Stephanie Laurens - A Rogues Proposal

"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."

Time 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 many 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.

"Shall we?"

Flick glanced at his face, but it was his mask she saw; his tone held the same boredom. Studiously correct, he offered his arm; inclining her head, she rested her fingertips on his sleeve.

She kept a sweet smile on her lips as they progressed through the door and on up the curving staircase-and tried not to dwell on his stiff stance, his bent arm held away from his body. It was always thus, these days. No longer did he draw her close, as if she was special to him.

They greeted Lady Arkdale, then followed Horatia to a chaise by the wall. Demon immediately requested the first cotillion and the first country dance after supper, then melted into the crowd.

Stifling a sigh, Flick held her head high. It was always the same-he assiduously escorted her to every ball, but all that ever came of it was her laying her hand on his sleeve on the way in, one distant cotillion, one even more distant country dance, a stilted supper surrounded by her admirers, a few glimpses through the crowd, then her placing her hand on his sleeve as they departed. How anyone could imagine there was anything between them-anything with the potential to lead to marriage-she couldn't comprehend.

His departure was the signal for her court to gather. Infusing her features with appropriate delight, she set her self to manage the youthful gentlemen who, if she let them, would fawn at her feet.

In no way different from the evenings that had preceded it, this evening, too, rolled on.

"I say-careful!"

"Oh! I'm so sorry." Flick blushed, quickly shifted her feet, and smiled apologetically at her partner, an earnest young gentleman, Lord Bristol. They were swinging around the floor in a waltz; unfortunately, she found dancing with anyone but Demon more a trial than a delight.

Because, if she wasn't dancing with him, she was forever trying to catch glimpses of him as he stood conversing by the side of the floor.