A Rogue's Proposal (37 page)

Minutes later, they were summoned to distribute the teacups. Flick did her share, moving easily among the company. Although every lady she paused beside spoke with her, beyond the information Horatia had imparted regarding her visit, not one word was said—not one inference drawn. At least, not within her hearing. Every lady made her feel welcome, and if, by dint of subtle questioning, they extracted her entire life history from her, it was no more than she’d expected. But they were the very opposite of nosy, and certainly not judgmental—their warm approval, their ready acceptance, the protection of the group so openly offered very nearly overwhelmed her.

One very old, very sharp-eyed lady closed a claw about her hand. “If you find yourself in a ballroom, gel, and at a loss what to do, then find one of us—even those flighty flibbertigibbets”—Lady Osbaldestone’s black gaze skewered the twins, then she looked up at Flick—“and just ask. The ton can be a confusing place, but that’s what family’s for—you needn’t feel shy.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Flick bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll remember.”

“Good. Now you may give me one of those macaroons. Dare say Clara there would like one, too.”

Lady Osbaldestone was not the only one to offer advice and support. Long before the afternoon came to an end and she and Lady Horatia took their leave, amid embraces, waves and plans to meet again, Flick felt she had literally been gathered to the bosom of the Cynster clan.

Settling back in the carriage, Horatia closed her eyes. Flick did the same, and looked back over the afternoon.

They were amazing. She’d known Demon had a large family, but that the Cynsters would prove such a close tribe had been a pleasant surprise. She’d never had a real family—not since her parents had died. She’d never felt part of a continuing whole, a group that had a before and would also have an after, beyond the individual members. She’d been alone since the age of seven. The General, Dillon and the Hillgate End household had become her surrogate family, but this was something very different.

If she married Demon, she would become, once again, part of a real family. One in which there were other women to talk to, to turn to for support; one where, by unspoken accord, the men watched over the young women, even if they weren’t their sisters.

In some ways, it was all new to her—in other ways, at some deeper level, it touched a chord that resonated deeply. It felt very right. Opening her eyes, she stared, smiling but unseeing, out of the window, deeply glad at the prospect of becoming a Cynster.

Two mornings later, in a far from glorious mood, Demon gritted his teeth and turned his bays toward the park. For the third time in as many days, he’d arrived at his parents’ house only to learn that Miss Parteger was out.

He’d called on the afternoon of the day he’d brought her to town, imagining her sitting alone and forlorn while his mother napped. Instead, they’d been gossiping at his Aunt Helena’s—and he knew very well about what. He’d swallowed his disappointment, uneasily surprised that he’d felt it, and reflected that this was precisely why he’d brought Flick to town—so his dear family, especially the female half, could help her make up her mind to marry him. He had no doubt they would do so. They were past masters at engineering weddings. As far as he was concerned, they could exercise their talents on his behalf.

So he’d retired, leaving no message—nothing to alert his too-perceptive mother that he’d been impatient enough to call. He’d arrived promptly for dinner, but discovered that seeing Felicity over a dinner table with his parents present didn’t satisfy his appetite.

Yesterday, he’d called at eleven—a perfectly innocuous time. Turning up too close to breakfast would have been too revealing. Highthorpe had looked at him with sympathy and informed him that his mother, his aunt and the young lady had gone shopping.

He knew that meant they’d be away for hours. And they’d be in one of those silly, feminine moods when they returned, wanting to tell him about frills and furbelows, unreceptive to the notion of paying attention to him.

He’d retreated in good order, noting again that this was a part of why he’d brought Flick to town—so she could be seduced by the entertainments available as his wife. Shopping, to the female soul, ranked high as entertainment.

In other arenas, fate was being more helpful; he’d heard on the grapevine that Rattletrap Selbourne had contracted mumps from his sister’s offspring and was not expected in town this Season. Selbourne was one complication he could temporarily put from his mind.

Today, he’d arrived at Berkeley Square midmorning, quite sure he’d find Flick waiting to impress him in one of her new gowns.

His mother had taken her off to the park.

He was seriously considering having a very pithy few words with his mother.

Feathering his curricle through the Stanhope Gate, narrowly missing an approaching landau, he tried to rein in his unreasonable temper and still the urgent pounding in his blood. He was surprised at the strength of his reaction, at the sense of deprivation that had seized him. It was, he reassured himself, simply because he’d got used to seeing her daily, nothing else. The effect would wear off, subside.

It would have to. In town, in the lead up to the Season, he would meet her only briefly, in the park under the watchful eyes of the ton’s matrons, or in a crowded ballroom, likewise overseen. Private hours such as he’d grown accustomed to in the country were no longer part of their schedule.

Turning into the Avenue, he replaced his grim expression with his usual, politely bored mask.

He found Flick sitting in his mother’s barouche, smiling sweetly at a host of gentlemen who, parading with other young ladies on the lawn, were eyeing her speculatively. His mother was deep in conversation with his aunt Helena, whose landau was drawn up alongside.

Smothering a curse, he angled his curricle in behind his mother’s carriage and reined in. Gillies came running to hold the bays’ heads. Tying off the reins, Demon jumped down and stalked along the verge.

Flick had heard the curricle pull up, and she’d turned; now she smiled, gloriously welcoming. For an instant, he was lost in her eyes, in her glow—his mask slipped; he started to smile, his usual taunting, teasing smile.

He caught himself just in time and substituted an easy, affable expression and a cool smile. Only his eyes, as they met hers, held any heat. If his mother or his sharp-eyed aunt caught a glimpse of that other smile, they’d know a great deal too much.

Flick held out her hand; he took it, bowing easily. “Well met, my dear.”

Straightening, he exchanged polite nods with his mother and aunt, then looked back at Flick. He hadn’t released her hand. “Can I tempt you to a stroll about the lawns?”

“Oh, yes!” Eagerly, she shifted forward. Demon suddenly understood her interest in the couples on the lawn: simple envy. She was used to riding every day—she would miss the exercise.

His smile deepening, he opened the carriage door. Over Flick’s head, his mother glared at him and mouthed “new dress.” Inwardly grinning, he helped Flick down, very willing to let his gaze roam. “Is that new?”

She threw him an ingenuous smile. “Yes.” Releasing his hand, she twirled, then halted. “Do you like it?”

His gaze had locked on her body, sweetly encased in lavender-blue twill; now he lifted it to her face—and couldn’t find words to answer. His chest had seized, his wits scrambled—the pounding in his blood escalated. The sheer glory of her face, her eyes, didn’t help—he’d forgotten what it felt like to be smitten by an angel.

His mother and aunt were watching, eagle-eyed; he cleared his throat and managed to smile urbanely. “You look . . . extremely fetching.” She looked delectable, delicious—and he was suddenly ravenous.

Retaking her hand, he laid it on his sleeve. “We’ll take a turn down to the flowerbeds and back.”

He heard an amused “humph” from the carriage, but he didn’t look back as they strolled onto the lawn, too busy enjoying the sight—and the sensations—of having his angel on his arm again. She smiled up at him—her golden curls caught his eye. “You’ve had your hair trimmed.”

“Yes.” She angled her head this way and that so he could appreciate the subtle changes. Her curls had always framed her face, but loosely. Now, by dint of artful clipping, the frame was more complete, more stable—if anything, brighter. “It suits me, I think.”

Demon nodded. “It’s undeniably elegant.” Lowering his gaze, he met her eyes. “I expect it complements your new evening gowns well.”

She blinked her eyes wide. “How did you know? . . .” He grinned. “I called yesterday and heard you’d gone shopping. As it appears you’ve visited a modiste, and I know my mother, the rest is easy.”

“Helena came, too. It was . . .” She paused, then smiled at him. “Very enjoyable.”

Content, Demon returned her smile, then looked ahead.

They strolled in silence, as they had so often on the Heath. Neither felt any pressing need of words, deeply easy in the other’s company. Flick felt the breeze ruffle her skirts, felt them flap against Demon’s polished Hessians. The steely strength of the muscles beneath her fingers, the sense of strength that reached for her, surrounded her and lapped her about, was blissfully welcome.

She’d missed him. Her singing heart told her that; her exulting senses confirmed it. Tipping her face to the sun, she smiled, aglow with an emotion that could only be love.

She slanted him a glance—only to find him watching her. He blinked, a frown forming in his eyes. Even as she looked, his face hardened.

He looked ahead. “I thought you might like to know what we’ve discovered about Bletchley.”

Guilt struck. In the whirl of the past days, caught up in her own discoveries, she’d forgotten Dillon and his problems. “Yes, of course.” Strengthening her voice, she looked ahead. “What have you learned?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Demon grimace.

“We’ve confirmed Bletchley arrived on the Newmarket coach. It stops at Aldgate. We checked, but he isn’t known in the area.” They reached the flowerbeds and turned onto the gravel path beside the display. “Montague—my agent—is organizing a watch on the venues gentlemen use to meet with the riffraff they occasionally hire. If Bletchley appears, we’ll pick up his trail again.”

Flick frowned. “Is this Mr. Montague the same man you came down to see before?” Demon nodded; she asked, “Has he learned anything by looking for the money?”

“Not yet, but there’s a large number of possibilities to check. Stocks, bonds, deposits, foreign transactions—he’ll check everywhere. He
has
finalized the approximate sums we’re looking for—the amounts taken from each fixed race over the autumn season, and the first race this year.”

“Is it a lot?”

Demon met her gaze. “Enormous.”

Reaching the walk’s end, they turned back across the lawn, passing close by a number of other couples. With easy grace, Demon exchanged cool nods, distant smiles and steered her on. Flick mimicked his politesse with a calmly serene expression.

Once they were free, Demon glanced at her, then lengthened his stride. She kept pace easily, but wondered why he was hurrying.

“The total amount taken is simply so huge,” he continued, “it’s utterly inconceivable that it won’t show up somewhere. That’s one encouraging point. Luckily, we’ve still got a few weeks before informing the stewards becomes imperative.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” He glanced down at her, his expression impassive. “I’ll check with Montague in a day or so, if he doesn’t contact me.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ll let you know when we learn anything to the point.”

She had to nod—they were almost at the carriage. Glancing at Demon’s face, she noted the languidly bored mask that seemed to slide over his features, sensed the steely control that infused his movements, making them appear lazily indifferent. She assumed it was his London persona—his wolf’s clothing, as it were.

But she didn’t understand why, when he handed her into the carriage and bowed gracefully, he didn’t meet her eye.

Horatia tapped his arm. “You’ll receive your invitation to an informal ball Louise is giving today. The ball’s early next week—I’ll expect you to escort myself and Felicity.”

Demon blinked. “Won’t Papa escort you?” Horatia waved dismissively. “You know your father—he’ll want to call at White’s on the way.”

A grim expression flashed in Demon’s eyes, then was gone. Resigned, he inclined his head. “As you wish.”

As he straightened, his eyes touched Flick’s, just for a second, just long enough to reassure her. With a bow to Horatia and Helena, he turned away.

“Don’t be late!” Horatia called after him. “We’ll be dining there.”

A wave showed he’d heard. Taking the reins, he leapt into his curricle, then gravel crunched, and he was gone.

“J
ust look at them
!” Amanda hissed disgustedly in Flick’s ear, then gracefully twirled away.

Amelia took her place. “Even if they’re dancing, they still sneak looks.” She dipped and swayed, and continued
sotto voce
, “And there’s usually one standing on the sidelines, like Demon is now, so if we rip a flounce or tear a ribbon and try to slip away, they still catch us!”