A Rogue's Proposal (45 page)

Demon watched him go, then slowly turned his head and met Flick’s limpid gaze. “What are you about?” She opened her eyes at him. “I would have thought that was obvious. I want to speak with you.”

So she’d jerked his leash. Demon clenched his jaw and fought to preserve some semblance of debonair aloofness.

She swung to the door. “Is the garden this way?”

Along with the terrace. “I find it difficult to believe you’re in need of fresh air. You’re not the wilting sort.” She certainly hadn’t wilted last night.

“Of course not, but we need to speak privately.”

“Indubitably.” He bit the word off. “Not, however, out there.” He wasn’t about to risk a repeat of last night.

Meeting his gaze, she tilted her chin. “Where, then?”

One challenge to which he had an answer. “There’s a
chaise
in an alcove over there.”

He caught her hand, placed it on his sleeve, and led her through the crowd. Although this was only a party, there were still too many guests crowding the room. It took them some minutes to cross it, time in which his anger faded to resentment—at her action, his reaction, and the ever present, irritating confusion that dogged him.

Never in his life had he had so much trouble with a woman. As on horses, so too in the ballrooms. He was widely acknowledged as clever in the saddle, yet for all his experience, Flick was forever running her own race, perpetually relegating him to following at her heels. He was constantly having to reassess, rethink, readjust, which was not what he’d expected. Unfortunately, there seemed little else he could do.

He had to follow, and
try
to keep
his
hands on their reins. And ignore the nagging feeling that he was out of his depth with her.

Deep inside, he knew it, but he couldn’t accept it—he was infinitely more experienced than she. But this was not the young chit he’d made blush under the wisteria, the innocent miss he’d kissed by the banks of the stream, and taught to love at The Angel. This Flick was a conundrum, one he’d yet to work out.

The alcove was deep but open to the room. If they kept their voices down, they could talk freely, but in no real sense were they private.

He handed her to the
chaise
, then sat beside her. “Do you think, next time you wish to speak with me, you could dispense with manipulation and simply send a note?”

She looked him in the eye. “From someone who has so consistently tried to manage me, that’s definitely a case of the pot calling the kettle black.” Her voice was even but her eyes spat blue sparks.

He waved a hand at the crowd. “Face forward and look bored. Make it appear we’re idly chatting while you rest.” Her eyes flared, but she did as he said.

“
See
?” she hissed.

“Look bored, not irate.” He looked down; her fists were clenched in her lap. “Relax your hands.” Despite his irritation, he’d lowered his voice to a cajoling murmur; after an instant’s hesitation, her fingers uncurled.

Looking ahead, he drew in a breath, intending to explain, simply, succinctly, that in this sphere he was infinitely more experienced than she, that he knew precisely what he was doing and if she’d only deign to follow his lead, all would be well—

“I want you to spend more time with me.”

The demand made him bridle, but he preserved his bored facade. His instinctive response to any outright demand was resistance, but in this case, resistance was tempered by desire. It was a shock to realize he was not at all averse to spending the bulk of his days by her side. He felt his features harden as the implication sank in, while all the reasons he couldn’t do so replayed in his mind.

Not least was that sensual glow of hers—if they were frequently together, he’d never preserve a safe distance. And she’d react. On top of that, there was a quality in their interactions now that simply shouldn’t be there. For instance, if he leaned closer, she would turn to him, not draw away as an innocent would. Physically, she was completely at ease in his company—womanly, seductively alluring, not nervous and skittish as she should be.

Drawing in a breath, he considered telling her, but . . . the very last thing he wanted was for her to change.

“No.” He spoke decisively. After a moment, he added, “That’s not possible.”

She didn’t, to his surprise, react—didn’t turn her head and glare. Instead, she continued to study the room.

It took Flick some time to absorb his words. She’d made her demand expecting an argument, not bald denial. Yet she’d sensed his stiffening the instant the words were out—she’d braced herself to hear something she’d rather not. Nevertheless . . . she had trouble taking it in. Trying to understand. What was he telling her?

A sudden premonition swept her—last night she’d accused him of wanting her solely as an ornament. She’d said it to prod him to deny it. He hadn’t. Forcing in a breath, she concentrated on not gripping her fingers and wringing them. Had she, from the first, completely misread him—completely misunderstood what this something between them was?

Had she fooled herself into believing he might, one day, love her?

The cold started in her toes and flooded upward; her lungs froze—she felt giddy. But she had to know the truth. She glanced at his face. His features were set, determined. It wasn’t his social mask that watched her, but another more stony, more ruthless. She searched his eyes, steady crystalline blue, and found no softness there either. “No?”

The word trembled on her lips. Abruptly, she looked away, struggling to mask the effect of that word—a blow to her unwary heart.

He tensed, shifted, then sat back. After a moment, he said in an even voice, “If you agree to marry me, then I can spend more time with you.”

Flick stiffened. “Indeed?” First a blow, then an ultimatum.

In the same controlled tone, he continued, “You know I wish to marry you—that I’ve been waiting for you to make up your mind. Have you done so?”

She turned her head further away so he couldn’t see the fight she waged to keep her hurt from showing.

Demon swallowed a curse. Her agitation reached him clearly, leaving him even more confused than before. But he couldn’t reach out and force her to face him—force her to tell him what the devil was wrong. Kept going wrong between them.

He now wished he hadn’t pressed for her answer. But he wanted her, and the agony got worse every night. His gaze locked on her curls, he waited, conscious to his bones of that deep wanting, of the contradictions between his mask, his behavior, and his feelings. He wanted to press her, wanted to reassure her. He desperately wanted to tell her the right answer.

One of her curls, the same one he’d often tucked back, had come loose. Raising one hand, he caught it, adjusted it.

And saw his hand shaking.

The sight shook him even more, forcing the vulnerability he’d tried to ignore to the forefront of his mind. His face set; his jaw clenched. A moment later, he demanded, his tone harsh, “Have you decided?”

Flick looked at him, forced herself to meet his hard blue eyes, tried to see behind the ruthless mask. But she could catch no glimpse of what she searched for—this was not the man she loved, the idol of her dreams, the man who’d made long slow love to her all night at The Angel. The man she’d hoped would learn to love her.

Looking away, she drew in a shaky breath and held it. “No—but I think I’ve made a dreadful mistake.”

He stiffened.

She hauled in a tight breath. “If you’ll excuse me?” Briefly inclining her head, Flick stood. Demon stood as she did, so winded he wasn’t able to speak. He wasn’t able to think, let alone do anything to stop her. Stop her leaving him.

Flick walked back to the group she’d earlier left. Within seconds she was surrounded by eligible gentlemen. From the side of the room, Demon watched her.

The word “mistake” burned in his brain. Who had really made it—her, or him? Her rejection—how else was he to take it?—seared him. His eyes narrowed as he saw her nod graciously to some man. Perhaps, this time, he should swallow his pride and take her at her word?

The thought was like acid, eating at his heart.

Then he saw her smile fleetingly—a huge effort all for show; the instant the gentleman looked away, her smile faded, and she glanced surreptitiously his way.

Demon caught that glance—saw the hurt, haunted look in her eyes. He swore and took an impulsive step forward, then recalled where they were. He couldn’t cross the room, haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless, much less swear undying devotion.

Suppressing a snarl, rigidly schooling his features to a cast that would allow him to move through the throng, he swung on his heel and left the house.

Every time he tried to manage her, things went wrong.

She refused to run in his harness; she never reacted predictably to the reins. He’d expected to be in control, but that wasn’t the way it would be.

Lounging in the doorway of the nursery at 12 Clarges Street, the house he dreamed of bringing Flick to as his wife, Demon looked around the room. Set beneath the eaves, it was of a good size, well lit, well ventilated. As in the light, airy rooms downstairs, he could see Flick here, her curls glowing brighter than the sun as she smiled, shedding her warmth about her.

The house would be cold without her.

He’d be cold without her. As good as dead.

He knew she wanted something from him—something more than a few hours every day. He even knew what that something was. If he wanted to convince her that she’d made no mistake, that her heart was safe with him, he was going to have to give rather more than he had.

He didn’t need to hear her say she loved him—he’d known that for some time, at The Angel if not before. But he’d thought of her feelings as a “young” love, youthful, exuberant, relatively immature—easy for him to manage and fulfill without having to expose the depth of his own feelings. He’d even used the mores of the ton to assist him in hiding those—the emotions that at times raged so powerfully he couldn’t contain them.

He certainly couldn’t manage them. Or her.

His chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. What lay between them now was an obsession—deep and abiding and impossible to deny—not on her part, or his. She was meant for him and he for her, but if he didn’t confront the one thing he most feared, didn’t surrender and pay the price, he would lose her.

A prospect the Cynster in him could never, ever accept.

He stood for long moments, gazing unseeing at the empty room. Then he sighed and straightened. He would have to see her alone again, and find out what, precisely, he was going to have to do to get her to agree to be his.

That evening, together with Horatia, Flick attended Lady Merton’s musicale. Musicales were the one social event Demon had flatly refused to attend. Slipping into the room just as the soprano started to wail, Flick winced and tried to block out the thought that her reaction to such music was something else she and Demon shared. They didn’t share the most important trait, which was the only one that mattered.

Setting her chin against a deplorable tendency to quiver, she looked along the rows of seats, hunting for an empty one. She’d taken refuge in the withdrawing room to avoid the twins—one look at their bright, cheery expressions and their far-too-sharp eyes and she’d fled. She possessed no mask solid enough to hide her inner misery from them.

She’d expected to sit with Horatia, but she was now surrounded, as were the twins. Looking along the edge of the room, she tried to spot a vacant seat—

“Here, gel!” Clawlike fingers gripped her elbow; surprisingly strong, they drew her back. “Sit and stop flitting—it’s distracting!”

Abruptly sitting, Flick found herself on one end of a love seat, the rest of which was occupied by Lady Osbaldestone. “Th-thank you.”

Hands crossed over the head of her cane, her ladyship fixed Flick with a piercing black gaze. “You look quite peaked, gel. Not getting enough sleep?”

Flick wished she had a mask to hold in front of her face; the old eyes fixed on hers were even sharper than the twins’. “I’m quite well, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it. When’s the wedding to be, then, heh?”

Unfortunately, they were sufficiently distant from other guests not to have to remain silent. Shifting her gaze to the singer, Flick fought to quell the tremor in her lips, in her voice. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”

“Is that so?” Her ladyship’s tone was mildly curious.

Keeping her gaze on the singer, Flick nodded.

“And why is that?”

“Because he doesn’t love me.”

“Doesn’t he?” That was said with considerable surprise.

“No.” Flick couldn’t think of any more subtle way to put it—even the thought was enough to overset her. Breathing evenly, she tried to ease the knot clutched tight about her heart. It had constricted the previous evening and still hadn’t loosened.

Despite all, she still wanted him—wanted desperately to marry him. But how could she? He didn’t love her, and wasn’t expecting to. The marriage he intended would be a living mockery of all she believed, all she wanted. She couldn’t endure being trapped in a loveless, fashionably convenient union. Such a marriage wasn’t for her—she simply couldn’t do it.

“Humor an old woman, my dear—why do you imagine he doesn’t love you?”

After a moment, Flick glanced at Lady Osbaldestone. She was sitting back, calmly waiting, her full attention on her. Despite feeling remarkably close to Horatia, Flick could hardly discuss her son’s shortcomings with her kind and generous hostess. But . . . recalling her ladyship’s first words to her, Flick drew breath and faced forward. “He refuses to give me any of his time—just the polite minimum. He wants to marry me so he’ll have a suitable bride—the right ornament on his arm at family gatherings. Because we suit in many ways, he’s decided I’m it. He expects to marry me, and—well, from his point of view, that’s it.”

A sound halfway between a snort and a guffaw came from beside her. “Pardon my plain speaking, my dear, but if that’s all you’ve got against him, I wouldn’t, if I was you, be so hasty in your judgments.”