A Rogues Proposal c-4

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 waited 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 co
rner. 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.

  On the fourth afternoon, Flick caught up with Demon.

  Disguising her irritation at the fact that since leaving her before the manor steps, he'd made not the slightest attempt to see her-to tell her what was going on, what he and his men had discovered-she twirled her open parasol and advanced determinedly across the grass between the walking pens, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him.

  She was twenty yards away when he turned his head and looked directly at her. Leaning against the last pen's fence, he'd been scanning the onlookers watching his and two other stables' strings exercise. His back against the top rung, his hands sunk in his breeches pockets, one leg bent, booted foot braced on the fence's lower rung, he looked subtly dangerous.

  Flick inwardly humphed and dismissed the thought of danger. She was impatient-she wanted to be doing something, not sitting on her hands waiting to learn what had happened long after it had. But she'd dealt with Dillon and the General long enough to know how to approach a male. It wouldn't do to show impatience or anger. Instead, smiling sunnily, she strolled to Demon's side, ignoring the frown forming in his eyes. "Isn't it a lovely afternoon?"

  "Indeed."

  The single word was trenchantly noncommittal; his frown darkened, deepening the blue of his eyes. Still smiling sweetly, she turned and scanned the throng. "Where's Bletchley?"

  Straightening, Demon watched her check through the onlookers, then inwardly sighed. "Under the oak to the left. He's wearing a scarlet neckerchief."

  She located Bletchley and studied him; against his will, Demon studied her. She was gowned once more in sprig muslin, tiny blue fern fronds scattered over white. The gown, however, barely registered; what was in the gown transfixed his attention, captured his awareness.

  All soft curves and creamy complexion, she looked good enough to eat-which was the cause of his frown. The instant she appeared, he'd been struck by an urgent, all but ungovernable, ravenous urge. Which had startled him-his urges were not usually so independent, so totally dismissive, of his will.

  As he watched, studied, drank in the sight of her, a light breeze playfully ruffled her curls, setting them dancing; it also ruffled her light skirts, briefly, tantalizingly, molding them to her hips, her thighs, her slender legs. Her heart-shaped bottom.

  He looked away and shifted, easing the fullness in his groin.

  "Has he approached any gentlemen yet? Or they, him?"

  Relocating Bletchley, he shook his head. "It appears his task here-presumably the job Dillon was supposed to do-is to make contact with the jockeys and persuade them to his masters' cause." After a moment, he added, "He received a letter some days ago, which spurred him to renewed activity."

  "Orders?"

  "Presumably. But I seriously doubt he'll report back to his masters in writing."

  "He probably can't write." Flick glanced over her shoulder and met his eye. "So there's still a chance the syndicate-at least one of them-will appear here."

  "Yes. To learn of Bletchley's success, if nothing else."

  "Hmm." She looked at Bletchley. "I'll take over watching him for the rest of the afternoon." She glanced up at him. "I'm sure you've got other matters to attend to."

  He captured her gaze. "Be that as it may-

  "As I've already pointed out, he won't expect a young lady to be watching him-it's the perfect disguise."

  "He might not guess that you're watching him, but I can guarantee he'll notice if you follow him."

  She swung to face him; he saw her chin firm. "Be that as it may-"

  "No." The single word, uttered quietly and decisively, brought her up short. Eyes narrowing, she glared up at him; he towered, without apology, over her. "There is no reason whatever for you to be involved."

  Her eyes, normally so peacefully lucent, spat sparks. "This was my undertaking-I invited you to help. 'Help' does not mean relegating me to the position of mere cipher."

  He held her irate gaze. "You are not a mere cipher-"

  "Good!" With a terse nod, she swung back to the Heath. "I'll help you watch Bletchley then."

  Weaving back to avoid decapitation by her parasol, Demon swore beneath his breath. Falling back half a step, he glared at her back, her hips, the round swells of her bottom, as she stood, stubbornly intransigent, her back to him. "Flick-"

  "Look! He's heading off."

  Glancing up, Demon saw Bletchley quit his position by the oak and amble, with a less-than-convincing show of idleness, toward one of the neighboring stables. Glancing at Flick, already on her toes, about to step out in Bletchley's wake, Demon hesitated, then his eyes narrowed and his lips curved. "As you're so determined to help…"

  Stepping to her right, he caught her hand and set it on his sleeve, anchoring her close-very close-to his side.

  Blinking wildly, she looked up. "What do you mean?" Her voice was gratifyingly breathless.

  "If you want to help me watch Bletchley, then you'll have to help provide our disguise." He raised his brows at her. "Just keep that parasol to the side, and as far as possible, keep your face turned to me."

  "But how am I to watch Bletchley?"

  He strolled; she was forced to stroll beside him. A smile of definite intent on his face, he looked down at her. "You don't need to watch him for us to follow him, but we need to see who he's meeting."

  One swift glance ahead verified that Bletchley was heading behind the stable, which, from the horses Demon could see on the Heath, would almost certainly be empty. With Flick's not-exactly-willing assistance, he put his mind to creating a tableau of a couple entirely engrossed with each other, of no possible consequence to Bletchley.

 
Trapped by his gaze, by the hard palm that held her fingers immobile on his sleeve, by the strength, the power, he so effortlessly wielded, Flick struggled to preserve a facade of normalcy, to slow her breathing and steady her heart. To relax her stiff spine and stroll with passable grace-grace enough to match the reprobate beside her.

  The glances he shot ahead, tracking Bletchley, were reassuring, confirming that his intent was indeed to follow the villain and witness any meeting behind the stable. His intent wasn't to unnerve her, to send her senses into quivering stasis. That was merely an accident, an unexpected, unintended repercussion. Thankfully, he hadn't noticed; she fought to get her wits back in order and her senses realigned.

  "Who do you think he's meeting?" she whispered. Her lungs were still not functioning properly.

  "I've no idea." He looked down at her, his heavy lids half obscuring his eyes. His voice had sunk to a deep purr. "Just pray it's a member of the syndicate."

  His tone and his sleepy expression were disconcerting, of no help at all in reestablishing her equanimity.

  Demon looked up. Bletchley had halted at the corner of the stable. As he watched, Bletchley's gaze swept the throng, then fixed on them. Smoothly, unhurriedly, a wolfish smile curving his lips, he looked down, into Flick's wide eyes. "Smile," he instructed. She did, weakly. His own smile deepening, he raised his free hand; with the back of his knuckles he brushed her cheek.

  Her breath caught-she skittered back and blushed; effortlessly, his smile very evident, he drew her back.

  "I'm only teasing," he murmured. "It's just play."

  "I know," Flick assured him, her heart beating frantically. Unfortunately, he was playing a game with which she was unfamiliar. She tried her best to relax, to smile easily, teasingly, back.

  From beneath his lashes, Demon glanced ahead; Bletchley was no longer looking their way. After one last scan of the Heath, he turned and lumbered around the building, out of sight.

  Flick's eyes widened; she immediately stepped out. He hauled her up short, pulling her to his side. "No." She looked up, ready to glare; he leaned closer-nearer-so the ebb and flow of their interaction looked like a seductive game. "We don't know," he murmured, his lips close by her temple, "who he's meeting and where they are. They might be behind us."