A Rogue's Proposal

  On the fourth afternoon, Flick caught up with Demon.

  Disguising her irritation at the fact that since leaving her before the manor steps, he’d made not the slightest attempt to see her—to tell her what was going on, what he and his men had discovered—she twirled her open parasol and advanced determinedly across the grass between the walking pens, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him.

  She was twenty yards away when he turned his head and looked directly at her. Leaning against the last pen’s fence, he’d been scanning the onlookers watching his and two other stables’ strings exercise. His back against the top rung, his hands sunk in his breeches pockets, one leg bent, booted foot braced on the fence’s lower rung, he looked subtly dangerous.

  Flick inwardly humphed and dismissed the thought of danger. She was impatient—she wanted to be doing something, not sitting on her hands waiting to learn what had happened long after it had. But she’d dealt with Dillon and the General long enough to know how to approach a male. It wouldn’t do to show impatience or anger. Instead, smiling sunnily, she strolled to Demon’s side, ignoring the frown forming in his eyes. “Isn’t it a lovely afternoon?”

  “Indeed.”

  The single word was trenchantly noncommittal; his frown darkened, deepening the blue of his eyes. Still smiling sweetly, she turned and scanned the throng. “Where’s Bletchley?”

  Straightening, Demon watched her check through the onlookers, then inwardly sighed. “Under the oak to the left. He’s wearing a scarlet neckerchief.”

  She located Bletchley and studied him; against his will, Demon studied her. She was gowned once more in sprig muslin, tiny blue fern fronds scattered over white. The gown, however, barely registered; what was in the gown transfixed his attention, captured his awareness.

  All soft curves and creamy complexion, she looked good enough to eat—which was the cause of his frown. The instant she appeared, he’d been struck by an urgent, all but ungovernable, ravenous urge. Which had startled him—his urges were not usually so independent, so totally dismissive, of his will.

  As he watched, studied, drank in the sight of her, a light breeze playfully ruffled her curls, setting them dancing; it also ruffled her light skirts, briefly, tantalizingly, molding them to her hips, her thighs, her slender legs. Her heart-shaped bottom.

  He looked away and shifted, easing the fullness in his groin.

  “Has he approached any gentlemen yet? Or they, him?”

  Relocating Bletchley, he shook his head. “It appears his task here—presumably the job Dillon was supposed to do—is to make contact with the jockeys and persuade them to his masters’ cause.” After a moment, he added, “He received a letter some days ago, which spurred him to renewed activity.”

  “Orders?”

  “Presumably. But I seriously doubt he’ll report back to his masters in writing.”

  “He probably can’t write.” Flick glanced over her shoulder and met his eye. “So there’s still a chance the syndicate—at least one of them—will appear here.”

  “Yes. To learn of Bletchley’s success, if nothing else.”

  “Hmm.” She looked at Bletchley. “I’ll take over watching him for the rest of the afternoon.” She glanced up at him. “I’m sure you’ve got other matters to attend to.”

  He captured her gaze. “Be that as it may—”

  “As I’ve already pointed out, he won’t expect a young lady to be watching him—it’s the perfect disguise.”

  “He might not guess that you’re watching him, but I can guarantee he’ll notice if you follow him.”

  She swung to face him; he saw her chin firm. “Be that as it may—”

  “No.” The single word, uttered quietly and decisively, brought her up short. Eyes narrowing, she glared up at him; he towered, without apology, over her. “There is no reason whatever for you to be involved.”

  Her eyes, normally so peacefully lucent, spat sparks. “This was my undertaking—I invited you to help. ‘Help’ does not mean relegating me to the position of mere cipher.”

  He held her irate gaze. “You are not a mere cipher—”

  “Good!” With a terse nod, she swung back to the Heath. “I’ll help you watch Bletchley then.”

  Weaving back to avoid decapitation by her parasol, Demon swore beneath his breath. Falling back half a step, he glared at her back, her hips, the round swells of her bottom, as she stood, stubbornly intransigent, her back to him. “Flick—”

  “Look! He’s heading off.”

  Glancing up, Demon saw Bletchley quit his position by the oak and amble, with a less-than-convincing show of idleness, toward one of the neighboring stables. Glancing at Flick, already on her toes, about to step out in Bletchley’s wake, Demon hesitated, then his eyes narrowed and his lips curved. “As you’re so determined to help . . .”

  Stepping to her right, he caught her hand and set it on his sleeve, anchoring her close—very close—to his side.

  Blinking wildly, she looked up. “What do you mean?” Her voice was gratifyingly breathless.

  “If you want to help me watch Bletchley, then you’ll have to help provide our disguise.” He raised his brows at her. “Just keep that parasol to the side, and as far as possible, keep your face turned to me.”

  “But how am I to watch Bletchley?”

  He strolled; she was forced to stroll beside him. A smile of definite intent on his face, he looked down at her. “You don’t need to watch him for us to follow him, but we need to see who he’s meeting.”

  One swift glance ahead verified that Bletchley was heading behind the stable, which, from the horses Demon could see on the Heath, would almost certainly be empty. With Flick’s not-exactly-willing assistance, he put his mind to creating a tableau of a couple entirely engrossed with each other, of no possible consequence to Bletchley.

  Trapped by his gaze, by the hard palm that held her fingers immobile on his sleeve, by the strength, the power, he so effortlessly wielded, Flick struggled to preserve a facade of normalcy, to slow her breathing and steady her heart. To relax her stiff spine and stroll with passable grace—grace enough to match the reprobate beside her.

  The glances he shot ahead, tracking Bletchley, were reassuring, confirming that his intent was indeed to follow the villain and witness any meeting behind the stable. His intent wasn’t to unnerve her, to send her senses into quivering stasis. That was merely an accident, an unexpected, unintended repercussion. Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed; she fought to get her wits back in order and her senses realigned.

  “Who do you think he’s meeting?” she whispered. Her lungs were still not functioning properly.

  “I’ve no idea.” He looked down at her, his heavy lids half obscuring his eyes. His voice had sunk to a deep purr. “Just pray it’s a member of the syndicate.”

  His tone and his sleepy expression were disconcerting, of no help at all in reestablishing her equanimity.

  Demon looked up. Bletchley had halted at the corner of the stable. As he watched, Bletchley’s gaze swept the throng, then fixed on them. Smoothly, unhurriedly, a wolfish smile curving his lips, he looked down, into Flick’s wide eyes. “Smile,” he instructed. She did, weakly. His own smile deepening, he raised his free hand; with the back of his knuckles he brushed her cheek.

  Her breath caught—she skittered back and blushed; effortlessly, his smile very evident, he drew her back.

  “I’m only teasing,” he murmured. “It’s just play.”

  “I know,” Flick assured him, her heart beating frantically. Unfortunately, he was playing a game with which she was unfamiliar. She tried her best to relax, to smile easily, teasingly, back.

  From beneath his lashes, Demon glanced ahead; Bletchley was no longer looking their way. After one last scan of the Heath, he turned and lumbered around the building, out of sight.

  Flick’s eyes widened; she immediately stepped out. He hauled her up short, pulling her to his side. “No.” She looked up, ready to glare; he leaned closer—
nearer—so the ebb and flow of their interaction looked like a seductive game. “We don’t know,” he murmured, his lips close by her temple, “who he’s meeting and where they are. They might be behind us.”

  “Oh.” Obedient to his pressure on her arm, Flick, a smile on her lips, steeled herself and leaned against him, her shoulder and upper arm nestling into the warmth of his chest. Then, with the same sweet, inane smile, she eased away as they continued to stroll.

  After a moment—after she’d caught her breath—she looked up, into his smiling eyes. “What are you planning to do?”

  His lips quirked, very definitely teasing. “Join Bletchley and his friend, of course.”

  They’d reached the corner of the stable; without pause, Demon continued on, not hugging the shadow of the wall as Bletchley had but strolling on and past, into the clear area behind the stable bounded by a railing fence.

  As soon as they had cleared the corner, Flick looked ahead. Demon released her elbow, slid his arm about her waist, drew her against him and kissed her.

  She nearly dropped her parasol.

  “Don’t look at him—he’ll notice.” Demon breathed the injunction against her lips, then kissed her, briefly, again.

  Wits reeling, she hauled in a breath. “But—”

  “No buts. Just follow my lead and we’ll be able to hear everything—and see it all, too.” Setting her on her feet, shielded by her open parasol, presently pointed, rather waveringly, at Bletchley, his eyes searched hers, then he added, his voice deep and low, “If you won’t behave, I’ll have to distract you some more.”

  She stared at him. Then she cleared her throat. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Concentrate on me as if you aren’t even aware Bletchley and friend exist.”

  She kept her gaze glued to his face. “Has his friend arrived?” She hadn’t been able to see before he’d kissed her.

  “Not yet, but I think someone’s drifting this way.” Righting her parasol, Demon smiled down at her; his hand resting lightly at her waist, he turned her. Gazes locked, they strolled on, apparently aimlessly.

  Bletchley had halted midway along the back of the stable, clearly waiting for someone to join him. From the corner of her eye, Flick saw him frown at them. Demon bent his head and blew in her ear; she squirmed and giggled, entirely spontaneously.

  Naturally, he did it again.

  With no option but to throw herself into their deception, she giggled and wriggled and squirmed. Laughing, Demon caught her more closely to him, then with a flourish, he whirled her, twirled her—they stopped with him leaning against the railing fence, her before him. His eyes glowed wickedly; his smile was distinctly devilish.

  Flick caught her breath on a gasp, a perfectly natural, silly smile on her lips. “What next?” she whispered.

  Screened from Bletchley by her parasol, Demon looked down into her eyes. “Put your hand on my shoulder, stretch up and kiss me.”

  She blinked at him; he raised his brows innocently, the expression in his eyes anything but. “You’ve done it before.”

  She had, but that had been different. He’d started it. Still . . . it hadn’t been difficult.

  Fleetingly frowning at him, she placed her free hand on his broad shoulder and stretched up on her toes. Even so, he had to lower his head—balanced precariously on the very tips of her toes, she had to lean against him, her breasts to his hard chest, to reach his lips with hers.

  She kissed him—just a simple, gentle kiss. When she went to draw back, his hands firmed, one spanning her waist, the other closing about her fingers gripping her parasol. He held her steady as his lips closed over hers.

  Tilting her and her parasol to just the right angle, Demon held her before him, and, from beneath his lashes, looked out under the parasol’s frilled rim. Bletchley, ten yards away, had been slouching, watching them idly—he doubtless considered Demon a reckless blade set on seducing a sweet country miss. But although he watched, Bletchley wasn’t interested. Then he straightened, alert, as another man joined him.

  Breaking off the kiss, Demon breathed a curse.

  Flick blinked, but he didn’t shift, didn’t let her down.

  “No—don’t turn,” he hissed as she went to twist her head.

  “Who is it?”

  His lips, presently at eye level, twisted into a grim grimace. “Another jockey.” Disappointment laced his tone.

  “Perhaps he has a message from the syndicate.”

  “Shssh. Listen.”

  Balanced against him, she strained her ears.

  “Let’s see if I got this straight.”

  That had to be the jockey; the voice was clear, not scratchy.

  “You’ll give me three ponies the day before the Stakes, an’ two ponies the day after, if I bring Cyclone in out o’ the places. That right?”

  “Aye—that’s the deal,” Bletchley grated. “Take it or leave it.”

  The jockey was silent, presumably ruminating; Demon looked down at her, then his arm slid further around her, better supporting her against him.

  “Relax,” he breathed. His lips brushed hers in the lightest of caresses, then the jockey spoke again.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Done.”

  “That’s our cue,” Demon said sotto voce.

  The next instant, he laughed aloud; his arm tightening about her, he swung her around and stood her on her feet. He grinned. “Come along, sweetheart. Wouldn’t do for the local gabblemongers to start wondering where we’ve got to. Let alone what we’ve been doing.”

  He spoke loudly enough for Bletchley and the jockey to hear. Flick blushed and ignored their audience completely; locking both hands about her parasol handle, she turned back to the Heath with a swish of her skirts.

  With another demonic laugh—one of triumph—Demon, his hand lying proprietorially on her back just a little lower than her waist, ushered her around the stable, back into the safety of the racing throng.

  The instant they rounded the corner of the stable, Flick wriggled to dislodge his hand. It only pressed closer.

  “We can’t drop our roles yet.” Demon’s murmur stirred the curls above her ear. “Bletchley’s following. While he can see us, we’ll need to preserve our act.”

  She shot him a suspicious, distracted look; her bottom was heating.

  He smiled, all wolf. “Who knows? An established disguise might come in handy in the following days.”

  Following days? Flick hoped she didn’t look as scandalized as she felt; the laughing, teasing look in Demon’s eyes suggested otherwise.

  To her consternation, Bletchley returned to stand under the oak beside the Heath—and proceeded to watch the exercising strings for the next hour.

  So they watched him, while Demon lived up to his nickname and exercised his rakish talents, using ploy after ploy to ruffle her composure. To make her blush and skitter, and act the besotted miss.

  Whether it was due to his expertise or otherwise, it grew increasingly easy to act besotted. To relax and laugh and smile. And blush.

  He knew just how to tease her, just how to catch her eye and invite her to laugh—at him, at them, at herself. Knew just how to touch her—lightly, fleetingly—so that her senses leapt and her heart galloped faster than any horse on the Heath. When Bletchley, after approaching one other jockey and getting short shrift, finally headed back into the town, she’d blushed more than she ever had before.

  Clinging to her parasol as if it were a weapon, and her last defense, she met Demon’s eye. “I’ll leave you now—I’m sure you can keep him in sight for the rest of the afternoon.”

  His eyes held hers, their expression difficult to read; for one instant, she thought it was reluctance she glimpsed in the blue—reluctance to set aside their roles.

  “I don’t need to follow him.” Demon looked to the edge of the Heath and raised his hand. Gillies, lounging against a post, nodded and slipped off in Bletchley’s wake.

  Demon looked back at his co
mpanion of the afternoon. “Come—I’ll drive you home.”

  Her gaze trapped in his, she waved to the nearby road. “I have the groom with the gig.”

  “We can send him on ahead.” He raised one brow and reached for her hand. “Surely you’d rather be driven home behind my bays than the nag harnessed to the gig?”

  As one who appreciated good horseflesh, her choice was a foregone conclusion. With an inclination of her head that was almost regal, she consented to his scheme, consented to let him hold her by him—to enjoy her freshness—for just a little while more.

  He was seated in the armchair before the fire in his front parlor, staring at the flames and seeing her angelic face, her soft blue eyes, and the curious, considering light that flashed in them from time to time, when, once again, she came tapping on his windowpane. Lips setting, he didn’t even bother swearing—just rose, set aside the brandy balloon he’d been cradling, and crossed to the window.

  This time, when he pulled the curtains aside, he was relieved to see she was wearing skirts—to whit, her riding habit. He raised the sash. “Don’t you ever use the door?”

  The glance she levelled at him was reproving. “I came to invite you to accompany me to see Dillon.”

  “I thought we’d agreed not to see him at all.”

  “That was before. Now we know Bletchley’s the contact, and that he’s wandering about the Heath, we should warn Dillon and bring him up to date, so he doesn’t do anything rash.”

  Dillon would never put himself to so much bother. The observation burned Demon’s tongue, but he swallowed the words. He wasn’t at all happy at the notion of Flick riding about the county alone at night, but he knew there was no point trying to talk her out if it. Mentally locating his riding gloves, he reached for the sash. “I’ll meet you by the stable.”

  Pointy chin resolute, she nodded, then slid into the shadows.

  Demon closed the window and went to warn the Shephards he was going out for a few hours.

  Atop Jessamy, Flick was waiting by the main stable. Demon hauled open the door. In the dimness inside, lit by the shaft of moonlight streaming in through the door, he located his tack and carried it to Ivan’s box. The big stallion was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to be saddled and led out. Luckily, before Ivan could consider and decide to protest, he set eyes on Jessamy.