A Rogue's Proposal (48 page)

He went to kiss her, but she stopped him—by running one hand down one locked bicep, then up, across his shoulder and his chest. Stopping with her palm over his heart, she splayed her fingers and tried to press them in—they made no impression on the already tensed muscle.

“She said you were frustrated.” She looked up into his eyes. “Is she right?”

He sucked in a breath and tensed even more. “Yes!”

“Is that why you won’t let me close—near—even when we’re together?”

He hesitated, looking deep into her eyes. “Put that down to the violence of my feelings. I was afraid they’d show.” He was never,
ever
, going to tell her she glowed.

As if in vindication, she did. He swooped and took her mouth—she surrendered it eagerly, sinking deeper against him, openly, joyously, feeding his need. Her lips were soft under his, her tongue ready to tangle; he took what she freely gave and returned it full-fold.

“I couldn’t bear to see you surrounded by those puppies—and the others were even worse.”

“You should have rescued me—carried me off. I didn’t want them.”

“I didn’t know—you hadn’t said.”

Where the words were coming from, he didn’t know, but they were suddenly flowing. “I hate seeing you waltz with other men.”

“I won’t—not ever again.”

“Good.” After another searching kiss, he added, “Just because I’m not forever by your side doesn’t mean that’s not precisely where I want to be.”

Her “Mmm” sounded deeply content. She softened in his arms; his breath hitched, his wits reeled—even in her breeches, her body flowed with the promise of warm silk over his erection. He gritted his teeth and heard himself admit, “I nearly went mad thinking you would fall in love with one of them—prefer one of them—over me.”

She drew back. In the moonlight he saw surprise and shock in her face, then her expression softened; slowly, she smiled at him—glowed at him. “That won’t ever happen.”

He looked into her eyes, and thanked God, fate—whoever had arranged it. She loved him—and she knew it. Perhaps he could leave it at that, now he’d admitted so much, and soothed her silly fears that his caution had been disinterest, that his towering restraint had been coolness. He studied her eyes, basked in her glow. Perhaps he could leave things to ease by themselves . . .

A second later, his chest swelled; he bent his head and kissed her—deeply, demandingly, until he knew her head was spinning, her wits in disarray. Then he drew back and whispered against her lips, “I wanted to ask . . .”

Drawing back a fraction further, he drank in the sight of her angelic face—the finely drawn features, smooth ivory skin, swollen, rosy lips, large eyes lustrous under heavy lids, her bright curls gleaming gold even in the moonlight. Her cap had disappeared, as had her muffler. As had his wits. “I hadn’t meant it to be like this. You had engagements all day today—I was going to call on you tomorrow to speak to you formally.”

Her lips curved; her arms tightened about his neck. “I prefer this.” Arching lightly, she pressed against him; he caught his breath. “What were you going to ask?”

Flick waited, and wondered, with what little wit she still possessed. She felt so happy, so reassured. So wanted. Deeply, sincerely, uncontrollably wanted.

His eyes held hers—she both sensed and felt him steeling himself.

“What will it take to make you say yes?” After a moment, he clarified, “What do you want from me? What do you want me to do?”

She wanted his heart—she wanted him to lay it at her feet.
Flick heard the words in her head, which was suddenly spinning much too fast. She dragged in a too-shallow breath—

“Just tell me.” His voice was so low she felt it more than heard it.

Eyes wide, she held his darkened gaze and dazedly considered it—considered asking the one question she’d told herself she never could. Searching his face, she saw his strength, and a new, more visible devotion, both unswerving, unfailing—there for her to lean on. Neither surprised her. What did—what made her breath catch and her head swim—was the raw hunger in his eyes, in the harsh planes of his face; for the first time, she saw his naked need. She shivered, deeply thrilled by the sight, shaken by its consequence.

He’d asked for the price of her heart. She would have to tell him it was his.

Drawing in a deep breath, she steadied, calmed. This was, without doubt, the highest fence she’d ever faced. She felt his arms about her, felt his heart thudding against her breast. Her eyes locked with his, so dark in the night, she drew in a last breath, and threw her heart over. “I need to know—to believe—that you love me.” Her lungs seized; she forced in a quick breath. “If you love me, I’ll say yes.”

His expression didn’t change. He looked at her for a long, long moment. She could feel her heart thudding in her throat. Then he shifted, one arm sliding more completely around her, holding her locked against him; with the other, he lifted her hand from his shoulder. He held her gaze, then carried her hand to his lips.

His kiss seared the back of her hand.

“I could say ‘I love you’—and I do.” Raising his lids, he met her gaze. “But it’s not that simple . . . not for me. I never wanted a wife.” He drew in a breath. “I never wanted to love—not you, not any woman. I never wanted to risk it—never wanted to be forced to find out if I could handle the strain. In my family, loving’s not easy—it’s not a simple sunny thing that makes one merely happy. Love for us—for me—was always going to be dramatic—powerful, unsettling—an ungovernable force. A force that controls me, not the other way about. I knew I wouldn’t like it—” His eyes met hers. “And I don’t. But . . . it isn’t, it appears, something I have a choice about.”

His lips twisted. “I thought I was safe—that I had defenses in place, strong and inviolable, far too steely for any mere woman to break through. And none did, not for years.” He paused. “Until you.

“I can’t remember inviting you in, or ever opening the gates—I just turned around one day and you were there—a part of me.” He hesitated, studying her eyes, then his face hardened, his voice deepened. “I don’t know what will convince you, but I won’t ever let you go. You’re mine—the only woman I could ever imagine marrying. You can share my life. You know a hock from a fetlock—you know as much about riding as I do. You can be a partner in my enterprises, not a distant spectator standing at the periphery. You’ll stand at the center of it all, by my side.

“And I’ll want you there always, by my side—in the ton as much as at Newmarket. I want to build a life with you—to have a home with you, to have children with you.”

He paused; Flick held her breath, very conscious of the steely tension investing his muscles, of the brutal strength holding her gently trapped, of the power in his voice, in his eyes, so totally focused on her.

Releasing her hand, he tucked one stray curl back behind her ear. “That’s what you mean to me.” The words were gravelly, raw, compelling. “You’re the one I want—now and forever. The only future I want lies with you.”

Demon drew breath and looked into her eyes, and saw tears welling bright against the blue. He inwardly quaked, unsure if they meant victory or defeat. He swallowed and asked, his voice barely audible, “Have I convinced you?” She searched his face, then smiled—glowed.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” His hands, one at her waist, the other at her hip, tightened—he forced them to relax. Disappointment welled, but . . . she seemed happy. Deeply content. If anything, her glow had reached new heights, new depths.

He studied her eyes, hard to read in the silvery light, then forced himself to nod. “I’ll call on you midmorning.” He raised her hand and pressed an ardent kiss to her palm. If he had to wait, that was all he dared do.

Steeling himself, he eased his arms from her.

Instantly, she clutched—her eyes flew wide.

“No! Don’t go!” Flick locked her eyes on his. “I want you with me tonight.”

She didn’t want to tell him her decision in words—she could never match his exposition. She intended telling him in a more direct fashion—in a manner she was sure he’d understand. Words could wait until tomorrow. Tonight . . .

He grimaced lightly. “Flick, sweetheart, much as I want you, this is my parents’ house, and—”

She cut him off with a kiss—the most potent one she could muster.

Long before she stopped for breath, Demon had forgotten the point of his argument—he’d lost the reins of their carriage long ago. The only point he was capable of contemplating lay at the juncture of her thighs, but . . . deeply ingrained honor forced him to pull back, catch his breath—

She touched him.

Inexpertly, not firmly enough—but she was learning. He shuddered, groaned—and caught her hand. “Flick—!”

She wriggled—he had to move quickly to catch her other hand before she reduced him to quivering helplessness.

“Dammit, woman—you’re supposed to be innocent!”

Her warm chuckle was the very opposite. “I gave you my innocence at The Angel—don’t you remember?”

“How could I forget? Every damned minute of that night is engraved on my brain.”

She grinned. “Like an etching?”

“If an etching can convey sensations as well, then yes.” The memories had warmed him, tortured him, for weeks.

Her grin widened. “In that case, you must recall that I’m not a sweet innocent any more.” Her expression softened, and glowed. “I gave you my innocence. It was a gift—won’t you accept it?”

Demon stared into her lovely face—he couldn’t think.

She dropped her gaze to his lips. “If you won’t stay with me here, I’ll come back to your lodgings.”

“No.”

“I’ll follow you—you can’t stop me.” Her lips curved; she met his eyes. “I want to see your etchings.”

Demon looked down into eyes so blatantly full of love he wondered how he could have doubted her answer. She loved him, and always had, regardless of whether he loved her. But he did love her—desperately. Which meant they’d marry soon. Why was he holding her away?

He blinked. The next instant, he released her hands, wrapped his arms about her, and pulled her hard against him. “God, you are so
stubborn
!”

He kissed her—powerfully, passionately, deliberately letting the reins go—feeling her tug them from his grasp and fling them aside.

At some point in the subsequent heated exchange, they surfaced long enough to turn the corner of the gallery and find the door to her room. Once inside, he leaned back against the door—and let her have her way with him. It was a new experience, and oddly precious—to have a woman so wantonly, ravenously, set on ravishing him.

He reveled in it, in the hot kisses she pressed on him, in the greedy clutch of her fingers on his naked chest. She’d wrecked his cravat, crushed his coat and waistcoat—his shirt had lost buttons. When she hummed in her throat and reached for his waistband, he summoned enough strength to back her to the bed. “Not yet.” Catching her hands, he stayed her. “I want to see you first.”

Despite having had her more than once, he hadn’t, yet, had a chance to sate his senses as he wished, and view her totally naked. He wanted that—and he wanted it now.

She blinked as he sat on the bed and drew her to stand between his thighs. “See me?”

“Hmm.” He didn’t elaborate—she’d catch on soon enough. At The Angel, he’d seen her naked back, but not her naked front—not in any degree of light. Her male attire made undressing her easy—he had her clad only in a whisper-fine chemise in less than a minute.

By then her eyes were round.

He stood. She stepped back, swiftly scanning the room, noting the lighted candles on her dresser and bedside table, the flickering glow cast by the fire. Dispensing with his coat, cravat, waistcoat and shirt took a minute—his boots and stockings took one more.

Then he sat on the bed again, thighs wide. She turned to look at him, then shyly smiled. All but swaying with the force, the steady pounding, of desire, he went to move—to reach out and draw her to him—

She moved first.

With that same, shy smile on her lips, she grasped the hem of her chemise, and slowly drew it off over her head.

His chest locked—if his life had depended on not looking at her—not visually devouring her—he’d have died.

He wasn’t sure he hadn’t—he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—he certainly couldn’t move. Every muscle had seized, poised, ready It took enormous effort to drag in a breath, to drag his gaze upward from the lithe sweeps of her thighs, from the golden nest of curls at their apex, over the smooth curve of her stomach, up over her waist—one he could span with his hands—to the swells of her breasts, high, pert, and tipped with rose.

Her nipples puckered as his gaze touched them; he felt his lips curve, and knew his smile was hungry.

He was ravenous—aching to have her, to haul her into his arms and possess her, sink his throbbing staff deep into her softness, to ride her into sweet oblivion.

She still held her chemise in one hand, but she didn’t clutch it close, didn’t try to hide from his hot gaze. She shivered, but let him look his fill; when his gaze reached her face, she met his eyes.

There was no mistaking her glow—it was invitation and known delight—it held a siren’s allure, and the confidence of a woman well-loved.

If she ever looked at another man like that she would break his heart. The vulnerability washed over him—he acknowledged it, accepted it and let it pass. Reaching out, he took her chemise from her, let it fall to the floor, then curved his hand about her hip.

He urged her to him and she came—shy but not hesitant. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders; he slid his about her waist and held her, sensing the supple strength of her, then he looked up, trapped her gaze, and slid both palms down, over her hips, over the firm spheres of her bottom. He spread his fingers and cupped her, caressed her, kneaded gently—within seconds, her skin dewed and heated. Her pupils dilated, her lids half lowered; she caught her breath and tensed slightly.

Holding her gaze, refusing to let her break the contact, he left one hand evocatively fondling, tracing the smooth curves and hidden valleys, brushing the backs of her thighs. His other hand he placed palm flat on her belly. She sucked in a breath, and tensed even more. Ruthlessly holding her gaze, he slowly slid his hand up, brushing the sensitive underside of one breast with the backs of his fingers, then closing his hand about the firm mound.