion of giving up Flick, of retreating from marrying her, was unthinkable.

  How unthinkable was borne in on him as he briefly released her lips to drag in a breath. Her scent came with it—appleblossom and lavender—a fragrance so innocent it touched his soul, so simple it drove through his defenses, caught and effortlessly focused his desire.

  To live without this—without her, without the intense satisfaction experience told him could be his with her—that was the definition of unthinkable.

  Releasing her jaw, he slid his fingers into her curls and held back a shudder at the sensation of pure silk sliding over the back of his hand. His lips firmed on hers; he angled his head, fingers sliding until he cradled her head, holding her steady so he could do as he wished—and take their kiss still deeper. Into realms she’d never experienced, along paths she’d never trod.

  He, however, was supposed to be in control.

  Shocked, he sensed the reins sliding from his grasp, felt his hunger well. Stunned, he pulled back—forced himself to break the all-too-evocative melding of their lips.

  Long enough to drag in a much-needed breath. He couldn’t remember when last his head had spun. “Umm . . .” He blinked. “We’ll stay until two o’clock. Then we’ll leave. I’ll take you home.”

  He’d worked it all out while watching Bletchley.

  Lifting her lids only high enough to locate his lips, Flick nodded, reached up, framed his face, and drew his head back to hers. She knew perfectly well why he was kissing her—he wanted to control her, to render her all weak and limp and acquiescent. She might, indeed, go weak and limp—she might even be a bit distracted—but acquiescent? Just because her body and her wits lost all resolution the instant he had her against him, the second his lips found hers, did not mean her will went the same way.

  Which meant that as far as she was concerned, he could kiss her as long as he liked. If he’d decided they had until two o’clock the next morning, she saw no reason to waste any precious minutes.

  Being kissed by him was exceedingly nice, exceptionally pleasant. The touch of his lips was enticing, the much bolder caress of his tongue brazenly exciting. It made her feel wild, a touch reckless—oddly restless. That last was due to what lay beyond—all the rest she did not know. His experience was there, in his lips, in the arms that held her so easily, tantalizing, beckoning—simply intriguing.

  She offered her lips and he took them again, and her mouth as well. And yet he held back. There was a restraint he placed on his actions, on his hunger, or rather, on letting her see it. She sensed it nevertheless, in his ruthlessly locked muscles, in the tension that held him. But that restraint stood firm, a barrier between her and his greater knowledge. A barrier she could not resist prodding. She was, after all, hardly a chit out of the schoolroom, no matter what he might think.

  Brazenly, she leaned into him and wantonly kissed him back—trying this, then that, to see what might best weaken him. Closing her lips about his tongue and sucking was her first success—his attention abruptly focused; his resistance weakened accordingly. Sliding her hands around his neck, locking her fingers at his nape and stretching, sliding, upward against him, worked, too, but—

  Abruptly he lifted his head and dragged in a huge breath. He blinked down at her. “Did the innkeeper see your face?” His voice was not entirely steady; he looked a little dazed.

  “No.” She sank deeper into his arms, sliding her fingertips into his hair. “I was hidden behind my veil the whole time.”

  “Hmm.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. “I’ll go down and pay your shot later. When all’s quiet, and there’s no one about to hear. There’ll be someone at the desk all night tonight. Then we’ll leave.”

  She didn’t bother nodding. Her hands fell to his shoulders as he recaptured her lips, and she met his tongue with hers. She could, she decided, happily spend all night kissing him. Pressing herself to him. The thought prompted the deed, but she couldn’t get any closer—she was already locked tight, breast to chest, hips to thighs. But . . .

  He hesitated, then his lips shifted on hers. The whirlpool of their kiss dragged her deeper, into a vortex of heady sensations—all beckoning, enticing.

  The need to get closer welled, swelled—

  His resistance irked. If she wanted to marry him—if he wanted to marry her—then she wanted to know more. Deliberately, she stretched upward, flagrantly inciting, kissing him urgently, as evocatively as she knew how—

  His arms shifted, then his hands were on her back—large and strong, they slid down, smoothly sweeping down to her waist, to her hips, then down, over the swells of her bottom. He cupped her, held her tight, her curves filling his hands, then he lifted her.

  Up and against him—molding her to him so her soft belly cradled the hard ridge of his erection. She would have gasped—not with shock, but delight, a delight wholly new to her—but with lips suddenly ruthless and a demand she felt to her toes, he ravaged her mouth, took all she offered and searched for more.

  There was suddenly hunger enough for two, swirling hotly about them.

  Flick sank her fingers into his shoulders and hung on—thrilled to her bones as hot became hotter and hard that much harder. Need, want and desire swam through her—passion swept in in their wake. And caught her.

  Excitement—even better than the rush of a winning ride—and an anticipation so keen it hurt flooded her, buoyed her—

  Tap! Rat-a-tat-tat!

  The sharp tattoo startled them both, ending their kiss. Breathing shallowly, they both stared at the door.

  Demon straightened, softly cursing. Whoever it was, he would have to find out. It might be about Bletchley. Sliding Flick down until her feet touched the floor, he reluctantly released her luscious bottom and closed his hands about her waist. He seriously doubted she could stand unsupported.

  Glancing around, his gaze fell on the solid dressing table against the wall between the mantelpiece and the bed. He glanced at the door, then steered Flick back so she could lean against the dressing table. “Stay there—don’t move.”

  Placed as she was, she couldn’t be seen from the door.

  She blinked blankly at him, then looked dazedly across the room.

  Demon released her; turning, he strode toward the door. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror beside the door, he swallowed another curse and slowed, tugging his waistcoat down, resettling his coat and cuffs, then raking his fingers through his hair before reaching for the latch.

  He assumed it was Gillies, or one of the inn staff. Whoever it was, he intended getting rid of them fast. Turning the key, he opened the door.

  The elegant gentleman who stood on the threshold, an urbane smile rapidly fading, was not a member of the inn’s staff. Unfortunately, he was familiar.

  Inwardly, Demon cursed, wishing he’d snuffed some of the candles Flick had scattered about the room. At least she was out of sight. Holding the door less than half open, he raised an arrogantly weary brow. “Evening, Selbourne.”

  “Cynster.” Disappointment rang in Lord Selbourne’s tone; disgruntlement filled his eyes. His expression, however, remained urbane. “I—” Abruptly, Selbourne’s gaze shifted, going past Demon’s shoulder. His lordship’s eyes widened.

  Demon stiffened, his jaw clenching so hard that he thought it would crack. He didn’t, however, turn around.

  Lord Selbourne’s brows rose, coolly, appraisingly, then he glanced consideringly at Demon. And smiled. “—see.”

  The single word carried a wealth of meaning; Demon comprehended its portent only too well. Face set, he nodded curtly. “Precisely. I fear you’ll need to find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

  Selbourne sighed. “To the victor,
the spoils.” With an arch glance directed once again beyond Demon, he turned away. “I’ll leave you, dear boy, to get what rest you may.”

  Biting back an oath—an exceedingly virulent one—Demon managed to shut the door without slamming it. Hands rising to his hips, he stared at the wooden panels; after a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. Shifted. He blinked, then slowly reached out and turned the key.

  The sound of the lock falling home echoed gently—a single knell marking an irrevocable step. Demon turned.

  And confirmed that Flick had indeed been unable to resist shifting to the other side of the hearth, to peer about him to see who was at the door.

  Selbourne had had a perfect view of her—with her hair ruffled, her gown suggestively crumpled, her lips rosy and swollen from his kisses. Most importantly, she hadn’t been wearing hood or veil. Demon stared at her.

  She stared back. “Who was that?”

  He considered her, then turned back to the door and removed the key. “Fate. Disguised as Lord Selbourne.”

  Chapter 13

  Flick studied him. “Do you know him?”

  “Oh, indeed.” Slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket, Demon started back toward her. “Everyone in the ton knows Rattletrap Selbourne.”

  “Rattletrap?”

  Stopping directly before her, Demon looked into her eyes. “His tongue runs on wheels.” She searched his eyes, his face; her lips formed a silent Oh.

  “Which means,” he explained, “that at all the balls in London tomorrow evening, the juiciest bon mot will be just who the deliciously youthful ‘widow’ discovered consorting with me at Bury St. Edmunds really was.”

  Flick stiffened; her eyes flashed. “Don’t start that again. Just because he saw me doesn’t mean I’m compromised. He doesn’t know who I am.”