A Rogues Proposal

His smile deepened. 'That, too.'

'Ah, well. That explains my disinterest, then. I'm not particularly interested in any of those things.'

Demon couldn't restrain his smile. 'A young lady uninterested in dresses and conquests-my dear, you'll break the matchmakers' hearts.'

Her expression as she shrugged said she cared not a whit.

'But,' he continued, 'I'm surprised you don't like dancing-most ladies who enjoy riding also enjoy a turn about the dance floor.'

She grimaced. 'I haven't spent much time dancing. There aren't a lot of balls around here, you know.'

'But there are the usual dances. I vaguely remember my great-aunt prodding me to attend, a few many years ago.'

'Well, yes-there are dances and the odd ball as one might expect. We do get cards periodically. But the General is always so busy.'

'Does he even see the cards?'

Flick glanced up, but she could read nothing in his very blue eyes. Still… she tilted her chin. 'I deal with his correspondence. There's no point bothering him with such invitations-he's never attended such affairs.'

'Hmm.' Demon glanced at her face-what he could see beneath her golden halo. Without warning, he reached for her hand; stepping swiftly, he raised it and twirled her, unsurprised that, startled though she was, she reacted smoothly, graceful and surefooted, innately responsive.

He met her wide eyes as she slowed to a halt, her billowing skirts subsiding. 'I really think,' he murmured, lowering her hand, 'that you'll enjoy dancing.'

Flick hid a frown and wondered if that remark was intended to be cryptic. Before she could pursue it, the gong for lunch echoed over the lawn.

Demon offered his arm. 'Shall we join the General?'

They did. Sitting at the dining table with the General to her right and Demon opposite was a familiar, comfortable situation. Flick relaxed; her nerves, in recent times slightly tense whenever Demon was near, eased. Chatting with her usual effervescence, she felt subtlely more in control.

Until the General laid down his fork and fixed her with a direct look. 'Mrs. Pemberton called this morning.'

'Oh?' Flick knew she had-that was why she'd taken refuge in the back parlor. But she was genuinely surprised that the General knew-she, Foggy and Jacobs had a long standing agreement to ensure the local matrons didn't bother him with their demands.

She scanned the room, but Jacobs had withdrawn. Had Mrs. Pemberton bullied her way past their defenses?

'Hmm,' the General went on. 'Seems she's giving a dance for the local young people. Us older folk are allowed to come and watch.' He caught Flick's startled eye. 'I rather think we should attend, don't you?'

Flick didn't-she foresaw all sorts of complications. Including the likelihood of the General learning just how many similar invitations he'd refused in recent times. She glanced at Demon, and was struck by inspiration. 'I really don't have anything to wear.'

The General chuckled. 'I thought you might say that, so I had a word with Mrs. Fogarty-she tells me there's a very good dressmaker in the High Street. She'll go with you tomorrow and see about a dress.'

'Oh.' Flick blinked. The General was smiling at her, a hopeful question in his eyes. 'Er… thank you.'

Delighted, he patted her hand. 'I'm quite looking forward to the outing-haven't been about in years, it seems. Used to enjoy it when Margery was alive. Now I'm too old to dance myself, I'm looking forward to sitting and watching you take to the floor.'

Flick stared at him; guilt at having deprived him of innocent enjoyment for years tickled at her mind-but she couldn't quite believe it. He didn't like socializing-he'd given his opinion on the mesdames of the district, and their entertainments, often enough. She couldn't understand what had got into his head. 'But…' She grabbed her last straw. 'I don't know any of the local gentlemen well enough to stand up with them.'

'Oh, you won't have to worry about that. Demon here has offered to accompany us-he'll stand up with you, teach you a few steps, and all that. Just what you need.'

Flick didn't think so. Blank-faced, she looked at Demon. He met her gaze, the quality of the smile in his eyes stating louder than words that it was he who had got into the General's head.

Despite the fact that his eyes were blue, Flick saw red. But he had her trussed up tight-no matter how she wriggled, the General stood firm. And as it quickly became clear he was, beneath his placid exterior, gruffly worried about her lack of social experience, she found herself acquiescing with a sweetness entirely out of step with her temper.

Her tormentor, of course, beat a strategic retreat once he'd secured his goal. Flick gritted her teeth-she would now have to learn to dance-with him. Excusing himself on the grounds that he wanted to be early to the Heath for afternoon stables, he left them at the table.

All her steel went out of her once he'd gone. She chatted easily with the General, while making a very large, very red mental note to tell his protege just what she thought of his maneuvering, especially his fostering of the General's worry, the instant she next had a moment alone with him.

That moment did not occur until they were standing by the side of the vicarage drawing room, with every eye in the room upon them. Flick stood, head up, hands lightly clasped, beside the General's chair. Demon, large, lean and hideously elegant, stood immediately by her side.

The stares directed her way, while disconcerting, did not greatly surprise Flick; the vision she presented had stunned her, too. All she'd done was don her new dress and the aquamarine necklace and earrings the General had given her for her last birthday, but the resulting vision that had stared back at her from her mirror had been a revelation.

She'd dutifully gone to the dressmaker with Foggy, a sudden convert to the notion of a dance. The dressmaker, Clotilde, had been surprisingly ready to put aside her other work to create a suitable gown for her. Suitable, Clotilde had insisted, meant pale blue silk, the exact same shade as her eyes. Imagining the cost, she'd demurred, suggesting a fine voile, but Clotilde had waved that aside and named a price that had been impossible to refuse. She'd agreed on the silk, only to be surprised again.

The dress whispered about her, sliding over her in quite a different way from the fine cottons she was used to. It clung, and shifted, and slithered; it was cool and at the same time warm. As for how she appeared in it-she hadn't recognized the slender, golden-haired beauty blinking huge blue eyes at her.

The color of the dress highlighted her eyes, making them appear larger, wider; the texture emphasized curves she normally paid very little attention to.

Demon, on the other hand, had paid a great deal of attention-to her, to those curves, to her eyes. When she'd descended the stairs and found him waiting in the hall, he'd blinked, then slowly smiled. Too intently for her liking. He'd come forward, handing her down the last stairs, then twirling her before him.

As she'd slowed, then halted, he'd trapped her gaze, lifted her hand, and brushed his lips across her fingertips. 'Very nice,' he'd purred, his blue eyes alight.

She'd felt like a blancmange he was just about to eat. Luckily, the General had appeared, and she'd escaped to fuss over him.

Their journey to Lidgate had been filled with the usual discussion of horses, but once they'd entered the vicarage, that subject was, by tacit agreement, not further pursued. Mrs. Pemberton had greeted them with great good cheer-she'd been particularly delighted to welcome Demon.

Flick slid a glance his way; he was idly scanning the room, slowly filling as more guests arrived. The General had insisted they be on time, so they'd been among the first to arrive. But the rest had followed on their heels; since taking up their positions, they'd had no chance to converse, too busy nodding politely as new arrivals nodded at them.

And stared. Half stared at her-the rest stared at him.

Hardly surprising. He was wearing black, a color that rendered his fair hair a brilliant blonde and deepened the blue of his eyes. The severe cut of his coat, pearl satin waistcoat and trousers emphasized his height, the breadth of his shoulders, his long, strong legs. He always looked elegant, but usually in a lazy, negligent way. Tonight, he was every inch the London rake, a predator stepped straight from the ton's ballrooms to prowl the