A Rogue's Proposal (23 page)

She walked through into familiar surroundings—the wide front bay where two old gentlemen sat, dozing over their history books, the narrow aisles leading away toward the back of what had once been a hall, each aisle lined on both sides with bookshelves crammed to overflowing.

“Hello, Mrs. Higgins,” Flick whispered to the large, homely woman who presided over her domain from behind a table near the entrance. “I’m returning these.”

“Good, good.” Perching her pince-nez on her nose, Mrs. Higgins peered down at the titles. “Ah, yes, and did the General enjoy the Major’s biography?”

“He did indeed. He asked me to see if there were any more like it.”

“You’ll find all we have in the second aisle, dear—about midway down . . .” Mrs. Higgins’s words trailed away. Looking past Flick, she slowly raised her hand and removed her pince-nez, the better to take in who had strayed into her castle.

“Mr. Cynster’s escorting me,” Flick explained. Facing Demon, she gestured to the chairs in the front bay. “Would you like to wait there?”

He glanced at the two old gents, then looked back at her, his expression utterly blank. “I’ll follow you.”

He proceeded to do so, strolling directly behind her as she wandered down the aisles.

Flick tried to ignore him and concentrate on the books, but novels and literary heroes could not compete with the masculine presence prowling in her wake. The more she tried to shut him out, the more he intruded on her mind, on her senses. Which was the very last thing she needed.

She was confused enough about him as it was.

After spending the hours until dawn reliving their second dance, reliving that amazing waltz, and replaying everything they’d said in the moonlight, over her breakfast toast she’d made a firm resolution to put the entire matter from her—and wait and see.

Wait for him to make the next move—and see if it made any more sense than his last.

She had a very strong notion she was misinterpreting, through lack of experience, reading more into his words, his actions, than he intended. He was accustomed to dallying with sophisticated ladies of the ton. Doubtless, that matter of their second dance, and the waltz, and his warm words in the moonlight—and, of course, that kiss—were all simply tonnish dalliance, the way ladies and gentlemen of his ilk entertained themselves of an evening. A form of sophisticated teasing. The more she thought of it, the more that seemed likely.

In which case, the last thing she should do was place any great emphasis on any of it.

Determinedly, she halted before the bookshelf housing her favorite novels—those of Miss Austen and Mrs. Radcliffe. Ignoring the disapproving humph from behind her, she stubbornly scanned the shelves.

Demon propped one shoulder against a bookshelf, slid his hands into his pockets, and watched her with a distinctly jaundiced eye. If she wanted romance, why the hell was she looking at books?

The fact she was didn’t auger well for his plans. He watched as she pulled books out and studied them, returning some, retaining others—and wondered if there was any way he could step up his campaign. Unfortunately, she was young and innocent—and strong-willed and stubborn.

Which meant that if he pushed too hard, drove too fast, she might turn skittish and difficult.

Which would slow things down all the more. He’d gentled enough high-couraged horses to know the value of patience. And, of course, this time, there was no question of him not succeeding—he intended to get his ring on her finger no matter how long it took.

This time, he refused to entertain any possibility of defeat. Last time, when he’d turned up at the manor, ready to offer himself up on a sacrificial matrimonial altar, he hadn’t known what he was about. He hadn’t stopped to think—he’d reacted instinctively to the situation about him. Discovering that Flick had made everything right so there was no need for them to marry had brought him up short. He’d been stunned, but not with joy. He had, in fact, been distinctly unamused, and even less amused by that fact.

That had certainly made him think. He’d spent the next twenty-four hours doing precisely that, doggedly separating his real desires from the disguise of convenience he’d wrapped them in, only to discover that, as usual, his instincts hadn’t misled him.

He wanted to marry the chit—never mind why—and having her compromised so innocently had been a convenient, if not perfect, avenue by which to stake his claim. His wish to marry her was not at all innocent—his thoughts, even then, had been colored by desire. His disappointment had been so acute that he’d actually felt hurt, which had annoyed him all the more.

No woman had ever made him feel this uncertain, had made him ache with desire with no surety of relief.

His sudden susceptibility—his need for an angel—was something he wanted dealt with quickly. Once he had her safely wedded and bedded, he was sure he’d feel better—back to his usual, assured, self-reliant, self-confident self.

Which was why he proposed to dog her every step until she agreed to marry him. He could only pray it wouldn’t take too long.

With three books in her arms, she finally quit that bookshelf and strolled farther down the aisle. Pushing away from his resting place, Demon ambled after her. She paused to select a cookbook; he glanced at the title as she lifted it down.
Italian Renaissance Recipes.

“Are you planning to entertain an Italian count?”

She glanced at him. “It’s for Foggy—she loves reading recipes.” The book was large and heavy; she juggled it, trying to settle it in her arms.

“Here.” He reached for the book.

“Oh—thank you.” With a grateful smile, she handed him the cookbook and her three novels.

Lips setting, Demon accepted them all, reminding himself that none of his acquaintances, not even Reggie, were likely to come in and discover him wandering the aisles at an angel’s beck and call, loaded with cookbooks and romantic novels.

Flick’s next stop was the biographies. “The General likes reading about gentlemen connected with horses. The last book I got for him was about a cavalry major.” Frowning, she studied the shelves. “Do you know of any work he might find interesting?”

Demon glanced at the leather and gilt spines. “I don’t read much.”

“Oh?” Brows rising, she looked up. “What do you do of a quiet evening?”

He trapped her wide gaze. “Active endeavors are more to my taste.”

A puzzled frown formed in her eyes. “You must relax sometime.”

Lips curving, he let his gaze grow intent, let his voice deepen. “The endeavors I favor are guaranteed to relax.”

A faint blush tinged her cheeks; she held his gaze for an instant, then raised a haughty brow and looked away.

Inwardly grinning, Demon looked back at the books. At least she no longer viewed him as a benevolent uncle. “What about this one?” Reaching over her head, he tugged a volume free.

“
Colonel J.E. Winsome: Memoirs of a Commander of Horse
,” Flick read as he put the book in her hands. She opened it and quickly perused the description at the front. “Oh, yes! This is perfect. It’s about the cavalry in the Peninsula War.”

“Excellent.” Demon straightened. “Can we go now?”

To his relief, Flick nodded. “Yes, that’s it.”

She led the way to the front of the hall.

Mrs. Higgins pursed her lips in silent disapproval as Demon set the books on her desk. Flick appeared not to notice; she chatted blithely as Mrs. Higgins wrote her selections on a card. Stepping back, Demon cast a last glance around—he wouldn’t be paying a second visit if he could help it.

One of the old gentlemen in the overstuffed armchairs had woken; he sent a suspicious look his way, frowning direfully from under shaggy brows.

Turning back to Flick, Demon relieved her of the pile of books she’d just settled in her arms. “Come—I’ll drive you home.” Flick smiled, bid Mrs. Higgins good-bye, and preceded him to the door; Demon followed, his gaze on her hips, his mind busy with plans to cure her of all future need for fictional romantic stimulation.

F
or Flick, their journey to the library was the start of a most peculiar week.

Demon drove her back to the manor by the longest possible route, ostensibly to try the blacks’ paces. As he consented to let her handle the ribbons again, she refrained from making any comment on his high-handed arrogance—as it happened, she hadn’t had anything better to do.

At least, nothing to compare with the sensation of bowling along, the breeze ruffling her hair, the ribbons taut in her hands. The sheer exhilaration of tooling his curricle, well-sprung and built for speed, with the blacks high-stepping down the lanes, had worked its addictive magic—she was hooked.

When he drew up before the manor, she was smiling so brightly that she couldn’t possibly have admonished him.

Which, from the gleam in his eye, was precisely as he’d planned.

He was back the next morning, although this time, it wasn’t her he had come to see; he spent an hour with the General, discussing a line of horses the General was investigating. Of course, the General invited him to stay for luncheon, and he accepted.

Later, she strolled with him to the stable. She waited, but, other than an artful comment about enjoying the view—it was a brisk day and her skirts were flapping—he said nothing. His eyes, however, seemed unusually brilliant, his gaze especially attentive; despite the breeze, she didn’t feel cold.

Day followed day; his visits highlighted each one. She could never be certain when or where he would appear, which was doubtless why she found herself listening for his footsteps.

And it wasn’t just his gaze that was attentive.

Occasionally, he would touch her, just a hand at her back, or a sliding of his fingers from her hand to her wrist. Such touches always made her catch her breath—and flush in a most peculiar way.

Her worst moment came when he called one afternoon and inveigled her into joining him to watch the strings exercising on the Heath—he was still watching Bletchley during morning and afternoon stables.

“Hills and Cross are doing the bulk of it these days. They’re less identifiable than Gillies or me.”

They were standing by the Heath, she with her hands clasped on the handle of her furled parasol. “Has Bletchley made any further arrangements—fixed any more fixes?”

Demon shook his head. “I’m starting to wonder . . .”

When he said nothing more, she prompted, “What?”

He glanced at her, then grimaced and looked across the close-cropped turf to where his string was going through their paces. Bletchley lounged under his favorite oak; from there, he could see three separate strings working.

“I’m starting to wonder,” Demon mused, “whether he’s got any more fixes to place. He’s been chatting up the jockeys, true enough, but lately it’s been more in the nature of ingratiating himself with them. Other than those three fixes we know of, all of which are for major Spring Carnival races, he hasn’t made any further arrangements.”

“So?”

“So it’s possible all the fixes the syndicate want for the Spring Carnival are now in place—just those three. Considering the races involved, they should clear enough for the greediest of men. I’m wondering if Bletchley is simply whiling away time until his masters are due to check with him, and putting in his hours by learning as much as he can about the race jockeys with a view to making his next round of fixes, most likely in a few months—maybe at the July meeting—easier to arrange.”

Flick studied Bletchley. “He’s looking for weaknesses? Something to give him a hold over the jockeys?”

“Hmm. Possibly.”

She knew the instant he switched his gaze from Bletchley to her, knew precisely when his mind shifted from fixes to . . . whatever it was he was thinking about her.

A gentle tug on one curl had her turning her face, only to find him much nearer, closer . . .

“Stop staring at him so deliberately—he’ll notice.”

“I’m not staring at Bletchley.” She was staring at his lips. They curved, then drew fractionally nearer . . .

She stiffened, blinked and dragged her eyes up to his. “Perhaps we’d better stroll.” Dalliance was all very well, but she was not about to indulge in any of his mind-whirling kisses—not on the open Heath.

His lips quirked, but he inclined his head. “Perhaps we had.”

He turned her; with her hand on his sleeve, they strolled along the Heath’s edge—while she hoped he’d exercise his usual initiative and find an empty stable.

To her unreasoning annoyance, he didn’t.

The next morning, he took her into town, so they could savor the scones at The Twig and Bough, which he insisted were a cut above excellent. After their repast, they strolled down the High Street, where Mrs. Pemberton beamed at them from her carriage, exchanging gracious greetings.

Flick was quite sure the vicar’s wife had never before looked at her with such patent approval.

Which, more than anything else—far more than the insistence of her silly senses or the wonderings of her ill-informed mind—made her question what Demon was about. Really about.