A Rogue's Proposal (39 page)

Demon nodded. “Which leaves one large area yet to be canvassed.”

“Indeed,” Lucifer agreed. “Our own domain, as it were.”

“Hmm.” Gabriel raised a brow. “So we’ll need to flap our ears for any hint of unexpected blunt—old aunts no one heard of before dying, gamblers supposedly under the hatches suddenly resurrected, and so on.”

“Anyone sporting any unexpected blunt.” Demon nodded decisively. His gaze drifted back to Flick.

Lucifer and Gabriel mumured agreement, then a blond in green silk caught Lucifer’s eye—he prowled off in her wake. After a moment, Gabriel tapped Demon’s sleeve. “Don’t bite—and don’t grind your teeth—I’m going to have a word with your guinea-gold delight.”

Demon humphed—the Bar Cynster never poached on each other’s preserves. He wasn’t worried about Gabriel.

He was, however, worrying. Gabriel’s description validated his concern. Flick was highly visible, even in a crowd. Her crowning glory drew all eyes—her angelic features held them. In sunlight, her hair was bright gold—in candlelight, it glowed richly, a true yellow gold much more distinctive than the twins’ pale gold locks.

She drew eyes wherever she was, wherever she went. Which severely compounded their problem. His problem—he didn’t want her to know about it.

It was one of the things he delighted in—her openness—the shining honesty of her joy, her feelings, all displayed in her face for anyone to see. She was neither ashamed of her feelings nor frightened of them, so she showed them, openly, straightforwardly. Honestly. Accurately.

Therein lay his problem.

When they were close and she focused on him, the sensual connection they shared
glowed
in her face. The heightened awareness, the sensual anticipation, her glorious excitement and eagerness—and her knowledge—showed all too clearly. He’d seen it in the park, a week ago and more recently; he’d seen it tonight, when they’d met in his mother’s front hall. The sight warmed him to his toes, sent a medley of emotions wreathing through him; the very last thing he wanted was to dim it. But . . .

She was too mature, too composed, to imagine she was infatuated. No one who viewed her response to him would believe infatuation was the cause. What they would believe was the truth—that they’d already been intimate—he, a rake of extensive experience and she, a very innocent young lady.

To his mind, all blame—if any was to be laid—should rest squarely at his door. Society, unfortunately, wouldn’t see it that way.

Her reputation would be shredded—not even the backing of the Cynsters would protect her. For himself, he didn’t care—he’d marry her in an instant, but it would be too late; although the furor might fade, it would never be forgotten. Her reputation would be irreparably tarnished—she’d never be welcomed into certain circles.

Their problem, of course, would not have occurred if she’d married him before they came to town, or even agreed to marry him so they could make some announcement. If such was the circumstance, the ton would turn a blind eye. However, now she was here, under his mother’s wing, enacting the role of a virtuous young lady. The ton could be vicious—would delight in being vicious—given that scenario.

Watching her confidently chatting and laughing, her heart obviously light, he toyed with the idea of seeing her tomorrow—alone—and explaining the matter fully. She might not believe him at first, but he could call on his mother, and even his aunts, for verification.
They
wouldn’t be horrified, but Flick would. She would, he was sure, agree to marry him immediately.

Which was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

Lips compressing, he shifted, and wondered when, and why, a woman’s wishes—her tender feelings, her inexplicable feminine emotions—had become so important. An unanswerable question, but there was no ducking the fact. He couldn’t pressure her to agree in that way.

Straightening, he drew in a breath. If he told her her expression showed too much, she might recognize the danger and agree to marry him purely to avoid any scandal. Which wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted her open-hearted commitment—a commitment to him, to their future—not an agreement compelled by society’s whip.

But if she didn’t realize the deeper implications and opt for marriage, then she would try to hide, to dampen, her instinctive reaction. And she might succeed.

He didn’t want that to happen, either.

He’d consorted with too many women who manufactured their emotions, who in reality cared little for anyone or anything. Flick’s transparent joy was precious to him—had been from the first. He couldn’t bring himself to douse the golden glow in her eyes, not even for this.

Which meant . . . he was going to have to find some way to protect her.

He watched her go down a country dance, laughing gaily but without that special delight she reserved just for him. Despite his worry, despite the irony, his lips quirked at the sight. Ambling around the ballroom, his gaze fixed on her—his delight, his desire—he considered how best to protect her good name.

Part of his answer was a drive in the park. Simple, effective—and she wouldn’t know enough to realize what he was doing. He drove into Berkeley Square at the earliest possible hour. Ignoring Highthorpe’s smugly understanding look, he climbed the stairs to his mother’s private parlor, knocked once, then entered.

Seated on the
chaise
, a pair of spectacles perched on her nose, his mother looked up, then smiled. As he’d expected, she was sorting the morning’s invitations. Seated on an ottoman before her, Flick was assisting.

“Good morning, Harry—and to what do we owe this pleasure?” Removing her glasses, his mother raised her face for his kiss.

He dutifully obliged, ignoring her teasing look. Straightening, he turned to Flick, who’d quickly risen to her feet.

“I came to ask if Felicity would care for a drive in the park.”

Flick’s eyes lit up. Her face was transformed by her smile. “That would be delightful.” Stepping forward, she held out her hand.

Demon took it—and held it, and her, at a safe distance, ruthlessly denying the urge to draw her—allow her—closer. For one instant, he looked into her face, drank in her eager enthusiasm—then, lids lowering, he smiled urbanely and waved her to the door. “There’s a brisk breeze blowing—you’ll need your pelisse.”

Not for a split second had his polite mask slipped; Flick blinked at him, her smile fading slightly. “Yes, of course.” She turned to Horatia. “If it’s agreeable to you, ma’am.”

“Of course, my dear.” Horatia smiled and shooed; Flick bobbed a curtsy and went.

If Demon had had any doubt as to the reality of the threat posed by Flick’s revealing countenance, encountering the suddenly sharp gaze of his mother dispelled it. The instant the door shut behind Flick, Horatia shot him a speculative, potentially rigid, disapproving look—but the question to which she wanted an answer was not one she could ask.

And he was, after all, proposing to drive Flick in the park.

As confusion rose in Horatia’s eyes, Demon inclined his head with his usual cool grace. “I’ll meet Felicity downstairs—I need to walk my horses.” Without intercepting Horatia’s narrow-eyed look, he turned and made good his escape.

Flick didn’t keep him waiting—she came tripping down the stairs as he descended rather more leisurely. Her contempt for feminine preening gave them a rare moment alone. Demon smiled easily, relieved to be able to drop his mask for a moment—he reached for her hand, set it on his sleeve, and drew her close.

She laughed softly, delightedly; smiling gloriously, she turned her face to his. He felt the soft tremor that ran through her, sensed the tensing of her nerves, the tightening of her breathing, the sheer awareness that raced through her as their bodies fleetingly touched. Her eyes widened, pupils distending; her lips parted—her whole face softened. And glowed.

Even in the poor light on the stairs, it was impossible to mistake the sensuality behind the sight. He’d initiated her all too well. She yearned, now, as did he. The temptation to sweep her into his arms, to bend his head and set his lips to hers had never gripped him so hard; need had never driven him so mercilously.

Drawing an unsteady breath, he glanced down—and spied Highthorpe by the door. He drew back, moving fractionally away, ruthlessly sliding his elegantly bored facade back into place. “Come—the bays will be cooling.”

She sensed his withdrawal, but then she saw Highthorpe. She nodded, and strolled down the stairs by his side.

Leaving the house, handing her into the curricle, then driving to the park gave him time to reestablish complete control. Flick remained silent—she’d never been one for aimless chatter—but her pleasure in the outing was in her face, displayed for all to see. Luckily, the curricle was sufficiently wide for there to be a good foot between them, so the display was one of simple joy and happiness, rather than of anything more.

“Have you written to Dillon yet?” With a deft flick, he turned his horses through the park gates.

“Yes, this morning. I told him that while we’ve temporarily lost Bletchley, we’re sure to come up with him again, and that meanwhile, we’re searching for the money from the fixed races.” Her gaze distant, Flick frowned. “I hope that will keep him at the cottage. We don’t want him imagining he’s been deserted and so go investigating himself. He’s sure to get caught.”

Demon glanced at her, then looked forward.

The carriages of the
grandes dames
appeared ahead of them, lining the Avenue. “I’ve been considering sending The Flynn to Doncaster. How do you think he’d handle the change of track?”

“Doncaster?” Flick pursed her lips, then launched into an animated answer.

It wasn’t hard to keep her talking, speculating, arguing, analyzing all the way down the line of fashionable carriages, then all the way back again. He doubted she truly saw the matrons watching them—she certainly didn’t notice the interest their appearance provoked, or the meaningful, smugly approving glances exchanged by the senior hostesses. When the ladies whose opinions controlled the reactions of the ton graciously inclined their heads, he responded with a suavity that confirmed their supposition. Flick, without a blink, inclined her head, too, absentmindedly mimicking him, unaware of how her following his lead so smoothly appeared.

“If you’re serious about developing The Flynn as a ’chaser,” she concluded, “you’re going to have to move him to Cheltenham.”

“Hmm, possibly.”

Turning the bays’ heads for the gates, Demon was seized by a sense of triumph. He’d pulled it off—done the deed—made his declaration, albeit unspoken. Every matron they’d passed had heard it loud and clear.

And it hadn’t, somewhat to his surprise, abraded his sensitivities—if anything, he felt immeasurably relieved to have so definitively staked his claim. Every matron who mattered now understood he fully intended to marry Miss Felicity Parteger. All would assume there was an understanding between them. Most importantly, the good ladies would see it as entirely proper that he, being so much older than she, with so much more worldly experience, would declare his hand in this fashion, then allow her to enjoy her Season without keeping by her side.

No one would now think it odd if he kept a safe distance between them.

“I’ll take you back to Berkeley Square, then I’ll call on Montague and see what he’s learned.”

Flick nodded, the joy in her eyes dimming. “Time is getting on.”

T
ime was indeed passing, but not as Flick had hoped.

Four evenings later, she sat in the shadows of Lady Horatia’s carriage and tried not to feel let down. Any other young lady would be enjoying herself hugely, caught up in the frantic whirl. She’d been to Almack’s, to parties, balls, musicales and soirees. What more could she possibly want?

The answer was sitting on the seat opposite, clothed in his usual black. As the carriage rocked, his shoulders swayed. She could see his fair hair, and the pale oval of his face, but not his features. Her mind, however, supplied them—set in his customary social mask. Ineffably polite with just a touch of cool hauteur, that mask conveyed mild boredom. No hint of interest, sensual or otherwise, was ever permitted to show.

Increasingly, Flick wondered if such interest still existed.

She virtually never saw him in daylight. Since that drive in the park, he hadn’t called again, nor had he appeared to stroll the lawns by her side. She appreciated he might be busy with other matters, but she hadn’t expected him to bring her here, then leave her so terribly alone.

If it wasn’t for the twins’ friendship and the warmth of his family, she’d be lost—as alone as she’d been when her parents had died.

Yet she got the distinct impression he still wished to marry her—that everyone expected they’d soon wed. Her words to the twins haunted her; she’d chosen, but she’d yet to declare her choice. If that choice meant leading a life like this, then she wasn’t at all sure she could stand it.

The carriage halted, then rocked forward, then halted again, this time under the brilliantly lit portico of Arkdale House. Demon uncoiled his long legs—the door opened and he stepped down, turned and handed her down, then helped his mother from the carriage. Horatia shook out her skirts, smoothed her coiffure, then claimed the butler’s arm and swept inside, leaving Demon to lead Flick in.