A Rogue's Proposal (43 page)

His blood ran cold—he couldn’t even finish the thought, couldn’t let it form in his brain. The prospect of losing Flick paralysed him.

Abruptly filling his lungs, he shook aside the thought—swiftly replaced it with the image of 12 Clarges Street, the house he’d viewed that morning. It was perfect for him and Flick. It had just the right number of rooms, not too large . . .

His gaze on Flick, his thoughts slowed, stopped, in time with the music. On the other side of the room, Flick and Philip Remington halted; instead of turning toward the
chaise
where Horatia sat, Remington cast a quick glance about, then led Flick through a door. Out of the ballroom.

Demon straightened. “Damn!”

Two matrons beside him turned to glare—he didn’t stop to apologize. Moving easily, apparently unhurriedly, he crossed the room. He knew very well the implication of Remington’s swift look. Who the hell did the bounder think he was?

“Ah—
darling
.”

Celeste stepped into his path. Dark eyes glinting, she lifted a hand—

He stopped her with one look. “Good evening, madam.” With a terse nod, he stepped around her and continued on. From behind, he heard a lewd curse in French.

Gaining the corridor that lay beyond the ballroom, he was just in time to see the door at its end close. He paused to dredge up his memories of Monckton House—the room at the end was the library.

He stalked down the corridor, but halted before he reached the end. There was nothing to be gained by rescuing Flick before she realized she needed rescuing.

Opening the door of the room before the library, he entered. Eyes quickly adjusting to the dark, he crossed it, silently opened the French door, and stepped onto the flagged terrace beyond.

Standing in the middle of the library, Flick scanned the pictures on the walls, then looked at her companion. “Where are the etchings?”

The library was made dark by paneling and bookshelves packed with brown books, but a small fire burned cheerily in the grate. Lighted candelabra stood on a table beside the sofa and on a side table by the wall, casting a glow about the room, their flames flickering in the breeze sliding through the French doors open to the terrace. Completing a second survey of the walls, Flick turned to Remington. “These are all paintings.”

Remington’s smile flashed; she saw his hand shift, heard a click as the door’s lock engaged. “My sweet innocent.” There was gentle laughter in his voice as he advanced, smiling, toward her. “You didn’t really believe there were any etchings here, did you?”

“Of course, I did. I wouldn’t have come otherwise. I’m fond of etchings . . .” Her voice faded as she studied his face, then she stiffened and lifted her chin. “I think we should return to the ballroom.”

Remington smiled winningly. “Oh, no. Why? Let’s just dally here for a short while.”

“No.” Flick fixed him with a steady, unblinking stare. “I wish you to return me to Lady Horatia.”

Remington’s expression hardened. “Unfortunately, my dear, I don’t wish to do so.”

“Don’t worry, Remington—I’ll escort Miss Parteger back to my mother.”

Lounging against the frame of the French doors, Demon drank in their reactions. Flick whirled—relief softened her face, softened her stance. Remington’s jaw dropped, then he snapped it shut and glowered belligerently.

“Cynster!”

“Indeed.” Straightening, Demon swept Remington a taunting bow. His gaze was steely, as were the undercurrents in his voice. “As you’re unable to show Miss Parteger the etchings you promised her, might I suggest you depart? Not just this room, but the house.”

Remington snorted, but eyed him uncertainly. Which was wise—Demon would happily take him apart given the slightest provocation. “I’m sure,” he drawled, “you can see that’s the best way.” Strolling forward, he stopped beside Flick and trapped Remington’s now wary gaze. “We wouldn’t want there to be any whispers—if there were, I’d have to explain how you’d misled Miss Parteger over the existence of etchings in the Monckton House library.” Raising his brows, he mused, “Difficult to find a rich wife if you’re not invited to the balls any more.”

Remington’s expression didn’t succeed in masking his fury. But he was a good deal shorter and slighter than Demon; swallowing his ire, he nodded, bowed curtly to Flick, then swung on his heel and stalked to the door.

Beside Demon, grateful for his intimidating, reassuring presence, Flick frowningly watched the door close behind Remington. “Is he a fortune hunter?”

“
Yes
!” With an explosive oath, Demon lifted both hands, then appeared not to know what to do with them. With another oath, he swung away, pacing. “
He
is! Half those about you are—some more so than others.” His blue gaze stabbed her. “What
did
you imagine would happen once you let it be known how much you’re worth?”

Flick blinked. “Worth?”

“You can’t be
that
innocent. Now the news is out that you come with ten thousand a year in tow, they’re all flocking around. It’s a wonder you haven’t been mown down in the rush!”

Understanding dawned, along with her temper—she swung to face him. “
How dare you
!” Her voice quavered; she drew in a huge breath. “
I
didn’t tell anyone
anything
about my fortune. I haven’t spoken about it at all.”

Demon halted; hands on hips, he looked at her. Then he scowled. “Well you needn’t look at me. I’m hardly likely to fashion a rod for my own back.” He started to pace again. “So who spread the news?” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Just tell me, so I can wring their neck.”

Flick knew exactly how he felt. “I think it must have been my aunt. She wants me to marry well.” She wanted her to marry Demon, so her aunt had let it be known that she was an heiress. She assumed, avaricious as she was, that the news would prompt him to grab her, regardless of how wealthy he was.

“Was that what she said to upset you at that ball?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “In a way.”

Demon glared at her. First his mother, now her aunt.

Elderly ladies were lining up to make his life difficult. That, however, wasn’t the cause of the black, roiling, clawing rage that filled him, fighting to get loose, spurred by the knowledge of what would have happened if he hadn’t been watching her so closely.

“Whatever—
whoever
.” He bit off the words. Towering over her, his hands on his hips, he captured her gaze. “Bad enough you’re surrounded by a gaggle of fortune hunters—that doesn’t excuse your behavior tonight. You know damn well not to go anywhere alone with any man. What the
hell
did you think you were doing?”

Her spine stiffened; her chin rose. Her eyes flashed a warning. “You heard. I happen to like etchings.”

“
Etchings
!” Jaw clenched, he only just managed not to roar. “Don’t you know what that means?”

“Etchings are prints made from a metal plate on which someone has drawn with a needle.”

She capped the comment by putting her pert nose in the air; Demon tightened his fingers about his hips against the urge to tighten them about her. He bent forward, lowering his face so it was closer to hers. “For your information, a gentleman offering to show a lady etchings is the equivalent of him inviting her to admire his family jewels.”

Flick blinked. Puzzled, she searched his eyes. “So?”

“
Aargh
!” He swung away. “It’s an invitation to intimacy!”

“It is?”

He swung back to see her lip curl.

“How like the fashionable to corrupt a perfectly good word.”

“Remington was looking to corrupt
you
.”

“Hmm.” She looked at him, her expression stony. “But I do like etchings. Do you have any?”

“Yes.” The answer was out before he’d thought. When she raised a brow, he grudgingly elaborated, “I have two scenes of Venice.” They hung on either side of his bed. When he invited ladies to see his etchings, he meant literally as well as figuratively.

“I don’t suppose you’d invite me to see them?”

“No.” Not until she agreed to marry him.

“I thought not.”

He blinked, and scowled at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her cryptic utterances were driving him crazy.

“It means,” Flick enunciated, her accents as clipped as his, “that it’s become increasingly clear that you want me merely as an ornament, a suitable, acceptable wife to parade on your arm at all the family gatherings. You don’t want me
powerfully
at all! That doesn’t impress me—and I’ve been even less impressed by your recent behavior.”

“Oh?”

The single, quietly uttered syllable was a portent of danger; she ignored her reactive shiver. “You’re never
there
—never about! You don’t deign to waltz with me—you’ve driven me in the park precisely once!” Looking into his face, fists clenched, she let loose her pent-up frustrations.

“
You
were the one who insisted on bringing me to London—if you thought this was the way to get me to marry you, you’ve seriously miscalculated!”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked into his. “Indeed, coming to London has opened my eyes.”

“You mean it’s shown you how many puppies and fortune hunters you can have at your beck and call.” His growl was a grating rumble she had to concentrate to hear; her reply was a sweet smile. “No,” she said, her tone that of one explaining a simple matter to a simpleton. “I don’t want puppies or fortune hunters—that wasn’t what I meant. I meant I’ve seen the light about
you
!”

Eyes mere slits, he raised one brow. “Indeed?”

“Oh, indeed!” Buoyed on an outrush of pure release, Flick gestured wildly. “Your women—ladies, I’m sure. Particularly Celeste.”

He stiffened. “Celeste?”

There was demand in his tone, along with a clear warning. Flick heeded the first but not the second. “You must remember her—dark hair, dark eyes.
Enormous
—”

“I
know
who Celeste is.” The steely words cut her off. “What I want to know is what you know of her.”

“Oh, nothing more than anyone with eyes knows.” Her own eyes, filled with fury, told him precisely how much that was. “But Celeste is by the way. At least, if we’re ever to marry, she will certainly have to be ‘by the way.’ My principal point, however, is this.”

Halting directly in front of him, she looked into his face, and hissed, “
I am not your cousin, to be watched over in this dog-in-the-manger way
!”

He opened his mouth—quick as a flash, she pointed a finger at his nose. “Don’t you
dare
interrupt—just listen!”

He shut his mouth; the way his jaw set, she felt reasonably sure he wouldn’t open it again soon. She drew in a deep breath. “As you well know, I
am not
some eighteen-year-old innocent.” With her eyes, she dared him to contradict her; his lips thinned ominously, but he remained silent.

“I want to talk, walk, waltz and drive—and if you wish to marry
me
, you’d better see it’s with
you
!”

She waited, but he remained preternaturally still. A sense of being too close to something dangerous, something barely controlled, tickled her spine. Hauling in a breath, she kept her eyes steady on his, unusually dark in the weak candlelight. “And I will
not
be marrying you unless I’m convinced it’s the right thing for me. I will
not
be browbeaten, or pressured in any way.”

Demon heard her words through a smothering fog of seething rage. Muscles in his shoulders flickered, twitched—his palms itched. The injustice in her words whipped him. He’d done nothing for any reason other than to protect her. His body was about to explode, held still purely by the force of his will, which was steadily eroding.

She’d paused, searching his face; now she drew herself up and coolly stated, “I will not be managed by you.”

Their gazes locked; for one long moment, absolute silence held sway. Neither moved—they barely breathed. The conflagration within him swelled; he locked his jaw, and endured.

“I
refuse
—”

He reached out and pulled her into his arms, cutting the statement off with his lips, drawing whatever repudiation she’d thought to make from her mouth, then he plundered, searched, took all she had and demanded, commanded, more.

He drew her against him, hard against the unforgiving rock his body had become. His mind was a seething cauldron of emotions—rage colliding hotly with passion and other, more elemental needs. He was coming apart—a volcano slowly cracking, outer walls crumbling, blown asunder by a force too long compressed. Only dimly did he recall that he’d wanted to shut her up, wanted to punish her—that wasn’t what he wanted now.

Now, he simply wanted.

With a desire so primitive, so primally powerful he literally shook. For one instant, he stood on the cusp, quivering, the last shreds of restraint sliding through his grasp—in that moment of blinding clarity he saw, understood, that he’d asked too much of himself, too much of who he really was. Remington had provided the last straw, piling it on top of more amorphous fears—such as what he would do if she fell in love with someone else. How he would cope if she did.

He’d assumed he could control the thing that was inside him—the emotion she and only she evoked. In that quivering, evanescent instant, he knew he’d assumed wrong.

With the last shreds of his will, he forced his arms to ease just enough to give her leeway to pull away, to escape. Even in extremis, he didn’t want to hurt her. If she struggled, or even remained passive, he could fight, hold back, endure, and eventually releash his demons.

She grabbed the chance and pulled her arms from between them; something inside him howled. He braced himself for her shove on his chest—whipped himself to let her go—

Her hands caught his face, framed it. Her lips firmed, then angled under his; her fingers slid into his hair.

She kissed him hungrily. Voraciously. As powerfully demanding as he.