A Rogue's Proposal (31 page)

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.”

F
lick 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.”

“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.