A Rogue's Proposal (18 page)

The General looked up and frowned—as severely as he ever did—at him. “And don’t think you have to reassure me that nothing happened. I know you—known you from a boy. I
know
nothing untoward occurred. I know my Felicity would be safe with you.”

The unexpected fierceness in the General’s eyes held him silent; with a satisfied nod, the General sat back. “Yes, and she told me about the mouse, too. She’s petrified of the silly things—always has been. Just what I’d have expected—you had the sensitivity not to laugh at her, but to soothe her. Nothing scandalous there.”

Glancing at his desk, the General frowned. “Where were we? Ah, yes. Dunstable. Him coming across you this morning was neither here nor there—he’s an old friend and luckily no gabblemonger. Flick insisted on speaking with him after she’d seen me, and he dropped by to see me half an hour ago. Just to reassure me that he would never say a word to harm our Felicity.” Grinning, the General glanced up. “Dunstable also asked me to convey his apologies to you for jumping to unwarranted conclusions.”

Demon met the General’s eye. Flick had plugged every hole, countered every argument.

“So,” the General said, his tone one of conclusion, “I hope you can see that I’m perfectly convinced there’s no reason for any sacrifice on your part. As you haven’t in any way harmed Felicity’s reputation, there’s absolutely no reason you need offer for her, is there?”

Demon held his gaze, but didn’t answer; the General smiled.

“It was all perfectly innocent—and now we’ll say nothing more about it, what?” He hauled his tome back into position before him. “Now tell me. I’ve just been checking these offshoots of the Barbary Arab. What have you heard about this colt, Enderby?”

As if in compensation, the General invited him to lunch. Demon accepted—then, offering to carry word of his joining the table to Jacobs, left the General to his records.

Shutting the library door, Demon paused in the quiet of the corridor, trying, yet again, to regain a sense of equilibrium. He understood what had happened; rationally, logically, he knew all was well. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel it. He felt . . . deprived.

As if a long-desired object of paramount importance had slipped—been whisked—from his grasp, just as he was about to close his hand.

Frowning, he went to find Jacobs.

He discovered him in the butler’s pantry; his message delivered, Demon returned to the front hall and, without a heartbeat’s pause, set out to hunt down Flick. Feeling very much like a hungry leopard, he prowled through the downstairs rooms. She would be somewhere close, he was sure, just in case he had raised some quibble she hadn’t foreseen and the General had sent for her.

He found her in the garden hall.

She was snipping the stems of flowers and slipping them into a vase. Humming, she tilted her head this way and that, studying her creation. Demon watched her for a full minute, taking in her crisp, cambric morning gown, noting her hair, newly brushed, a gilded frame about her face.

After drinking his fill, he quit the doorway; on silent feet, he approached her.

Flick snipped the stem of a cornflower and considered how best to place it. She held it up, her hand hovering—

Long fingers plucked the bloom from her grasp.

She gasped, but even before her gaze collided with his, she knew who stood beside her. She knew his touch—knew the sense of strength he projected. “Have you seen the General?” she gabbled, frantically trying to slow her racing heart.

“Hmm.” Eyes half-closed, he lazily angled the stem this way, then that, then slid it home into the vase. He surveyed his handiwork, then, apparently satisfied, turned to her. “I did see him, yes.”

His lazy, indolent—sleepy—expression deceived her not at all; beneath his heavy lids, his eyes were sharp, his gaze incisive. She lifted her chin and picked up the garden shears. “I told you there was no need for any drama.”

His lips lifted in a slight smile. “So you did.”

Flick stifled a sniff at his tone; she had, indeed, expected his thanks, once he’d had time to consider, to realize what his offer would have meant. She supposed he would marry sometime, but he was only thirty-one, and he definitely didn’t want to marry her.

But he made no further comment. Instead, he lounged, shoulders propped against the wall, and, with the same lazy, unnerving air, watched her place her flowers. As the silence stretched, it occurred to her that perhaps he thought she didn’t fully appreciate the sacrifice he’d been prepared to make. “It’s not that I’m not grateful.” She kept her gaze firmly fixed on her blooms.

Her comment succeeded in dissipating a little of his indolence. She felt the sudden focusing of his attention.

“Grateful?”

She continued to snip and set. “For your kind offer to save my reputation. I appreciate it would have entailed a considerable sacrifice on your part—thankfully, there was no need.”

His gaze locked on her profile, Demon fought to remain where he was—and not haul her into his arms and kiss her, just to shut her up. “Sacrifice? Actually, I hadn’t viewed taking you to wife in quite that light.”

“Hadn’t you?” She blinked at him in patent surprise, then smiled and turned back to her flowers. “I dare say you would have, once you’d stopped to think the idea through.”

Demon simply stared at her. He’d never felt so . . .
dismissed
in his life.

“Luckily, there was no reason for worry. I did tell you so.”

Luckily for her, what next he might have said, and done, neither of them were destined to learn; Jacobs appeared in the doorway with the information that lunch was awaiting them in the dining parlor.

Flick led the way. Demon no longer expected anything else; he prowled just behind her, making no effort to fully catch up—in his present mood, it was probably wisest if she remained just out of reach.

Lunch was not a success.

Flick grew increasingly impatient with their guest as the meal progressed. He contributed nothing to the conversation beyond answering questions the General threw his way. Instead, broodingly intent, he watched her, as if studying some incomprehensible being of whom he nevertheless disapproved, leaving her to chatter with increasingly feigned brightness until her head ached.

By the time the meal ended and they pushed back their chairs, she was ready to snap at him—if he deigned to give her the chance.

“Well, m’boy—let me know if you detect any weakness in those horses.” The General shook hands with Demon, then smiled at Flick. “Why don’t you see Demon to the stable, m’dear? It’s a lovely day out there.” With his usual benign smile, the General waved at the French doors, open to the terrace. “Enjoy the fine weather while you may.”

Across the table, Flick met Demon’s level gaze. The last thing she wanted to do was, all sweet comfort, accompany him to the stable—she was annoyed with him, at the way he was behaving. It was as if he’d been denied something he wanted, for heaven’s sake. He was
sulking
! All because things hadn’t gone as he’d planned—because she’d rescripted his grand gesture for him, and he hadn’t got to play the role he’d expected. That of heroic sacrifice.

Drawing a deep breath, she held it; lips compressed, she held his gaze challengingly. Very nearly belligerently.

He merely raised one brow—even more challengingly, more defiantly; stepping back, he gestured to the terrace.

Flick could almost hear the gauntlet thud down on the table between them.

Lifting her head, she stepped around the table, preceding him out the doors, down the steps and across the lawn. Pacing briskly, irritatedly, she was halfway across the lawn before she realized he wasn’t with her.

Abruptly stopping, she glanced back. He was strolling slowly, leisurely, exceedingly unhurriedly, in her distant wake. Gritting her teeth, she waited, and waited, for him to catch up. The instant he did, she turned and, elevating her nose to an angle worthy of her ire, she matched her pace to his, strolling at crawling pace just ahead of him.

Two paces later, a warm flush washed over her nape, exposed above her neckline. The odd sensation drifted lower, spreading across her shoulders, then sliding down her spine. It lingered in the hollow of her waist, then, at a telling pace, washed lower, and yet lower—

She caught her breath and stopped to brush an imaginary wrinkle from her skirts. The instant Demon drew level with her, she straightened and stepped out—at his side—praying her fading blush was no longer visible.

Biting her tongue against all manner of heated phrases, she preserved a tense silence. He strolled calmly beside her and gave her not one opening to snipe at him.

The grooms saw them as they emerged from beneath the wisteria, and they ran to get his bays.

Halting at the entrance to the stable yard, Flick’s patience came to an end. “I can’t see why you’re not grateful,” she hissed. She kept her gaze on the grooms as they fussed with his horses.

“Can’t you? Perhaps that’s the problem.”

“There
isn’t
any problem.”

“Permit me to disagree.” He paused, then added, “Aside from anything else, you’re glaring.”

She whirled and faced him. “I’m glaring at
you
.”

“So I noticed.”

“You are
impossible
!”

“
Me
?”

For an instant, his blue eyes blinked wide—she could actually imagine he was sincere in his surprise. Swiftly, his eyes searched hers; his gaze sharpened. “Tell me,” he murmured, glancing at the lads harnessing the bays, “do you think to marry Dillon eventually?”

“
Dillon
?” She stared at him, unmindful of the fact that her mouth had fallen open. “Marry
Dillon
? You
are
out of your mind. As if I’d marry such a . . . a . . . nobody—an inconsequential boy. A man of no real substance. A
nincompoop
! A—”

“All right—forget I asked.”

“For your information, I have no intention of marrying
any
gentleman unless I want to. I will certainly not marry simply because of some nonsensical social stricture.” Her voice cracked with the effort of screaming in whispers. She drew breath and forged on, “And as for
your
offer—well, you might as well say I must marry because of a
mouse
!”

The bays came trotting up, led by an eager groom. Tersely, Demon nodded his thanks and took the reins. Climbing to the box seat, he sat and looked at her.

Eyes kindling, she tartly remarked, “I can’t see
why
you aren’t grateful—you know perfectly well you don’t
want
to marry me.”

He looked down at her, his expression like stone, his eyes hard as blue diamonds. He held her defiant gaze, then his chest swelled.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, his diction frighteningly precise, “what I want at all.”

He clicked the reins; the bays surged. He swept out of the stable yard and bowled away down the drive.

“I
wondered if you’d care for a drive?”

Gasping, Flick whirled; the large vase she was carrying shook, slipped—

Demon reached out and steadied it; his fingers brushed hers.

Flick trembled. She drew her hands away, leaving him holding the vase. Standing in the sunshine streaming through the gallery windows, she stared at him, disjointed phrases tangling on her tongue. She wanted to rail at him for creeping up on her—again. She wanted to scowl or at least frown—she hadn’t forgiven him for his behavior of yesterday.

She wanted to ask what he’d meant by his parting comment. “A drive?” Her head was still whirling.

He shrugged, his lids veiling his eyes. “Just a tool about the lanes for half an hour or so.”

She drew in a steadying breath. Twenty-four hours had passed since he’d driven away—twenty-four hours in which she’d thought of little else but him. Swinging to the windows, she looked out on another glorious spring day. Simultaneously, she felt the warm flush she was growing accustomed to slide down her back.

“The breeze is warm. You won’t need a spencer.”

Just as well; she didn’t have one that wouldn’t look hideous with this gown—white mull muslin sprinkled with tiny gold and purple daisies. Flick nodded, determination filling her. “A drive would be very nice.”

She turned to face him—he was still holding the vase.

“Where do you want this?”

She gestured down the gallery. “If you’ll put it on the table at the end, I’ll get my parasol and meet you in the hall.”

She didn’t wait for his nod but headed for her room—her steps eager, her heart lighter, even if she’d yet to meet his eyes directly. They had to get past this silly hitch in their friendship, over the hurdle of yesterday—a drive would be a good start.

A good start to what she was no longer sure by the time Demon turned his bays back up the manor drive. She’d imagined they’d simply slide back to their earlier, easy friendship—she’d expected, after the initial, inevitable stiffness evaporated, to once again encounter the teasing light she’d so often seen in his blue eyes.