A Rogue's Proposal (40 page)

“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 herself 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.

It was a dreadful habit, one she deplored, one she lectured herself on constantly. To no avail. If he was there, her eyes were drawn to him—she was helpless to prevent it. Luckily, the ton’s ballrooms were large and excessively crowded; a quick glimpse was all she ever caught. Her partners, as far as she knew, had not noticed her fixation.

Even when she stepped on their toes.

Inwardly wincing, she sternly told herself to pay attention. She hated the taste her silly behavior left in her mouth. Once again, she was a besotted girl peering through the banisters for a glimpse of him. Her idol. The one man she’d wanted but who’d been out of her reach. More and more, she was starting to feel he was still out of her reach.

She didn’t like watching him, but she did—compulsively. And what she saw brought no joy. There was inevitably a woman by his side, some hideously beautiful lady, head tilted as she looked into his face, her own creasing into smiles as she laughed at some risqué quip. It only needed a glimpse for her to take it all in—the languidly elegant gestures, the saber-witted remarks, the arrogantly seductive lift of a brow.

The women pressed close, and he let them. Some even lifted their white hands to his arms, his shoulders, leaning against him while he charmed and teased, employing the seductive wiles he no longer used on her.

Why she kept looking—fashioning a whip for her own back—she didn’t know. But she did.

“Do you think the weather will hold fine tomorrow?”

Flick refocused on Lord Bristol. “I suppose so.” The skies had been blue for a week.

“I was hoping I might prevail upon you to honor me and my sisters with your presence on a drive to Richmond.”

Flick smiled gently. “Thank you, but I’m afraid Lady Horatia and I are fully committed tomorrow.”

“Oh—yes, of course. Just a thought.”

Flick let regret tinge her smile—and wished it was Demon who’d asked. She didn’t care a fig for the constant round of entertainments; she would have enjoyed a drive to Richmond, but she couldn’t encourage Lord Bristol to imagine he had any chance with her.

Supper had come and gone; Demon had coolly claimed her, stiffly escorted her into the supper room, then sat by her side and said not a word as her court endeavored to entertain her. This waltz had followed immediately; she performed without thought, waiting for their revolutions to bring them once more in sight of her obsession. He was standing at the end of the room.

Then Lord Bristol swung her into the turn. She looked—and nearly gasped. Whirling away, she dragged in a breath, struggling to mask her shock. Her lungs constricted; she felt real pain.

Who was she
—the woman all but draped over him? She was stunningly beautiful—dark hair piled high over an exquisite face atop a body that flaunted more sumptuous curves than Flick had imagined possible. Much worse, her cloying closeness, the way she looked into his face, positively screamed their relationship.

Blissfully unaware, Lord Bristol swung her up the room. Blankness descended, blessed relief from the clawing, shrieking jealousy that had raked her. The change left her dizzy.

The music faded, the dance came to an end. Lord Bristol released her—she nearly stumbled, only just remembering to curtsy.

Flick knew she was pale. Inside she was trembling. She smiled weakly at Lord Bristol. “Thank you.” Turning, she walked into the crowd.

She hadn’t known he had a mistress.

That word kept repeating in her mind—incessantly. As she tacked through the crowd all but blind, instinct came to her aid; she headed for a group of potted palms. There was no alcove, but in the shadow cast by the large fronds close by the wall, she found sanctuary.

Not once did she question the correctness of her assumption; she knew she was right. What she didn’t know was what to do. She’d never felt so lost in her life.

The man she’d just glimpsed, heavy lids at half-mast as he traded sensuous quips with his mistress, was not the man she’d met on Newmarket Heath—the man to whom she’d willingly given herself in the best bedchamber at The Angel.

Her mind wouldn’t work properly—bits of her problem surfaced, but she couldn’t see the whole.

“Can’t see her at present, but she’s a pretty little thing. Quite suitable. Now that Horatia’s taken her under her wing, all will, no doubt, go as it should.”

The words came from the other side of the palms, in accents of matriarchal approval. Flick blinked.

“Hmm,” came a second voice. “Well, one can hardly accuse him of being besotted, can one?”

Flick peeked through the fringed leaves—two old ladies were leaning on their sticks, scanning the ballroom.

“As it should be,” the first intoned. “I’m sure it’s precisely as Hilary Eckles said—he’s had the sense to recognize it’s time for him to take a wife, and he’s chosen well—a gently reared chit, ward of a friend of the family. It’s not a love match, and a good thing, too!”

“Indeed,” the second old biddy nodded decisively. “So tiresomely emotional, these love matches. Can’t see the sense in them, myself.”

“Sense?” The first snorted. “That’s because there isn’t any to see. Unfortunately, it’s the latest fashion.”

“Hmm.” The second lady paused, then, with a puzzled air, said, “Seems odd for a Cynster to be unfashionable, especially on that point.”

“True, but it appears Horatia’s boy’s the first one in a while to have his head screwed on straight. He may be a hellion but in this, he’s displayed uncommon sense. Well”—the lady gestured—“where would
we
have been if we’d allowed love to rule us?”

“Precisely. There’s Thelma—let’s see what she says.”

The two ladies stumped off, leaning heavily on their canes, but Flick no longer felt safe behind the palms. Her head was still spinning; she didn’t feel all that well. The withdrawing room seemed her safest option.

She slipped through the crowd, avoiding anyone she knew, especially any Cynsters. Reaching the door to the corridor, she stepped into the shadows. A little maid jumped up from a stool and led her to the room set aside for ladies to refresh themselves.

The room was brightly lit along one side, which was lined with mirrors, leaving the rest of the room heavily shadowed. Accepting a glass of water from the maid, Flick retreated to a chair in the gloom. Sipping the water, she simply sat. Other ladies came and went; no one noticed her in her dim corner. She started to feel better.

Then the door swung wide, and Demon’s mistress stepped through. One of the ladies preening before the mirrors saw her; smiling, she turned. “Celeste! And how goes your conquest?”

Celeste had paused dramatically just inside the door; hands rising to her voluptuous hips, she scanned the room. Her gaze stopped, briefly, on Flick, then lifted to her friend. She smiled, a gesture full of feminine sensuality. “Why it goes,
cherie
—it goes!”

The lady before the mirrors laughed; others smiled, too.

In a sensuous glide that focused attention on her bounteous hips, tiny waist and full breasts, Celeste crossed the room. Stopping before a long mirror, hands on hips, she critically examined her reflection.

Exchanging glances and raised brows, the other ladies departed, all except Celeste and her friend, who was artfully rerouging her lips.

“You have heard, have you not,” Celeste’s friend murmured, “the rumors that he’s to wed?”

“Hmm,” Celeste purred. In the mirror, her eyes sought Flick’s. “But why should that worry me? I don’t want to
marry
him.”

Her friend snickered. “We all know what you want, but he might have other ideas—at least once he marries. He is a Cynster after all.”

“I do not understand this.” Celeste had a definite accent, one Flick couldn’t place; it only made her purring voice more sensual, more evocative. “What matter his name?”

“Not his name—his family. Not even that, but . . . well, they’ve all proved remarkably constant as husbands.”

Celeste made a moue; she tilted her head—from beneath half-closed lids, her eyes glinted. Deliberately, she leaned toward the mirror, trailing her fingers tantalizingly across the full curves and deep cleavage thus revealed. Then she straightened, gracefully lifting her arms and half turning to examine her bottom, superbly displayed by her satin gown. Then her gaze locked with Flick’s. “I suspect,” she purred, “that this case will prove an exception.”

Feeling more ill than when she’d entered, Flick rose. Summoning strength from she knew not where, she crossed to the table by the door. Shakily, she set the glass down—the click drew the attention of Celeste’s friend. As she slipped through the door, Flick glimpsed a horrified face and heard a moaned “
Oh, Lord
!”

The door closed; Flick stood in the dim corridor, the impulse to flee overpowering. But how could she leave? Where could she go? Drawing in a huge breath, she held it and lifted her chin. Defying the sick giddiness that assailed her, refusing to let herself think of what she’d heard, she headed back to the ballroom.

She’d gone no more than three paces when a figure materialized from the shadows.

“There you are, miss! I’ve been chasing you for hours.”

Flick blinked—into the pinched features of her Aunt Scroggs. Clinging to the tattered remnants of her dignity, she bobbed a curtsy. “Good evening, Aunt. I hadn’t realized you were here.”

“No doubt! You’ve been far too busy with those young blighters that surround you. Which is precisely what I want to speak to you about.” Wrapping thin fingers about Flick’s elbow, Edwina Scroggs looked toward the withdrawing room.

“There are ladies in there.” Flick couldn’t bear to go back, much less explain why.

“Humph!” Glancing around, Edwina drew her to the side, hard against the tapestry-covered wall. “This will have to do then—there’s no one about.”

The comment sent an unwelcome chill through Flick; she was already inwardly shivering. Lady Horatia had helped her locate her aunt; she’d visited her early in her stay. There was, however, nothing more than duty between them—her aunt had married socially beneath her and now lived as a penny-pinching widow, despite being relatively affluent.

Edwina Scroggs had been paid by her parents to take her in for the short time they’d expected to be away. The minute news of their deaths had arrived, Mrs. Scroggs had declared she couldn’t be expected to house, feed and watch over a girl of seven. She’d literally flung Flick onto the mercy of the wider family—thankfully, the General had been there to catch her.

“It’s about all these youngsters you’ve got sniffing at your skirts.” Putting her face close, Edwina hissed, “Forget them, do you hear?” She trapped Flick’s startled gaze. “It’s my duty to steer you right, and I’d be lacking indeed if I didn’t tell you to your face. You’re staying with the Cynsters—the word around town is that the son’s got his eye on you.”

Edwina pressed closer; Flick’s lungs seized.

“My advice to you, miss, is to make it his
hands
. You’re quick enough—and this is too good a chance to pass up. The family’s one of the wealthiest in the land, but they can be high in the instep. So you take my advice and get his ring on your finger the fastest way you know how.” Edwina’s eyes gleamed. “Seems Cynsters are prime ’uns, always ready to take what they can get. That house is monstrous enough—no difficulty to find a quiet room to—”

“
No
!” Flick pushed past her aunt and fled down the corridor.

She stopped just outside the swath of light spilling from the ballroom. Ignoring the surprise in the little maid’s eyes, she pressed a hand to her chest, closed her eyes and struggled to breathe. To hold back the silly tears. To still the pounding in her head.

Cynsters are prime ’uns, always ready to take what they can get.

She managed two breaths, neither deep enough, then heard her aunt’s heels tapping, tapping, nearer . . .

Sucking in a breath, she opened her eyes and plunged into the ballroom.

And collided with Demon.

“
Oh
!” She managed to mute her cry, then ducked her head so he couldn’t see her face. Reflexively, he caught her, his hands firm about her arms as he steadied her.