A Rogue's Proposal (36 page)

One glance about the elegant blue-and-white room had her turning back to him. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I could always stay with my aunt—”

“Mama will be delighted to meet you.” He made the statement as if she hadn’t spoken. “I won’t be above a few minutes.”

He went out, closing the door behind him. Flick stared at the white painted panels—he didn’t come back in. Sighing, she looked around.

She considered the white damask settee, then looked down at her plain, definitely old, outmoded pelisse. Putting one in contact with the other seemed like sacrilege. So she stayed on her feet and shook out her skirts, trying vainly to rearrange them to hide the creases. What would Lady Horatia—the lady who presided over such a well-appointed drawing room—think of her in her far-from-elegant attire?

The point proved academic.

The latch clicked, the door swung wide, and a tall, commandingly elegant lady swept in.

And descended on her, a huge smile on her face, her eyes alight with a welcome Flick could not imagine what she’d done to deserve. But there was no mistaking the warmth with which Lady Horatia embraced her.

“My dear!” Touching a scented cheek to hers, Lady Horatia straightened and held her at arms’ length, not to inspect her dowdy pelisse but to look into her face. “I’m so
very
delighted to meet you, and to welcome you to this house. Indeed”—she shot a glance at Demon—“I understand it will be my pleasure to introduce you to the ton.” Looking back at Flick, Lady Horatia beamed. “I couldn’t be more delighted!”

Flick smiled warmly, gratefully.

Lady Horatia’s smile deepened; her blue eyes, very like Demon’s, twinkled expressively. “Now we can send Harry away and get acquainted.”

Flick blinked, then realized, as Lady Horatia turned to Demon, that she was referring to him.

“You may come back for dinner.” Lady Horatia raised a brow—the gesture appeared haughtily teasing. “I presume you are free?”

Demon—Harry—merely smiled. “Of course.” He looked at Flick. “I’ll see you at seven.” With a nod for her and another for his mother, he turned and strolled to the door; it shut softly behind him.

“Well!” Lady Horatia turned to Flick, and smiled exultantly. “At last!”

D
espite their languid elegance, when Cynsters acted, things happened in a rush. After luncheon, Horatia whisked Flick into her carriage, off to a family afternoon tea.

“Grosvenor Square’s not far,” Horatia assured her. “And Helena is going to be as delighted as I to meet you.”

“Helena?” Flick sifted through the names Horatia had mentioned over luncheon.

“My sister-in-law. Mother of Sylvester, better known as Devil, now Duke of St. Ives. Helena is the Dowager. She and I only had sons—she, Sylvester and Richard, me, Vane and Harry. Sylvester, Richard and Vane are all married—” Horatia glanced at Flick. “Didn’t Harry tell you?”

Flick shook her head; Horatia grimaced. “He always was one to ignore details. So—” Horatia settled back; Flick dutifully paid attention. “Sylvester married Honoria Anstruther-Wetherby over a year ago. Sebastian, their son, is eight months old. Honoria’s increasing again, so while they’ll doubtless come to town for the Season proper, the ducal couple are presently in Cambridgeshire.

“Which brings us to Vane. He married Patience Debbington last November. Patience is increasing, too, so we don’t expect to see them for a few weeks, either. As for Richard, he married
quite
unexpectedly in Scotland before Christmas. There was a spot of bother—Sylvester, Honoria, Vane, Patience and Helena—and a few others—went north, but all seems to have settled comfortably and Helena is in alt at the prospect of more grandchildren.

“However,” Horatia declared, reaching her peroration, “as neither Honoria nor Patience, nor Richard’s Catriona, were young misses in need of help and guidance, neither Helena nor I have
ever
had a young lady to fuss over.” Eyes bright, she patted Flick’s hand. “So I’m afraid, my dear, that you’ll have to put up with the two of us fussing over you—you’re our last chance in that arena, you see.”

Flick smiled spontaneously. “On the contrary, I would be glad of your help.” Her gaze drifted over the fashionable ladies and gentlemen strolling the pavements. “I’ve no real idea how one should go on in London.” She looked down at her pretty but definitely not chic gown, blushed slightly, and caught Horatia’s eye. “Please do hint me in the right direction—I would be very unhappy to be an embarrassment to you and D—Harry.”

“Nonsense.” Horatia squeezed Flick’s hand fondly. “I doubt you could embarrass me if you tried.” Her eyes twinkled. “And certainly not my son.” Flick blushed; Horatia chuckled. “With a little guidance, a little experience, and a little town bronze, you’ll do very well.” Grateful for the reassurance, Flick sat back and wondered how to broach the question uppermost in her mind. Horatia clearly viewed her as a future daughter-in-law, which was what she hoped to be.
But
she hadn’t yet accepted Demon, and wouldn’t, not until Drawing a determined breath, she looked at Horatia. “Did D—Harry explain that I haven’t
agreed
. . .”

“Oh, indeed. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you had the wit not to accept him straightaway.” Horatia frowned disapprovingly. “These things should take time—time enough to organize a proper wedding, at least. Unfortunately, that’s not the way
they
see it.” Her tone made it clear she was speaking of the males of the family. “If it’s left to them, they’ll sweep you past a cleric and into bed with the barest ‘by-your-leave!’ ”

Flick choked; misinterpreting, Horatia patted her hand. “I know you won’t mind my plain speaking—you’re old enough to understand these things.” Flick went to nod and stopped herself; her blush was because she
did
know, and appreciated Horatia’s insight—that was certainly how Demon had imagined it. Only, being him, he’d transposed the cleric and the bed. “I think time—at least a little time—is a necessity in this case.”

“Good!” The carriage rocked, then halted; Horatia looked up. “Ah—here we are.” The groom opened the door and let down the steps, then handed Flick, then his mistress, to the pavement. Horatia nodded at the magnificent mansion reached by a sweeping set of steps. “St. Ives House.”

The afternoon had turned gloriously fine—tables, chairs and
chaises
were set out on the lawn of the enclosed gardens. At Lady Horatia’s side, Flick left the house, stepping past the deferential butler and onto the terrace. She saw a small host of well-dressed ladies, ranging in age from very old to a girl barely out of the schoolroom, congregating on the lawn.

There was not a gentleman in sight.

Parasols dipped and swayed above smart coiffures, protecting delicate complexions. Other ladies simply sat back, glorying in the weak sunshine, smiling, laughing and chatting. While substantial, the noise was not overpowering—indeed, it subtly beckoned. There was a gaiety, a relaxed sense of ease pervading the group, unexpected in conjunction with its blatantly tonnish air. This wasn’t fashion and brittle frivolity—this was a fashionable family gathering; the distinction was clear.

The large number of guests was a surprise; Horatia had assured her she would meet only family members and a few close connections. Before she managed to fully grasp the reality, a beautiful older woman came sweeping up to meet them as they descended the steps to the lawn.

“ ’Oratia!” The Dowager exchanged kisses with her sister-in-law, but her gaze had already moved on to Flick. “And who is this?” A glorious smile and bright eyes softened the abrupt query.

“Allow me to present Miss Felicity Parteger—Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, my dear.”

Flick curtsied deeply. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

As she straightened, Helena took her hand, directing an arrested, inquiring glance at Horatia.

“Felicity is Gordon Caxton’s ward.”

With one blink, Helena had the reference pegged. “Ah—the good General.” She smiled at Flick. “Is he well?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

With the air of one who could contain herself no longer, Horatia broke in, “Harry brought Felicity up to town. She’ll be staying with us in Berkeley Square, and I’ll be taking her into society.”

Helena’s gaze flew to Horatia’s face; her smile deepened, and deepened. Looking again at Flick, she positively beamed. “My dear, I am so
very glad
to meet you!”

Before Flick could blink, the Dowager embraced her enthusiastically, then, one arm about her waist, bustled her down the lawn. With a Gallic charm impossible to resist, the Dowager introduced her to her sisters-in-law first, then the older ladies, and eventually the younger ones, two of whom, clearly twins, were adjured to ensure Flick wanted for nothing, including help with names and relationships.

The pair were the most ravishing blonde beauties Flick had ever seen. They had skin like alabaster, eyes like cornflower pools and a wealth of ringlets almost as golden as her own. She expected them to hang back—they might be younger than she, but she was definitely not in their social league. To her surprise, they smiled at her delightedly—every bit as delightedly as their mother and aunts had—and swooped forward to link arms with her.

“Excellent! I thought this party would be just the usual thing—pleasant but hardly exciting. Instead, we get to meet you!”

Flick blinked—she glanced from one to the other, trying to remember which was which. “I’ve never thought of myself as exciting.”

“Hah! You must be, otherwise Demon would never have looked your way.”

The second girl laughed. “Don’t mind Amanda.” She grinned as Flick glanced around. “I’m Amelia. You’ll get used to telling us apart—we’re not identical.”

They weren’t, but they were very much alike.

“Tell us,” Amelia urged, “how long have you known Demon?”

“We ask,” Amanda put in, “because until the last few weeks he’s been severely testing our sanity by watching over us at the balls and major parties.”

“Indeed. So we know he went up to Newmarket a few weeks ago. Is that where you met him?”

“We did meet at Newmarket,” Flick agreed, “but I’ve lived there since I was seven, and I’ve known Demon from the first.”

Both girls stared at her, then Amanda frowned. “What the devil’s he been doing, keeping you hidden away like that?”

“Excuse us for asking, but you are older than us, aren’t you? We’re eighteen.”

“I’m twenty,” Flick replied. The twins were taller and certainly more socially assured, but there was a subtle difference; she hadn’t imagined herself younger than them.

“So why,” Amanda reiterated, “didn’t Demon bring you down last year? He’s not one for dragging his boots—not him.”

“He does tend to drive fast,” Flick grinned. “He didn’t bring me down last year, because . . . well, he didn’t really know I existed last year.”

That comment, of course, led to further questions, further revelations. Which cleared the way for Flick to ask why Demon had been watching them.

“Sometimes I think it’s simply to drive us mad, but truly they can’t seem to help themselves, poor dears.” Amanda shook her head. “It’s something in the blood.”

“Luckily, once they marry, they’re not such a bother. They’d still interfere if they could, mind you, but Honoria, Patience and Catriona have so far kept Devil, Vane and Richard out of our way.” Amelia looked at Flick. “And now you’ll be here to keep Demon occupied.”

“With any luck,” Amanda added dryly, “the others will find ladies to dote on
before
we become ape-leaders.”

Flick grinned. “Surely they can’t be
that
inhibiting.”

“Oh, can’t they?” the twins chorused. They promptly recounted a series of events illustrating their claim, in the process giving Flick vignettes of Demon within the ton—surrounded by beautiful women. Sensing her interest, the twins dismissively waved aside his London conquests.

“Don’t worry about them—they never last long, and now he’ll be too busy with you.”

“Watching over
you
, thank heaven!” Amanda raised her eyes to the skies. “
Only
got two more to go.”

Amelia chuckled, and looked at Flick. “Gabriel and Lucifer.”

“Who?”

The twins laughed, and explained about their older male cousins, the group known as the Bar Cynster.

“We’re not supposed to know about the Bar Cynster, so remember not to mention it to Demon,” Amanda warned.

They continued, giving her a potted history of the family—who was whose child, brother, sister. They beckoned the only younger girl over—their cousin, Heather, nearly sixteeen.

“I won’t be presented until next year,” Heather sighed, “but Mama said I could attend the family events this year. Aunt Louise is giving an informal ball next week.”

“You’ll be invited,” Amanda assured Flick. “We’ll make sure your name is on the list.” Amelia stifled a snort.

“
Mama
will make sure your name is on the list.”