A Rogue's Proposal (19 page)

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 The end of the drive was in sight, and she’d yet to understand why his teasing looks had been replaced by glances much more direct, much more unnerving.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?”

“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.