A Rogue's Proposal (22 page)

She’d come here to be quiet, to breathe the cool air, to let it soothe her overheated brain, her flushed skin. She’d come here to ponder. Him. Part of her wondered if she’d read him aright. The rest of her knew she had. But she still couldn’t bring herself to believe it.

It was like a fairy tale.

Now he was here Her nerves skittered even before she formed the thought. Abruptly, she recalled she was annoyed with him. Folding her arms, she tilted her chin; as he drew near, she narrowed her eyes at him. “
You
conspired with Mrs. Pemberton—Foggy told me she sent her message to the General via you.”

He halted before her. “Mrs. Pemberton conjured a vision of you moldering into an old maid—that didn’t seem a good idea.”

His deep drawl slid over, then under, her skin, effortlessly vanquishing her annoyance. Refusing to shiver, she humphed. “I can’t see how an evening like this is going to change things.” She gestured toward the house. “I’m certainly not going to find a husband in there.”

“No?”

“You saw them. They’re so young!”

“Ah—them.”

His voice deepened; she sensed that net of fascination flow about her again. His lips curved, lifting just a little at the ends, drawing her mentally closer, nearer. “No,” he said, the word a deep rumble. “I agree—you definitely shouldn’t marry any of them.”

The ensuing pause stretched, then his lids rose and he met her gaze. “There is, however, an alternative.”

He said no more, but his meaning was clear, written in the planes of his face, in his eyes. He watched her, his gaze steady; the night held them in soft darkness, alive and yet so silent that she could feel her own pulse filling the air.

Then came the music.

Haunting strains drifted over the lawns, flowed over the hedges. The opening bars of a waltz reached them—he angled his head slightly, then, his gaze never leaving her face, he held out his hands.

“Come—waltz with me.”

The net drew tight—she felt its shimmering touch as it settled about her. But he didn’t tug; it was her choice to step forward, to accept, if she would.

Flick wondered if she dared. Her senses reached for him—she knew how it felt to be held against his warm chest, how it felt to have his arms close about her, how her hips would settle against his hard thighs. But . . .

“I don’t know how.”

Her voice was surprisingly even; his lips curved a fraction more.

“I’ll teach you”—a hint of wickedness invested his smile—“all you need to know.”

She managed not to shiver. She knew very well they weren’t talking of a mere waltz—that wasn’t the invitation etched in his eyes, the challenge in his stance. Those hands, those arms, that body—she knew what he was offering. And, deep inside, she knew she could never walk away—not without trying, touching. Knowing.

She stepped forward, lifting her arms, tilting her face to his. He drew her to him, one arm sliding possessively about her, the other grasping her right hand. He drew her close, until they touched, until the silk of her bodice brushed his coat. His smile deepened. “Relax, and let your feet follow where they will.”

He stepped back, then aside; before she knew it, she was whirling. At first, he took small steps, until she caught the rhythm, then they whirled, swooped, swung, trapped in the music, swept up in the effortless energy of the dance.

Then the mood of the music changed, slowed; they slowed, too. He drew her fractionally closer—she leaned her temple against his chest. “Isn’t there some rule that I’m not supposed to waltz before someone or other approves?”

“That only applies in town at a formal ball. Young ladies have to learn to waltz somewhere, or no gentleman would ever stand up with them.”

She suppressed a sniff—she hadn’t stepped on his toes once. They were revolving slowly, the music soft and low.

It was she who stepped closer, fascinated by the slide of silk between their bodies. And by the heat of him.

He didn’t step back. His fingers locked about hers, he laid her hand in the hollow of his shoulder. His arm tightened about her, his hand splaying below her waist, locking her to him so that they moved in truth as one.

His hand burned; so did his thighs as they pressed between hers as he steered her through a shallow turn. Her breasts firm against his coat, she laid her cheek against his chest, and listened to his heart.

Eventually, with a minor flourish they ignored, the music died. Their feet slowed, then halted; for one long instant, they simply stood.

Then she lifted her head and looked into his face. His temptation, his promise, were all around her, a shimmering veil, a glow suffusing her skin. She knew she wasn’t imagining it; she didn’t know enough to imagine this. She knew what was there, what it was, what might be.

She didn’t know why.

So she simply asked, her eyes on his, deeply shadowed by his lids, “Why are you doing this?”

He searched her eyes, then raised one brow. “I would have thought that was obvious.” After a moment, he stated, “I’m wooing you—courting you—call it what you will.”

“Why?”

“Why else? Because I want you to be my wife.”

“Why?”

He hesitated, then his hand left hers. His fingers slid beneath her chin, tipping her face up. His lips closed over hers.

It started as a gentle caress. That satisfied neither of them. Whether it was she or he who deepened the kiss was impossible to say—his lips were suddenly harder, firmer, more demanding; hers were correspondingly softer, more beguiling, more inviting.

Greatly daring, she parted her lips, just a little, then more, thrilled to her toes when he took instant advantage. Angling his head, he tasted her, then, like a conqueror, simply took more.

She shivered, and gave, and welcomed him in; his arms tightened about her, impressing her soft flesh with the hardness of his. She sighed, and felt him drink—her breath was his and his was hers; her head reeled as the kiss went on.

Again, it was she who took the next step, who, in all innocence, stretched her arms up, slid her hands to his nape and sank against him. She felt a rumble in his chest—a groan that never made it to his lips.

Their kiss turned ravenous.

Hot. Hungry.

His lips seared hers; his hunger whipped, and licked, and tempted. She sensed it clearly—there—beneath the smooth control, the elegant facade. Ever bold, she reached for it.

He froze.

The next instant, she was standing, unsteadily, on her feet, the air cool between them. Her breasts ached oddly; all her skin felt hot. She blinked, and focused on him—he was breathing every bit as raggedly as she. He was just recovering faster—her wits were still whirling.

His hands fell from her; it was impossible to read his eyes. “We should get back.”

Before she had time to consider, long before she could gather her wits and think, they were back in the drawing room. They mingled with the other guests while she struggled to find her mental feet. Beside her, he was his usual elegant self, cool and disgustingly controlled, while her lips were tingling, her breathing still too shallow. And she ached, bone-deep, with a sense of having been denied.

The next morning, a stack of books under her arm, Flick stepped out of the side door, looking down as she tugged on her gloves—and ran into a brick wall.

“Ooof!” All the breath was knocked out of her. Luckily, the wall was covered in resilient muscle, and had arms that locked around her, preventing her and her books from tumbling to the ground.

She dragged in a breath, her breasts swelling against Demon’s soft jacket, then she blew aside the curls that had tumbled into her eyes. The exhalation ruffled the blonde locks about his ear.

He stiffened. All over.

Rigid, he awkwardly unlocked his arms, grasped her upper arms, and set her back from him.

She blinked at him. He scowled at her.

“Where are you going?”

His tone, that of one having the right to know, was guaranteed to make her bridle; putting her nose in the air, she stepped around him. “To the lending library.”

He smothered a curse, spun on his heel and followed. “I’ll take you in my curricle.”

Not so much as a by-your-leave! Let alone a “Good morning, my dear, and how are you?” So much for last night! Entirely unimpressed, Flick kept her gaze fixed stubbornly ahead, ruthlessly denying the impulse to glance at him as he ranged alongside. “I’m perfectly capable of returning and selecting my novels myself, thank you.”

“I dare say.” His tone was as stubborn as hers.

She opened her mouth to argue—and caught sight of the pair of blacks harnessed to his curricle. Her face softened, her eyes lit. “Oh—what
beauties
!” Her tone was reverent, a fitting tribute to the surely matchless horses impatiently pawing the gravel. “Are they new?”

“Yes.” Demon strolled in her wake as she circled the pair, exclaiming over their points. When she paused for breath, he nonchalantly added, “I thought I’d take them for a short outing, just to get them used to town traffic.”

Eyes still round, fixed on the blacks’ sleek hides, she wasn’t paying attention; seizing the moment, he took her hand and helped her into the curricle.

“They hold their heads so well.” She settled on the seat. “What’s their action like?”

Barely pausing for his answer, she rattled on knowledgeably; by the time she’d run through all her questions and exclamations they were rolling down the drive. Demon kept his gaze on his horses, waiting for her to suddenly realize and berate him for taking advantage. Instead, she set her books on the seat between them and leaned back with a soft sigh.

As the peace unexpectedly lengthened, he shot her a glance; she was sitting easily, one hand braced on the side railing, her gaze fixed, not on the blacks, but on his hands.

She was watching him handle the ribbons, watching his fingers flick and slide along the leather strips. There was an eager light in her eyes, a wistful expression on her face.

He faced forward; a moment later, he clenched his jaw.

Never in his entire career had he let a female drive his cattle.

The blacks, although new, were well broken; thus far, they’d proved well behaved. And he would be sitting beside her.

If he did it once, she’d expect him to do it again.

When riding, she had a more delicate touch on the reins than even he.

Turning out of the manor drive, he set the curricle bowling down the road to Newmarket, but he didn’t slacken the reins. Instead, drawing in a breath, he turned to Flick. “Would you like to take the reins for a stretch?”

The look on her face was payment enough for his abused sensibilities—stunned surprise gave way to eager joy, swiftly tempered.

“But . . .” She looked at him, hope warring with imminent disappointment. “I’ve never driven a pair before.”

He forced himself to shrug lightly. “It’s not that different from a single horse. Here—shift those books and come closer.” She did, eagerly sliding along the seat until her thigh brushed his. Ignoring the heat that shot straight to his loins, he transferred the reins to her small hands, keeping his fingers tensioning the leather until he was sure she had them.

“No.” Expertly, he relaid the reins across her left palm. “Like that, so you’ve got simultaneous control over them both with just one hand.”

She nodded, looking so excited that he wondered if she could speak at all. Sitting back, one arm along the seat behind her, ready to grab her if anything did go wrong, he watched her, his gaze flicking ahead now and again to check the road. But he knew it well, and so did she.

She had a little difficulty checking the pair for a curve; he gritted his teeth and managed not to reach out and lay his hand over hers. Thereafter, however, she adjusted; gradually, as the fields rolled past, they both relaxed.

There was, he discovered, one benefit in being driven by a lady—one he trusted not to land them in a ditch. He could keep his gaze wholly on her—on her face, on her figure, in this case, neat and trim in cambric. Her hair, those lovely golden curls, was constantly ruffling in the wind of their passage, a living frame for her delicate face.

A face flushed with pleasure, with an excitement he understood. She was thrilled and delighted. He felt decidedly smug.

She cast him a dubious glance as the first stables by the racecourse came into sight. From there on, there would be other horses, people, even dogs about—all things to which the blacks might take exception. Demon nodded; sitting up, he expertly lifted the reins from her hands. He readjusted the reins, letting the blacks know he had them again.

Flick sat back with an ecstatic sigh. She had always—forever—wanted to drive a curricle. And Demon’s blacks! They were the most perfect young pair she’d ever seen. Not as powerful as his champion bays, but so very elegant, with their slim legs and long, sleekly arched necks.

And she’d driven them! She could hardly wait to tell the General. And Dillon—he would be green with envy. She sighed again; with a contented smile, she looked around.

Only then did she remember their earlier words—only then did she realize she’d been kidnapped. Lured away. Enticed into a gentleman’s curricle with tempting promises and whisked into town.

She slanted a glance at her abductor. He was looking ahead, his expression easy but uninformative. There was nothing to say he’d planned this—that he’d purposely had the blacks put to that morning just so he could distract her.

She wouldn’t mind betting he had.

Unfortunately, after enjoying herself so thoroughly, it would be churlish indeed to cavil. So she sat back and enjoyed herself some more, watching as he deftly tacked through the increasing traffic to pull up before the lending library, just off the High Street halfway through the town.

As was usual, the sight of a magnificent pair had drawn a gaggle of boys in their wake. After handing her to the pavement, Demon selected two and, with strict instructions, left the blacks in their care.

That surprised Flick, but she was too wise to show it; carrying her books, she headed for the library door. Demon followed on her heels; he reached over her shoulder and pushed the door wide.