A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  “But he will.” Demon tapped her nose with one finger. “That’s how Rattletrap secures his invitations—the particular niche he’s carved in the bosom of the ton. He ferrets out all the indiscretions committed by the rest of us, and whispers them in the matrons’ ears.”

  He held Flick’s gaze steadily. “He’ll find out who you are—you’re well known in Newmarket, and that will be the first place he’ll look. Gillies described the scene you created to get this room—that’s precisely how a lady, living near but not in town, desirous of a room in which to meet her lover, would behave.”

  Flick folded her arms and set her chin stubbornly. “I am not compromised.”

  “You are.” Demon didn’t blink. “As of the instant Selbourne laid eyes on your face, your situation is the definition of compromised.”

  She narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she stated, “Even if, theoretically, I am, that changes nothing.”

  “On the contrary, it changes a great deal.”

  “Indeed? Such as?”

  He reached out and tugged her hand free; puzzled, she let him raise it. Catching the other, he lifted both to his shoulders, drawing her nearer. Releasing her hands, he closed his arms about her.

  She quickly slid her hands down, bracing them against his chest. “What are you doing?”

  He met her gaze, then lowered his head. “Demonstrating how much has changed.”

  He kissed her—and kept kissing her, not forcefully but persuasively, not ruthlessly but relentlessly, until she surrendered. When she melted against him, he locked his arms about her—and kissed her some more. She responded with her customary eagerness. Steadily, progressively, he retraced their earlier steps until their breathing fragmented, until her hips were pressed tight to his, until heat licked their senses and passion hovered in the wings.

  Only then did he lift his head.

  Her hands were fisted on his lapels. Her eyes glinted from beneath heavy lids. “You don’t want to marry me—not really.”

  Flick made the statement without conviction; tight against him, his rampant arousal riding against her, she could hardly claim ignorance of what he wanted. It was a powerful incentive to give in. But . . . She wanted him to marry her not just for that, no matter how exciting. She wanted him to marry her for more—for at least one other reason. A more important reason.

  Tension invested his face. The same tension held her. His eyes remained on hers, his gaze steadfast, unwaveringly blue. Her lips throbbed. Entirely without her permission, her gaze lowered to his lips—clever lips, lean and strong, just like him. They dipped, and brushed hers.

  “I do want to marry you.” Again he kissed her—a tantalizing promise as he slid his hands down her back, lifting her against him once more. “I will marry you.”

  His lips closed on hers, and the kiss turned ravenous. And hot. She could cope with ravishment, but the heat—that welling sense of fire and flame—defeated her. He pressed it on her, and she drank it in. It slid through her veins, through her limbs, through her brain.

  And she burned, as did he. There was fire in his touch, in his lips—despite the swelling heat, she couldn’t get enough. As her limbs melted and resolution evaporated, she clung to her wits and inwardly cursed. How would she get him to love her if he married her like this?

  How to stop him?

  As if in answer, he deepened the kiss. Her head spun. Boneless, near to spineless, she sank deeper into his arms, into his strength. Into his shocking heat.

  “I’ve dreamed of marrying you.”

  The words were a gravelly whisper. He steered her back a few steps; her hips met the dressing table.

  “You have?”

  Breathless, she struggled to lift her lids. “Mmm-hmm.” Propping her against the dressing table, he eased back.

  The sudden loss of his hard body against her, all but around her, left her disoriented. She dragged in a breath, watching as he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tossing them on a nearby chair. He returned to her, his hands sliding, then firming about her waist.

  “You’ve dreamed of our wedding?” She found that hard to believe.

  His lips kicked up at the ends; his expression remained driven. “My dreams were more concerned with our wedding night.”

  He drew her to him. Eyes flaring wide, very certain of what she glimpsed in his, she braced her hands against his chest. “No. You know how I feel about marrying for such a reason.”

  He didn’t force her closer, didn’t pull her against him and simply melt her resistance. Instead, he ducked his head and dotted gentle kisses along her jaw, over her earlobe. Then his lips slid farther, to caress the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

  She shivered.

  “Would marrying me be such a hardship?”

  He breathed the words against her ear, then drew back just enough so that as she turned, her eyes met his.

  Their faces were so close that their breaths mingled. Wide-eyed, Flick looked deep into serious blue eyes, into his perfectly serious, well-beloved face. “No.”

  He didn’t move, didn’t grab her in triumph and crow. He simply waited. She studied his eyes, his face, then drew in a shallow breath. About them, the air shimmered, stirring, alive, invested with power. She felt his temptation, his promise, and more. Lifting one hand, she traced the line from one cheekbone to the corner of his lips. Hauling in another breath, she stretched up on her toes and touched her lips to his.

  It was madness—a delicious, heady, compulsive madness—a sudden need that seared her, drove her, impelled her. It was impulse—pure, distilled and potent; she had no idea where it would lead.

  But she kissed him—invitingly, encouragingly, challengingly. And sank into his arms as they closed about her, sank into his embrace, and into the kiss.

  It caught her up, swept her up, and they were back in the fire, back in the flames.

  Demon knew very well that she’d simply sprung her horses, that she was riding wild before the wind with no particular goal in mind. It was enough. He was expert enough to ride with her, to set his hand gently on her reins and guide her where he willed.

  It took him a moment to work out the details—to plot and plan the where and how. Courtesy of her wildness, her increasingly abandoned kisses, he was already aching, but that was his most minor concern. He’d never made love to an innocent, wild or otherwise—she looked set to test his expertise, his control, to the limit.

  Releasing her lips, he firmed his hands about her waist and lifted her, setting her atop the dressing table, giving thanks to whatever rakish god watched over him; the top was the perfect height.

  She blinked at him in surprise. Her new position left her face more level with his. Her breasts swelled, then she noticed her skirts straining over her parted knees. She clamped her legs together and quickly shuffled back. Curls in disarray, her lips swollen, her eyes slightly wild, she stared at him. “What—?” She had to stop and haul in another breath. “What are you about?”

  He let his lips curve reassuringly; he could do nothing about the fire in his eyes. His gaze locked on hers, he stepped forward, his hips meeting her knees, immobilizing her legs. Lowering his gaze to her chest, he reached for the top button of her bodice. “I’m going to make love to you.”

  “What?” Flick looked down as the first button popped free. His fingers caught the next button—she gasped and closed her hands about his wrists. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She hadn’t thought this far. And, thanks to him, her wits were frazzled, her brain was overheated. She certainly couldn’t think now. She tugged once, then harder, and shifted his hands not at all. He continued to undo her buttons.

  “Since by tomorrow evening we can rely on the entire ton believing that I spent tonight in your bed, there’s no reason I can see that I shouldn’t.”

  Fleetingly, he met her gaze; his was hot, smoldering blue. Temptation and promise—both glowed clearly; Flick found the sight reassuring.

  Reassuring? She was losing her mi
nd—he’d already lost his.

  “Besides,” he continued, in the same low, sinfully languid tone, “you made it clear you require something more than social stricture to agree to our wedding.” The last button slipped free; he looked up and met her gaze. “Consider what follows as my answer to that.”

  Raising his hands, he framed her face and drew her lips to his. Flick braced herself to deny him—she would not be won over by main force.

  But there was no force in his kiss. He nibbled, kissed, tantalizingly teased until, senses whirling, she grabbed him and kissed him back. She sensed his triumph, but she didn’t care—in that instant, she needed his lips on hers, needed to feel the fire and flames again, wanted to know, couldn’t live without knowing, more.

  And she knew he could—would—teach her.

  As if in confirmation, he welcomed her in, drew her deep, then toyed with her—incited her. Ignited her.

  Until she was consumed by raging heat too hot to be confined within living flesh.

  He eased back, his lips still on hers but their kiss no longer so demanding, no longer the focus of his attention. His hands drifted from her face, long fingers trailing down either side of her throat, then spreading over her shoulders. Unhurriedly, those long fingers skimmed down; with the lightest of touches, they flared over her breasts.

  Her flesh came alive. Nerves flickered, unfurled—sensitized, they waited, tightening with anticipation.

  He drew back from their kiss. Flick kept her eyes shut and struggled to breathe. Slowly, deliberately, he stroked the upper curves of her breasts, then the lower, through the soft fabric of her gown, then his fingers trailed lightly over the peaks, over nipples now excruciatingly tight.

  She gasped—his lips returned, drinking the sound. His hands shifted, firming, palms cupping her curves. Gently but intently—inherently possessively—he closed his hands about the soft mounds.

  Her breath hitched; his lips shifted on hers, brushed, caressed, reassured.

  She felt her breasts swell even more, felt them heat and firm until they ached.

  Demon ached, too, but ignored it. Her breasts were small, pert—they fit snugly within his palms. He closed thumb and forefinger about her nipples, and she gasped, and tensed—and tensed. With his lips on hers, soothing her, distracting her, he played, giving her time to grow accustomed to his touch, ruthlessly denying the impulse to brush aside her bodice and bare her to his senses. Eventually, she sighed into his mouth, the tautness in her frame subtly altered to a tension he recognized very well.

  She was awakening.

  With every controlled sweep of his fingers, every gentle, encouraging squeeze, he drew her further along the road to fulfillment. Hers. And his.

  When he released her lips, drew his hands from her breasts and reached for the edges of her bodice, she didn’t stop him. She did, however, reach up, too, closing her fingers on the edges below his.

  She hesitated.

  They were both breathing quickly, heated yet in control of their senses, both very much aware. Supremely conscious of the pounding in his blood, the passion he was holding at bay, he drew in a slow breath, locked his jaw and staved off the urge to rush her. And waited.

  Her gaze was fixed on his throat; she dragged in a breath, held it, and looked up, into his eyes.

  He had no idea what she saw there—what her swiftly searching gaze discovered; he stared down at her, unable to spare the energy to summon any expression, and prayed she wouldn’t balk.

  Instead, her chin firmed; her lips curved in a smile of pure feminine assurance tinged with her ever-present innocence. In a gesture almost demure, she dropped her gaze from his; tightening her hold on the open flaps of her bodice, she parted them.

  Inwardly reeling, he let go and let her do it. That smile, coupled with her action, had hit him with the force of a fist and left him winded. Captured, transfixed, he watched as she wriggled, sliding first one shoulder free, then the other, then drawing her arms from the tight sleeves.

  She glanced shyly, questioningly, up at him; he hauled in a breath and took charge again.

  He drew the gown down to her waist, then had to pause to look at her—to take in the smooth expanse of creamy skin showing above her demure chemise, to drink in the beauty of her naked shoulders, her sweetly rounded arms, the delicate structure of her collarbone.

  His rakish instincts catalogued points for later examination—where her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, where her shoulder met her collarbone, the outer swells of her breasts. Her breasts themselves remained screened, albeit incompletely; her nipples peaked tightly beneath the fine chemise, but he couldn’t appreciate their color. Soft, pure pink was his guess.

  Feeling like a drowning man coming up for air, he hauled in a breath. Lifting his hands, he once more framed her face, and brought her lips to his.

  Flick sank into the kiss. The heat welled—she welcomed it, then deliberately let go and slipped into the flow, letting it take her on its tide. If there had been a windmill near, and she’d been wearing a cap, she would have shied it into the sky. She’d made up her mind, made her decision.

  She knew he desired her powerfully—it was there in his face, in the hard edge passion set to the angular planes, in the fire that smoldered in his eyes. His desire was palpable, a living thing—hot as the sun, it reached for her as his hands, his arms, his whole body did. She recognized it instinctively—she needed no interpreter to tell her what it was. He wanted her as a man wanted a woman. And she wanted him in the converse way.

  As for marrying, he hadn’t yet answered her question of whether love could grow from strong desire. Nor had she. But she’d expected no easy declaration of love—not from him. If he said it, he would mean it—she could count on that. But he could only tell her if he knew—and she didn’t think he did. However . . .

  There was a light in his eyes, behind the heated glow, behind the passion and desire—there was a sense in his touch, in his kiss, in all his actions. And while that light shone, and while that sense reached her, she was convinced there was hope.

  Hope of love—hope for a marriage invested with love, built on love, with him. She was willing to risk all to claim such a prize. Fate had offered her this chance to secure her deepest, all-but-unrecognized dream—she would take it, grasp it with both hands. And do everything she could to make the dream come true.

  She would marry him, but on her terms. He would need to do more than seduce her—teach her about passion, desire and physical intimacy—to get her to say yes. She wasn’t, however, about to stop and explain. Tonight was for them—their first night together.

  Her first time with him.

  When next he drew back, she smiled; lifting her arms, she draped them over his shoulders. His eyes met hers as he slid her closer to the dressing table’s edge. He studied her face, his own hard, passion-set; wrapping one arm about her hips, he lifted her and stripped her dress away. Excitement shot through her, searing her veins. Clad in her chemise and petticoats, she dared to meet his eyes. He raised his brows slightly, then slid his hands upward and closed them about her breasts. “Do you like this?”

  Her lids fell of their own accord; her head tipped back.

  “Yes.” She breathed the word, aware only of his clever hands, his clever fingers, as they stroked and gently squeezed. Although muted by fine lawn, his touch burned. His lips returned to hers. Sliding one hand to her back, he urged her nearer, closer to the table’s edge.

  She complied without thought—thought was beyond her; all she could do was feel. Her senses gloried in unfettered freedom, freed by her decision, freed by the night.

  Freed by him. His kiss anchored her to the world, but it was a world of sensation, a world filled with an excitement she’d never known, and a promise of glory she wanted for her own.

  Demon captured her lips and kissed her—ravenously—no longer so gentle, so controlled. She was delectable, and so very nearly his—he wanted to devour her. On the thought, his lips slid
from hers, tracing the curve of her throat to where her pulse beat hotly. He laved the spot, then sucked lightly; appeased by her gasp, he moved on, sliding his lips along the curve of her collarbone, then shifting lower to the warm swell of her breast.

  Through her fine chemise, one pert nipple beckoned; he closed his mouth over it and heard her shocked gasp. But she didn’t try to wriggle back—she didn’t tell him to stop. So he settled to feast, to wring more shocked gasps from her. Long before he raised his head, he’d succeeded, drawing a chorus of appreciation from her lips.

  He kissed them again, parting them fully, ravishing her softness, taking all—demanding more. She met him eagerly, no match for the brutal strength of his passion but with an open eagerness that nearly brought him to his knees.

  Abruptly, he stopped kissing her, amazed to find his own breathing as ragged as hers. Nuzzling aside her curls, he slid his lips into the sweet hollow beneath her ear while his fingers swiftly dealt with the laces of her petticoat.

  Speed had suddenly become essential. Imperative.

  She sighed, a tense exhalation shimmering with reined excitement; the sound literally shook him. The scent of her, rising to torment him, added to his pain. He glanced down at the soft chemise that hid her body from his sight—he longed to strip it away, but experience warned against it. Sitting naked atop a table in full light might be too much for her this time.

  All thus far had gone according to his plan. She’d introduced an odd moment or two, but he’d kept them on track. He intended to seduce her but, this time, he needed to do more. He needed to be gentle, and not just because he was excruciatingly aware, to his very fingertips, of her innocence. He wanted her not just once or even twice—he wanted her for all time. So the moment had to be compelling. As powerfully compelling as he could make it—so she would want him again, as eagerly, as enthusiastically as he knew he would want her.

  Another challenge—she was full of them. It was one of the things that so attracted him to her.

  The laces of her petticoat came free; he loosened the waistband, pushed it down, then swiftly lifted her and swept the garment down her legs. He freed it from her feet, then flung it after her gown. His cravat and shirt followed—as he stepped back to stand against her knees, he flipped off her shoes.