A Rogue's Proposal (46 page)

Flick shot a puzzled glance at her elderly inquisitor. “You wouldn’t?”

“No, indeed.” Her ladyship sat back. “You say he won’t spend much time by your side—are you sure that shouldn’t be ‘
can’t
’?”

Flick blinked. “Why ‘can’t’?”

“You’re young and he’s much older—that alone restricts the arenas in which your paths can cross in town. And an even greater restriction stems from his reputation.” Her ladyship fixed her with a direct look. “You know about that, do you not?”

Flick colored, but nodded.

“Well, then, if you think about it, you should see there are precious few opportunities for him to spend time with you. He’s not here tonight?”

“He doesn’t like musicales.”

“Yes, well, few gentlemen do—look around.” They both did. The soprano screeched, and her ladyship snorted again. “I’m not even sure
I
like musicales. He’s generally been squiring you to your evenings’ entertainments, hasn’t he?”

Flick nodded.

“Then let’s think what else he could do. He can’t dance attendance on you, because, being who he is, and you who you are, society would raise its brows censoriously. He can’t hang about you during the day, in the park or elsewhere—he most certainly can’t haunt his parents’ house. He can’t even join your circle of an evening.”

Flick frowned. “Why not?”

“Because society does not approve of gentlemen of his age and experience showing their partiality too openly, any more than it approves of ladies wearing their hearts on their sleeves.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed. And Harold, just like all the Cynsters, lives and breathes society’s rules without even thinking of them—at least when it comes to marriage, specifically anything to do with the lady they wed. They’ll happily bend any rule that gets in their high-handed way, but not when it comes to marriage. Don’t understand it myself, but I’ve known three generations, and they’ve all been the same. You may take my word for it.”

Flick grimaced.

“Now, Horatia mentioned you haven’t accepted him yet, so that simply lays an extra tax on him. Being a Cynster, he would want to stick by your side, force you to acknowledge him, but he can’t. Which, of course, explains why he’s been going around tense as an overwound watchspring. I have to say he’s toed the line very well—he’s doing what society expects of him by keeping a reasonable distance until you accept his offer.”

“But how can I learn if he loves me if he’s never near?”

“Society is not concerned with love, only its own power. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Not wanting to make himself, or you, or his family appear outré, and very definitely not wanting society to view your relationship askance, restricts him to half-hour calls in Horatia’s presence—and only one or two a week, to meetings in the park, again not too frequently, and escorting you and Horatia to balls. Anything else would be construed as bad ton—something no Cynster has ever been.”

“What about riding in the park? He knows I like riding.”

Lady Osbaldestone eyed her. “You’re from Newmarket, I believe?”

Flick nodded.

“Well, riding in the park means you’ll be walking your mount. At the most, you can break into a trot for a short stretch, but that’s the limit of what is considered appropriate stimulation for a female on horseback.” Flick stared. “So are you surprised he hasn’t taken you riding in the park?”

Flick shook her head.

“Ah, well, now you appreciate the intricacies Harold’s been juggling for the past weeks. And from his point of view, he doesn’t dare put a foot wrong. Most entertaining, it’s been.” Lady Osbaldestone chuckled and patted Flick’s hand. “Now, as to whether he loves you or not, there’s one point you’ve obviously missed.”

“Oh?” Flick focused on her face.

“He drove you in the park.”

“Yes.” Her expression said “So?”

“The Bar Cynster never drive ladies in the park. It’s one of those ridiculously high-handed, arrogant, oh-so-male-Cynster decisions, but they simply don’t. The only ladies any of them have ever been known to take up behind their vaunted horses in the park are their wives.” Flick frowned. “He never said anything.”

“I imagine he didn’t, but it was a declaration, nonetheless. By driving you in the park, he made it plain to the ton’s hostesses that he intends to offer for you.” Flick considered, then grimaced.

“That’s hardly a declaration of love.”

“No, I grant you. There is, however, the small matter of his current state. Tight as a violin string about to snap. His temper’s never been a terribly complacent one—he’s not easygoing like Sylvester or Alasdair. His brother Spencer is reserved, but Harold’s impatient and stubborn. It’s a very revealing thing when such a man willingly and knowingly submits to frustration.”

Flick wasn’t convinced, but . . . “Why did he make this declaration?” She glanced at Lady Osbaldestone. “Presumably he had a reason?”

“Most likely to keep more experienced gentlemen—his peers, if you will—at a distance, even if he wasn’t by your side.”

“To warn them away, so to speak?”

Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “And then, of course, he kept watch from the other side of every ballroom, just to make sure.”

Flick felt her lips twitch.

Lady Osbaldestone saw and nodded. “Just so. There’s no reason to have the megrims just because he’s not beside you. In terms of his behavior, he’s handled this well—I really don’t know what more you could want of him. As for love, he’s shown possessiveness and protectiveness, both different facets of that emotion, facets gentlemen such as he are more prone to openly demonstrate. But for the facets to shine, the jewel must be there, at the heart. Passion alone won’t give the same effect.”

“Hmm.” Flick wondered.

The singer reached her finale—a single, sustained, piercingly high note. When it ended, everyone clapped, including Flick and Lady Osbaldestone. The audience immediately stood and milled, chatting avidly. Others approached the love seat; Flick rose.

Lady Osbaldestone acknowledged Flick’s curtsy. “You think of what I told you, gel—you’ll see I’m right, mark my words.”

Flick met her old eyes, then nodded and turned away.

Lady Osbaldestone’s comments cast matters in a new light, but . . . as Horatia’s carriage rumbled over the cobbles, Flick grimaced, thankful for the deep shadows that enveloped her. She still didn’t know if Demon loved her—could love her—would ever love her. She’d settle for any of those alternatives, but for nothing less.

Looking back over the past weeks, she had to acknowledge his protectiveness and possessiveness, but she wasn’t certain that in his case those weren’t merely a reflection of his desire.
That
was strong—incredibly, excitingly powerful. But it wasn’t love.

His frustration, which she’d recognized as steadily escalating, was to her mind more likely due to frustrated desire, compounded by the fact that she’d yet to accept his offer. She couldn’t see love anywhere, no matter how hard she looked.

And while Lady Osbaldestone had explained why he couldn’t spend time with her in town as he had in the country, she hadn’t explained why, when he was by her side, he still kept distance between them.

As the carriage rumbled through the wide streets, lit by flickering flares, she pondered, and wondered, but always came back to her fundamental question: Did he love her?

Heaving a silent sigh, grateful to Lady Osbaldestone for at least giving her hope again, she fixed her gaze on the passing scenery and considered ways to prod Demon into answering. Despite her usual habit, she balked at asking him directly. What if he said no, but didn’t mean it, either because he didn’t realize he did, or did realize but wasn’t willing to admit it?

Either was possible; she’d never told him how important having his love was to her. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d got into the habit of using that one small word with her—on this subject, she couldn’t risk it. If he said no, her newfound hope would shrivel and die, and her dream would evaporate.

The carriage swung around a corner, tilting her close to the window. Beyond the glass, she saw a group of men standing outside a tavern door. Saw one raise a glass in toast—saw his red neckerchief, saw his face. With a gasp, she righted herself as the carriage straightened.

“Are you alright, dear?” Horatia asked from beside her.

“Yes. Just . . .” Flick blinked. “I must have dozed off.”

“Sleep if you will—we’ve still got a way to go. I’ll wake you when we reach Berkeley Square.” Flick nodded, her mind racing, her troubles forgotten. She began to ask Horatia where they were, but she stopped, unable to explain her sudden need of street names. She kept her eyes glued to the streets from then on, but didn’t see any signs until they were nearly home.

By then, she’d decided what to do.

Masking her impatience, she waited. The carriage rocked to a halt outside the Cynster house; handed to the pavement, she matched her pace to Horatia’s and unhurriedly ascended the steps. As they climbed the stairs, she smothered a yawn. With a sleepy goodnight, she parted from Horatia in the gallery and turned toward her room.

As soon as she’d turned the corner, she picked up her skirts and ran. Hers was the only occupied room in that wing, and she’d forbidden the little maid who helped her to wait up. So there was no one about to see her fly into her room. No one to see her tear to her wardrobe and delve into the cases on its floor. No one to see her shed her beautiful gown and leave it lying on the rug.

No one to see her climb into attire that would have made any lady blush.

Ten minutes later, once more Flick the lad, she crept downstairs. The door was left unlatched until Demon’s father came in, usually close to dawn. Until then, Highthorpe polished silver in his pantry, just beyond the baise door. Flick inched down the hall. The front door opened noiselessly—she eased it back just far enough to squeeze through, worried that a draft might alert Highthorpe. Only after she’d closed it again and gently set the latch down did she breathe freely.

Then she darted down the steps and into the street. She stopped in the shadow of an overhang. Her first impulse was to retrace the carriage’s journey, find Bletchley, then follow him through the night. This, however, was London, not Newmarket—it was hardly wise, even dressed as she was, to slink through the streets in the dark.

Accepting reality she headed for Albemarle Street.

L
uckily, Albemarle Street wasn’t far. She found the narrow house easily enough—Horatia had pointed it out when they’d driven past. Demon lived alone with only Gillies as his general factotum, for which Flick was duly grateful—at least she wouldn’t have to cope with strangers.

Slipping through the shadows to the front steps, she noted a lone carriage a few doors down the street. The coachman was shuffling on the box, settling under a blanket; thankfully, his back was to her.

Flick crept up the steps. She reached for the brass knocker, steeling herself to tap gently, but the door gave, just an inch. Catching her breath, she stared at the gap. Splaying her fingers, she gently pushed—the door swung enough for her to slip through.

In the dimness beyond, she looked around, then eased the door closed. She was in a narrow hall, a flight of stairs directly before her. The wall to her right was shared with the next house; to her left lay a closed door, presumably to the parlor. A narrow corridor ran back beside the stairs.

Demon might not be home—there was no light showing beneath the parlor door. Looking up, Flick discerned a faint light low on the landing above. The room upstairs was probably his bedroom.

She bit her lip and considered the narrow stairs.

And heard a sudden scuffle, then the scrape of chair legs on polished boards.

Followed, quite distinctly, by a purring, feminine, highly accented voice: “Harrrrry, my demon . . .”

Flick’s feet were on the stairs before she knew it.

From above came a vibrant oath. Then, “What the
devil
are you doing here, Celeste?”

“Why, I’ve come to keep you company, Harrrry—it’s cold tonight. I’ve come to keep you—
all
of you—warrrrrrm.”

Another oath, as heated as the last, answered that. Then came, “This is ridiculous. How did you get in here?”

“Never mind that—
here I am
. You should, at the very least, reward me for my enterprise.”

In the shadows on the landing, hard by the door, Flick heard a deep, aggravated, very masculine sigh.

“Celeste, I know English isn’t your first language, but no is no in most tongues. I told you at least four times! It’s over.
Finis
!”

It sounded as if the words were forced through gritted teeth.

“You don’t mean that—how can you?”

Celeste’s tone conveyed a purring pout. The soft shushing of silk reached Flick’s straining ears—she pressed close, one ear to the panel.

An explosive expletive nearly rocked her on her heels.

“
Dammit
! Don’t do that!”