A Rogue's Proposal (47 page)

A brief scuffle ensued. A confused medley of muttered oaths mixed with Celeste’s increasingly explicit cajoling had Flick frowning—

The door was hauled open.

“
Gillies
!”

Flick jumped—and stared, wide-eyed, into Demon’s face, watched his snarling expression transform in a blink to utter blankness.

In utter, abject disbelief, Demon stood in his shirtsleeves on the threshold of his bedroom, fury still wreathing his faculties, one hand imprisoning the wrists of his importuning ex-mistress, his gaze locked with the wide blue eyes of his innocent wife-to-be.

For one definable instant, his brain literally reeled.

Flick, thank heaven, was as stunned as he—she stared up at him and uttered not one peep.

Then Gillies shuffled into the hall. “Yessir?”

Demon looked down the stairs. Behind him, Celeste hissed and clawed at his hands. He filled the doorway so she couldn’t see Flick, now shrinking back into the corner of the tiny landing, tugging her cap low, pulling her muffler over her face.

Hauling in a breath, he stepped forward and turned, squashing Flick into the corner behind him. “The countess is leaving.
Now
.” He yanked Celeste out of his room and released her; stony-faced, he gestured down the stairs.

Celeste paused for one instant, black eyes spitting fury, then she uttered three virulent words he was quite happy not to understand, stuck her nose in the air, hitched her cloak about her shoulders, and swept down the stairs.

Gillies opened the door. “Your coach awaits, madam.”

Without a backward glance, Celeste swept out of the house. Gillies shut the door.

Behind Demon, Flick grinned, having watched the entire proceedings from under his arm.

Then she jumped, plastering herself against the wall as he swung on her and roared, “
And what the damn hell do
you
think you’re doing here?
”

“Heh?” Stunned, Gillies looked up. “Good God.”

Considering what she could see in Demon’s eyes, Flick didn’t think God would be much help to her. She could barely remember the answer to his question. “I saw Bletchley.”

He blinked and drew marginally back. “Bletchley?”

She nodded. “On one of the corners we passed on the way home from the musicale.”

“From Guilford Street?”

She nodded again. “There was a tavern on the corner—he was drinking and chatting to some grooms.
And
”—she paused dramatically—“
he
was in livery, too!”

Which, of course, explained why they hadn’t found him, why he hadn’t appeared at any of the usual places to meet with the gentlemen of the syndicate. He was, quite possibly, in the household of one of the syndicate.

Demon studied Flick’s face while his mind raced. “Gillies?”

“Aye—I’ll fetch a hackney.” Pulling on his coat, he went out.

Straightening, Demon drew in a huge breath, his gaze steady on Flick’s eyes. “Which corner was it?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know London streets very well.” She tilted her chin and looked straight back at him. “I’d know it if I saw it again.”

He narrowed his eyes at her; she widened hers and stared back.

Muttering an oath, he spun on his heel. “Wait there.”

He fetched his coat, shrugged into it, then escorted her down the stairs and into the hackney. At his order, Gillies came too, scrambling up onto the seat beside the driver.

“Guilford Street. As fast as you can.” Demon pulled the door shut and sat back.

The jarvey took him at his word; neither Demon nor Flick spoke as they rattled through the streets and swung around corners. On reaching Guilford Street, Demon told the jarvey to head for Berkeley Square, following the directions he relayed from Flick. Sitting forward, she scanned the streets, unerringly picking out their way.

“It was just a little farther—
there
!” She pointed to the little tavern on the corner. “He was there, standing by that barrel.” Bletchley wasn’t, unfortunately, there now.

“Sit back.” Demon tugged her back from the window, then ordered the jarvey to draw up after the next corner. As the coach rocked to a halt, Gillies swung down and came to the door. With his head, Demon indicated the tavern. “See what you can learn.”

Gillies nodded. Hands in his pockets, he sauntered off, whistling tunelessly.

Sinking back against the leather seat, Flick stared into the night. Then she looked down and played with her fingers. Two minutes later, she drew in a deep breath and lifted her head. “The countess is very beautiful, isn’t she?”

“No.”

Startled, she looked at Demon. “Don’t be ridiculous! The woman’s gorgeous.”

Turning his head, he met her gaze. “Not to me.”

Their eyes locked, silence stretched, then he looked down. Lifting one hand, he reached out, tugged one of hers from her lap, and wrapped his long fingers about it. “She—and all the others—they came before you. They no longer matter—they have no meaning.” He slid his fingers between hers, then locked their palms together.

“My taste,” he continued, his tone even and low as he rested their locked hands on his thigh, “has changed in recent times—since last I visited Newmarket, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed.” There was the ghost of a smile in his voice. “These days, I find gold curls much more attractive than dark locks.” Again, he met her eyes, then his gaze drifted over her face. “And features that might have been drawn by Botticelli more beautiful than the merely classical.”

Something powerful stirred in the dark between them—Flick felt it. Her heart hitched, then started to canter. Her lips, as his gaze settled on them, started to throb.

“I’ve discovered that I much prefer the taste of sweet innocence, rather than more exotic offerings.”

His voice had deepened to a gravelly rumble that slid, subtly rough, over her flickering nerves.

His chest swelled as he drew breath. His gaze lowered. “And I now find slender limbs and firm, svelte curves much more fascinating—more arousing—than flagrantly abundant charms.”

Flick felt his gaze, hot as the sun, sweep her, then it swung up again. He searched her eyes, then lifted his other hand, shoulders shifting as he reached for her face. Fingers closing about her chin, his gaze locked with hers, he held her steady, and slowly, very slowly, leaned closer.

“Unfortunately”—he breathed the word against her yearning lips—“there’s only one woman who meets my exacting requirements.”

She deserted the sight of his long, lean lips—lifting her lids, she looked into his eyes. “Only one?”

She could barely get the words out.

He held her gaze steadily. “One.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then his lids fell as he leaned the last inch nearer. “Only one.”

Their lips touched, brushed, molded—

Gillies’s tuneless whistle rapidly neared.

Smothering a curse, Demon let her go and sat back.

Flick nearly cursed, too. Flushed, breathless—absolutely ravenous—she struggled to steady her breathing.

Gillies appeared at the door. “It was Bletchley, right enough. He’s somebody’s groom, but no one there knows who his master is. He’s not a regular. The place is the local haunt for the coachmen waiting for their gentlemen to finish at the—” Gillies stopped; his features blanked.

Demon frowned. He leaned forward, looked out at the street, then sank back. “Houses?” he suggested.

Gillies nodded. “Aye—that’s it.”

Flick glanced along the row of well-tended terrace houses. “Maybe we could learn which houses had guests tonight, then ask who the guests were?”

“I don’t think that’s a viable option.” Demon jerked his head; Gillies leapt at the chance to scramble up top. “On to Berkeley Square.”

The carriage lurched forward. Demon sat back and pretended not to notice Flick’s scowl.

“I can’t see why we couldn’t ask at the houses—what harm could there be?” She sat back, folding her arms. “They’re perfectly ordinary residences—there must be some way we can inquire.”

“I’ll put some people onto it tomorrow,” Demon lied. Better a lie than have her decide to investigate herself. That particular row of ordinary residences hosted a number of high-class brothels, none of which would welcome inquiries as to the identity of their evening’s guests. “I’ll see Montague first thing tomorrow, and swing all our people into the fashionable areas.” Inwardly, Demon nodded. Things were starting to make sense.

Flick merely humphed.

Demon had the hackney drop them off just around the corner from Berkeley Square, then take Gillies on to Albemarle Street. He checked the Square, but it was late—there was no one about to see him bring Flick the lad home. He only hoped he could sneak her past Highthorpe.

“Come on.” He strolled along the pavement; Flick strolled beside him.

As they climbed the steps to his parents’ door, he glanced down at her. “Go straight up the stairs as silently as you can—I’ll distract Highthorpe.” He gripped the doorknob and turned it—“Damn!” He turned the knob fully and pushed. Nothing happened. He swore. “My father must have come home early. The bolts are set.”

Flick stared at the door. “How will I get in?”

Demon sighed. “Through the back parlor.” He glanced around, then took her hand. “Come on—I’ll show you.”

Striding back down the steps, he led her down the narrow gap between his parents’ house and the next, into a lane running along the backs of the mansions. A stone wall, more than seven feet tall, lined the lane.

He tried the gate in the wall; it, too, was locked.

Flick eyed the wall and groaned. “Not again.”

“ ’Fraid so. Here.” Demon linked his hands. Grumbling, Flick placed her boot in them—he threw her up. As in Newmarket, he had to slap his hand under her bottom and heave her over—she grumbled even more.

Demon caught the top of the wall, hauled himself up, then dropped down to join Flick in the bushes below. Grabbing her hand, he led her through the rhododendrons, across the shadowed lawn, and onto the back terrace. He signalled her to silence, then, using a small knife, he set to work on the French doors of the back parlor. In less than a minute, the lock clicked and the doors swung open.

“There you are.” Pocketing the knife, he gestured Flick in. Hesitantly, she crossed the threshold. He stepped in behind her to get off the open terrace—

She clutched his sleeve. “It all looks so different in the dark,” she whispered. “I’ve never been in this room—your mother doesn’t sit here.” Her fingers tightened; she looked up at him. “How do I get to my room?”

Demon stared at her. He wanted to see her alone—to talk to her privately—but a more formal setting in daylight was imperative, or he’d never get out what he had to say. Not before he forgot himself and kissed her. Screened by the dark, he scowled. “Where’s your room?”

“I turn left from the gallery—isn’t that the other wing?”

“Yes.” Stifling a curse, he locked the French doors, then found her hand. “Come on. I’ll take you up.”

The house was large, disorientating in the dark, but he’d slipped through its corridors on countless nights past. He’d grown up in this house—he knew his way without looking.

Flick bided her time, trailing him up the stairs and into the long gallery. The curtains at the long windows were open; moonlight streamed in, laying silver swaths across the dark carpet. She waited until they drew abreast of the last window, then she tripped, stumbled—

Demon bent and caught her—

Quick as a flash, she straightened, lifted her arms, framed his face and kissed him, wildly, wantonly—she wasn’t going to wait to learn if he was planning to kiss her. What if he wasn’t?

Her preemptive action rendered Demon’s plans academic. Curses rang in his head—he didn’t hear them. Couldn’t hear them over the sudden pounding of his blood, the sudden roar of his needs. Her lips were open under his; before he’d even thought, he was deep inside, tasting her, exulting in the sweet mystery of her, drinking her deep.

And she met him—not tentatively or shyly, but with a demand so flagrant it left him giddy.

He pulled back from the kiss to draw in a huge breath, conscious to his toes of the firm swells of her breasts compressed against his expanding chest. He straightened; hands sliding to his nape, she held tight. Eyes glinting under heavy lids, she drew his lips back to hers.

He went readily, urgently hungry for more heady kisses, his pulse pounding in anticipation of the deeper satiation her body, pressed to his in sweet abandon, promised. His arms had locked about her, but it was she who sank against him, a simple surrender so evocative he shook.

Pulling back, he dragged in a breath; dazed, he looked into her face, subtly lit by the moonlight. From under heavy lids, she studied him, then with one finger, traced his lower lip.

“Lady Osbaldestone said you’ve been keeping your distance because that’s what society demands.” She arched one fine brow. “Is that right?”

“Yes.” He went back for another taste of her, so sweetly intoxicating she was making him drunk. She gave her mouth freely, sliding her tongue around his, then drawing back.

“She said by driving me in the park you made a declaration.” She whispered the words against his lips, then kissed him.

This time, it was he who gave, then drew back, rakish senses alert to some subtle shift in the scene. He blinked down at her. Inwardly swearing, he fought to realign his spinning wits. She was, as usual, setting the pace. And he was left scrambling in her wake.

Reaching up, she drew his lips down to hers for another slow, intimate kiss that left them both simmering.

“Did you intend the drive in the park as a declaration?”

“Yes.”

His lips were back on hers. She pulled away. “Why?”

“Because I wanted you.”

Relentless, he drew her back. For long moments, silence reigned; locked together, they heated, then burned. When next they broke for breath they were panting. Hearts racing, eyes dark and wild under heavy lids, they paused, lips not quite touching.

“Lady Osbaldestone said you would have wanted to pressure me—why didn’t you?”

He shuddered; the supple strength of her, so much less than his, struck through to his bones and left him weak. Aching to have her. “God knows.”