“And how,” Demon asked, “do you imagine explaining that?”
Stratton raised a brow. “Explaining? Why should I explain anything?”
“Others know I’ve been investigating you in connection with the race-fixing.”
“Do they now?” Stratton remained very still, his eyes steady on Demon’s face, his aim never faltering from Flick’s chest. Then his thin lips eased. “How unfortunate—for Bletchley.”
Stratton’s jaw set. He lifted his arm, straightening it, aiming the pistol at Demon—
Flick screamed.
She flung herself at Demon, clinging to his chest, shoving him back against the chimney.
Stratton’s eyes widened—his finger had already tightened about the trigger.
Dillon stepped across Flick—the pistol discharged. The explosion echoed deafeningly between the cottage walls.
Demon and Flick froze, locked together before the chimney. Demon had frenziedly tried to wrestle Flick to the side, knowing he’d be too late—
They both continued to breathe, each searingly conscious the other was still alive. They turned their heads and looked—
Dillon slowly crumpled to the floor.
“Damn!” Stratton dropped the pistol.
Demon released Flick. She dropped to the floor beside Dillon. His face a mask of vengeance, Demon went for Stratton and nearly fell as his boots tangled in Flick’s skirts. He grabbed the table to steady himself and saw Stratton pull another, smaller pistol from his greatcoat pocket, saw him aim at him—
“Here! Wait a minute!” Ducking through the lean-to, Bletchley lumbered in. “What’s this about things being unfortunate for me?”
Belligerent as a bull, he made straight for Stratton.
Without a blink, Stratton swung his arm farther and shot Bletchley.
Demon vaulted the table.
Stratton swung to face him, raising his riding quirt—
Demon’s right cross snapped his head back with a satisfying scrunch. He followed up with a left, but Stratton was already on his way down. His head hit the flags with a thud. After one glance at Bletchley’s slumped form, Demon leaned over Stratton.
He was unconscious, his aristocratic jaw at an odd, very painful-looking angle. Demon considered, but restrained himself from rearranging any more of his features. Wrecking Stratton’s cravat without the slightest compunction, he dumped him on his face, hauled his arms back, secured them, then tied them to his ankles. Satisfied Stratton was no longer a threat, Demon glanced over the table. Flick was staunching a wound on Dillon’s shoulder.
Turning to Bletchley, Demon eased him onto his back. Stratton had been rushed, his aim fractionally off. Bletchley would live, hopefully to sing of his master’s infamy. Right now, all he could do was moan.
Demon left him to it—he wasn’t bleeding badly enough to be in any real danger.
From what little he’d glimpsed, Dillon was.
Rounding the table, Demon joined Flick, on her knees beside Dillon. She’d eased him onto his back. Her face white as a sheet, she struggled to contain her trembling as she pressed her wadded petticoat down hard on his wound. Demon glanced at her face, then looked at Dillon. “Ease back—let me see the wound.”
Relaxing her arms, she leaned back. Demon lifted the wad and quickly looked, then replaced it. His face easing, he looked at Flick as she reapplied pressure to the wound.
“It’s bad, but he’ll live.”
Blank-faced, she looked at him. Demon put his arm around her shoulders and hugged. “Stratton was aiming for me. Dillon’s shorter than I am—the ball’s in his shoulder; it hasn’t even touched his lung. He’ll be all right once we get the doctor to him.”
She searched his eyes; some of the cold blankness left her face. She looked down at Dillon. “He’s been such a fool, but I don’t want to lose him—not now.”
Demon hugged her tighter and pressed a kiss into her curls. He wasn’t all that calm himself, but he knew what she meant. If Dillon hadn’t come good at the last—hadn’t become man enough to, for once, shield Flick rather than expecting the reverse, Flick would have died.
His arm still about her, his cheek against her golden curls, Demon closed his eyes tight and again told himself—the being who dwelled deep inside—that it really was all right, that Flick was still with him, that he hadn’t lost his angel so soon after finding her. Flick was a lot shorter than he was—if Dillon hadn’t shielded her, Stratton’s bullet would have hit her in the back of her beautiful head.
He really couldn’t think of it—not without coming apart—so he pushed the image away, locked it deep inside. Lifting his head, he looked down at Dillon, to whom he now owed more than his life. Flick was still staunching the flow of blood, but it seemed to be easing. Demon considered, then looked into her face. She was still pale, but composed.
Part of him wanted to shake her—to swear and rant at her for throwing herself across him; the saner part realized there really was no point. She would simply set her little chin and get that stubborn look on her face and refuse to pay the slightest attention. And she’d do it again in a blink.
The realization only made him want to hug her, hold her tight, keep her forever safe in his arms.
Drawing a deep breath, he reached out and gently tugged her hands from the bloody pad. “Come.” She turned to him; he met her gaze. “Leave that to me—you’re going to have to ride for help.”
Sorting it out took the rest of the day. Flick rode to the farm—Gillies and the Shephards took over from there, summoning the doctor, the magistrate and constable while Flick rode to Hillgate End. She stayed with the General, soothing and reassuring, until the doctor’s gig arrived from the cottage with Demon driving and Dillon in the back.
They got Dillon inside—the doctor, a veteran of the Peninsula Wars, had extracted the bullet at the cottage, so Dillon was quickly made comfortable. He was still unconscious—the doctor warned he probably wouldn’t wake until the next day. Mrs. Fogarty installed herself at his bedside; the General, after seeing his son still breathing, and hearing from both Flick and Demon of Dillon’s bravery, finally consented to retire to the library.
The magistrate and the constable met them there; the members of the Committee, at Newmarket for the Spring Carnival that week, joined them. Tabling Dillon’s account, then an explanation of the investigations that had resulted in Montague’s estimations, then laying out Stratton’s accounts for all to see, Demon led the assembled company through the details of Sir Percival’s race-fixing racket.
While Dillon’s involvement was frowned upon, in light of the greater crimes involved and his clear repentance, his misdemeanors were set aside, to be dealt with later by the Committee, once he was fully recovered. At present, they had greater fish to fry—the extent of Stratton’s manipulation of their industry fired them with fury. They left, faces stiff, vowing to make an example of him. An aim Demon openly supported.
The instant they’d gone, the General slumped. Flick fussed and fretted and worried him into bed; Jacobs assured her he would watch over him. Leaving the General propped on his pillows, Flick paused in the corridor; shutting the General’s door behind him, Demon studied her face, then walked to her side and drew her into his arms.
She stood stiffly for an instant, then the iron will and sheer stubbornness that had kept her going until then dissolved. She sank into his arms, sliding hers about him, laying her cheek against his chest.
Then she started to shake.
Demon carried her downstairs and coaxed a small glass of brandy past her lips. Her color improved marginally, but he didn’t like the distant look in her eyes. He racked his brain for something with which to distract her.
“Come on.” Abruptly standing, he drew her to her feet. “Let’s go back to the farmhouse. Your luggage is there, remember? Mrs. Shephard can feed us, then you can look around and decide what changes you’d like to make.”
She blinked at him. “Changes?”
He towed her
to the door. “Remodelling, redecorating—how should I know?”
They rode back. He watched her every step of the way, but she was steady in her saddle. His staff were very pleased to see them; it instantly became clear Gillies had spread their news. Which was probably just as well, as Demon had every intention of dining alone with his angel.
Mrs. Shephard was on her mettle, laying a nourishing meal quickly before them. Demon was relieved to note Flick’s appetite hadn’t evaporated. They sat quietly as the evening lengthened, making comments at random, slowly winding down.
Finishing his port, Demon rose, rounded the table, and drew Flick to her feet. “Come—I’ll give you the grand tour.” He showed her all around the ground floor, then climbed the stairs; his tour ended in his bedroom, above the parlor at whose window she used to come a-tapping.
Much, much later, Flick lolled, utterly naked, in Demon’s big bed. She had, she decided, never felt more comfortable, more at peace, more at home, in her life.
“Come on.” A sharp smack on her bottom followed. “We’d better get dressed and I’ll drive you home.”
Flick didn’t look around. She didn’t lift her head—she sank it deeper into the pillow and shook it. “You can drive me home early in the morning, can’t you?”
Lounging beside her, as naked as she, Demon looked down at her—what he could see of her—the tousled guinea gold curls gilding his pillow, one sweetly rounded shoulder and delicately curved arm, one slender leg, and one firm, absolutely perfect buttock, all clothed in the silkiest ivory skin, presently lightly flushed. All the rest of her—all that he’d enjoyed for the past several hours—was provocatively draped in his satin sheets.
She was going to be a never-ending challenge, demanding all his skill to let her run as free as she wished, with only the very lightest hand on her reins.
A slow smile curved his lips as he reached for the sheet. “Yes—I suppose I can.”
Epilogue
April 30, 1820
St. Georges Church, Hanover Square
Everyone attended. The Duke and Duchess of St. Ives sat in the first row, with the Dowager beside them. Vane, of course, was best man; he and Patience had returned to London the week before. Of all the family and its myriad connections, only Richard and Catriona hadn’t been able to attend, and that only because of the short notice.
The twins were Flick’s bridesmaids, with Heather, Henrietta, Elizabeth, Angelica and little Mary as flower girls. Such a crowd had been needed, Demon had discovered, to manage Flick’s long train. But from the instant she’d appeared and walked down the nave to join him, to the moment they were pronounced man and wife, he couldn’t recall any detail beyond the sheer beauty of her angelic face.
Now, beside him on the pavement before the ton’s favored church, an angel in truth in pearl-encrusted silk, she glowed with transparent joy; he couldn’t have felt more proud or more favored by fate. Crowds of well-wishers flocked about them as they paused before their carriage. All the family and much of the ton had turned up to see yet another Cynster tie the knot—they were all about to adjourn to Berkeley Square for the wedding breakfast.
His mother was in tears—positive floods of happiness.
Halting before him, she stretched up to place a motherly kiss on his cheek, then she sniffed, and quavered, “I’m so glad I made you promise not to marry in any hole-and-corner fashion.” She dabbed at her overflowing eyes. “You’ve made me so happy,” she sobbed.
Helplessly, he looked at her, then looked at his father.
Who grinned and clapped him on the back. “Play your cards right, and you’ll be able to live on this for years.”
Demon grinned back, shook his hand, then glanced again at Horatia. Today had been the happiest, proudest day of his life—one he wouldn’t have missed for the world. Despite his earlier view of marriage, he was now much wiser. But he wasn’t fool enough to tell his mother that—instead, he leaned down and kissed her cheek.
Instantly suspicious, she stopped crying and stared at him; his father chuckled and drew her away.
Grinning, Demon turned to have a word with the General and Dillon, standing beside Flick on his other side. Dillon was a far cry from the petulant youth of only a few months ago; now he stood straight and tall, unafraid to meet any man’s eye. The Committee had agreed that in reparation for his crime—one against the industry—he would act as a clerk to the Jockey Club, and assist in keeping the breeding register up to date. In his spare time, of his own accord, he’d taken up the task of managing the General’s investments, giving his father more time for his research. Seeing them together now, father and son side by side as they chatted with Flick, Demon sensed a closeness, a bond that hadn’t been there—or not openly so—before.
Sliding his arm around Flick, he smiled and held out his hand to Dillon.
Above the bustle, lounging against one of the pillars of the church porch, Lucifer looked down on the gathering. In particular, on the twins. “They’re going to be much worse after this, you realize.”
“Hmm.” Beside him, Gabriel resignedly raised his brows. “I’ve never understood what it is about weddings that so excites the mating instinct of females.”
“Whatever it is, you only need to look at them to see its effect. They look ready to grab anything in breeches.”
“Luckily, most of us here are related.”
“Or, in their view, too old to count.”
They continued watching the twins, perfect pictures of delight in cornflower blue gowns the same color as their eyes, their pale ringlets dancing in the breeze. They’d been hovering not far from Flick. Now they pushed forward to hug her frantically as she and Demon prepared to enter the waiting carriage. Flick returned their hugs affectionately—even from the porch, it was easy to discern her reasssuring words: “Your time will come—never doubt it.”
To Gabriel and Lucifer, those words held a different ring.
Gabriel quelled an odd shiver. “It’s not going to be easy, now it’s just you and me.”
“Devil and Vane will help out.”
“When they’re allowed to.”
Lucifer’s dark blue gaze shifted to Honoria and Patience, standing chatting to one side. “There is that. Still, we should be able to manage it—don’t you think?”
Gabriel didn’t answer, well aware they hadn’t been talking solely about the twins.
At that moment, Demon handed Flick into the carriage. A cheer went up from all the onlookers. Demon turned to acknowledge it—to exchange a round of last comments with Devil and Vane. They laughed, and fell back; Demon reached for the carriage door.
Then he looked up, directly at them—the last unmarried members of the Bar Cynster. A slow, rakish, too-knowing smile lit his face; holding their gazes, he raised a hand and saluted them, paused for one last instant, then turned, ducked and entered the carriage.
Barely hearing the cheers and huzzahs as the carriage rumbled off, Gabriel stood in the porch as if turned to stone. In his mind rang the words Your time will come—never doubt it. Not, this time, in Flick’s soft voice, but in Demon’s much more forceful tones.
He blinked and shook aside the horrendous thought, then shivered in earnest as a chill touched his spine.
Exactly as if someone had walked on his grave.
Disguising his shiver as a wriggle of his shoulders, he resettled his cuffs, then glanced at his brother. “Come on—we’d better do the honors vis-à-vis the twins, before they find some bounder to accompany them instead.”
With a nod, Lucifer followed him down the church steps.
In the carriage rocking over the cobbles toward Berkeley Square, Flick was in her husband’s arms. “Demon! Be careful!” She tried vainly to right her headdress. “We’ll be greeting our guests soon.”
“We’re ahead of them,” Demon pointed out, and kissed her again.
Flick inwardly sighed and forgot about her headdress, forgot about everything as she sank into his embrace. Possessive, protectiv
e, passionately loving—he was all she’d ever wanted. She loved him with all her soul. As she kissed him back, she felt the glow her parents had always had infuse her and Demon, enfolding them in its warmth. With this marriage, this man, this husband and lover, she’d seized her parents’ legacy—now, they’d make it their own.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
The Bar Cynster—a group of arrogant Regency rogues—domineering, autocratic, rakish—what more need one say? Writing about them—their lives, their loves and about the wider Cynster family with its strong, willful women—has been a delight. What especially attracted me to write about the Bar Cynsters was what I see as the ultimate strength in strong, arrogant, warrior males—the fact that their very nature compels them to seek their own family to protect and defend. And in order to establish that family, ah well—they need a wife. But Fate, a willful woman herself, has reserved a special destiny for every Cynster: to love and be loved by said wife. To surrender to love—to willingly do so—takes courage, determination, and commitment. As Demon recognizes at the beginning of this book, marrying the lady one loves—being forever at the mercy of a woman who holds one’s heart, soul, and future in her small, delicate hands—is a fate baneful enough to make the strongest warrior blanch. Although each of them blanches, and clearly recognizes the danger, every member of the Bar Cynster ultimately makes his fateful choice. First Devil, in Devil’s Bride, then Vane in A Rake’s Vow, followed by Richard in Scandal’s Bride, and now Demon in A Rogue’s Proposal. Each choose love, family, and a lifetime of commitment over all else their wealthy world has to offer.
To me, that willing choice is the very essence of romance in the Regency.