look to know that the seductive Miss Henshaw was batting her long lashes at Demon. She didn't need to look, but she wanted to. She wanted to-

'Actually,' a deep drawling voice purred just above her right ear, 'Miss Parteger's first dance is mine.'

Demon's hand closed firmly about hers; Flick looked up to see him smile with a shatteringly superior air at her youthful admirers. There was no chance in heaven they would argue.

The relief she felt was quite definite, the reasons for it less clear. Luckily, she didn't need to dwell on it. Demon glanced down at her and raised one brow. Gracefully, she inclined her head. He set her hand on his sleeve; the others fell back as he led her onto the rapidly clearing floor.

The dance was to be a cotillion. As Demon led her to a set, Flick whispered, 'I know the theory, but I've never actually danced one of these in my life.'

He smiled reassuringly. 'Just copy what the other lady does. If you wander off in the wrong direction, I'll grab you.'

Despite all, despite her dismissive humph, she found that promise comforting.

They took their positions and the music started; despite her worries, she quickly found the rhythm. The dips and sways and hand-clasped twirls were heavily repetitive; it wasn't that hard to keep her place. And Demon's touch was reassuring-every time his fingers closed about hers, he steadied her, even if she wasn't drifting.

As the dance progressed, she felt increasingly assured-assured enough to stop frowning and smile when her eyes touched his. She laughed up at him, over her shoulder, as he twirled her into their final pose, then she sank into an extravagantly deep curtsy as he bowed, equally extravagantly, to her.

Demon raised her; he wondered if she knew how brightly her eyes were shining, how gloriously unabashed, unfettered in her enjoyment she was. She was so different from the other young ladies in the room, all careful to mind their words, their expressions, if not to artfully deploy them. She was unrestrained in her appreciation- something tonnish ladies rarely were. Exuberance, even if honest, was not the ton's way.

It was Flick's way-her wide smile and laughing eyes had him smiling, equally honestly, in reply. 'And now,' he said, and had to draw a deeper breath as he drew her closer and looked into her eyes, 'we must return to our duty.'

She laughed. 'Which duty is that?'

The duty he alluded to was to dance with all the other young people gathered at the vicarage for that purpose. They had barely returned to the side of the room before Flick's hand was solicited for a country dance.

Her other hand still rested on Demon's sleeve. She looked up at him-he smiled reassuringly, squeezed her fingers lightly, then let her go.

As she twirled down the room, Flick noticed Demon twirling, too, with the vicar's daughter. Letting her gaze slide away, she smiled easily at her partner, Henry March.

Dance followed dance, but with time between to allow the dancers to chat. To get to know each other better, to find their feet socially. That was, after all, what the evening was about. The older members of the company sat at the rear of the room, smiling and nodding, watching benignly as their youngsters mingled.

Mrs. Pemberton, her duty as hostess done, sank into a chair beside the General. Luckily, the General was deep in discussion with the vicar; Mrs. Pemberton did not interrupt. Relieved, Flick looked away. Beside her, Demon shifted. Flick looked up, and he caught her eye. And raised a knowing brow. She stared into his eyes, at the comprehension therein, then put her nose in the air and looked away. And straggled to ignore the frisson that shot through her when his hand shifted and his fingers brushed hers amid her skirts.

The dances that followed proved a trial. It was increasingly difficult to keep her mind on her steps. As for her eyes, they rarely rested on her partner. Twirling, whirling, she shot glances through the throng, through the constantly moving mass. Looking, searching…

She located Demon-he was dancing with Kitty March. Flick relaxed.

The next measure, however, he partnered Miss Henshaw.

Flick collided with another lady in her set, and nearly ended on her bottom. Flustered, she gasped, 'I think' she didn't have to feign her shaking voice-'that I'd better sit out the rest of this dance.'

Her partner, a Mr. Drysdale, was only too willing to solicitously help her from the floor.

By the time Demon returned to her side at the end of the dance, as he had at the end of every dance thus far, Flick had herself well in hand. She'd lectured herself more sternly than she ever had in her life.

It was ridiculous! What on earth was she doing-thinking? Watching over him as if she was jealous. How foolish-making a cake of herself like that. Pray God he hadn't noticed, or he'd tease her unmercifully. And she'd deserve it. There was nothing between them-nothing!

She greeted him with a cool smile and immediately looked away.

His fingers found hers in her skirts-and tugged. She had to look up and meet his gaze.

It was serious, exceedingly intent. 'Are you all right?'

His eyes searched hers; God alone knew what he saw. Flick dragged in a breath-and wished she could drag her gaze from his. 'It was just a silly slip. I didn't fall.'

A frown darkened his eyes; his lips firmed, but then he nodded and, very slowly, released her hand. 'Be more careful-this is, after all, your first time at a dance.'

If she'd been feeling at all normal she would have responded to that as it deserved. Instead, the lingering touch of his fingers had blown all her certainties to the wind.

Nothing? If this-the light that turned his eyes dark and smoldering, the sense of protection, of strength, she felt flowing from him, the answering hitch in her breathing, the yearning that grew stronger, day by day, for him-if this was nothing, what would something be like?

More conscious of her heartbeat, of the rise and fall of her breasts than she'd ever been in her life, she looked away.

When she whirled down the next dance, she was conscious of him watching her, aware to her toes of the blue gaze that missed nothing, not a step, not a turn. He was waiting when her partner returned her to the side of the room. As if it was only natural, she slipped into the space beside him.

His gaze swept her face, but he said nothing.

Until the music started up again.

'My dance, I believe.'

His tone brooked no argument-from her potential partners, or her. She inclined her head graciously, as if she'd been expecting his claim. Perhaps she had.

For him to dance with her a second time while there were other young ladies he had not yet favored lent the action a particularity it would otherwise not have had-he was clearly singling her out. Despite her lack of social experience, she knew it-and knew beyond doubt that he did, too.

It was a simple country dance that left them partnered throughout, without interaction with other dancers; they had no need to shift their attention from each other. From the instant the music started and their fingers touched, their focus was fixed. For her part, she barely heard the music. She moved instinctively, matching his actions, responding to directing touches so light she felt them more with her senses than with her nerves.

His eyes held her. His gaze, as brilliantly blue as a summer sky, wrapped her in its warmth. And she knew- knew that he was squiring her, deliberately, intentionally. Intent as only he could be. He was wooing her-even if the idea seemed so wild and impossible that her mind could not accept it, her senses did. Her first impulse was to step back-to safety, to a point where she could look about and understand. But while she whirled and twirled, her eyes never leaving his, there was no place of safety, nowhere she could hide from the smoldering glow in his eyes-and the very last thing she wanted to do was run.

His gaze held her effortlessly, yet without compulsion; she was fascinated, and that alone was power enough to keep her whirling. The sliding brush of his ringers as their hands met and parted, the gliding caress, so delicate, as he steered her into a sweeping turn-each was planned deliberately, executed with intent. In that single dance, he wove a net about her-one invisible to the eye but very clear to her senses.

Her nerves tingled, tightened; each heartbeat heightened her awareness. Until his every touch held a temptation and a promise, echoed by their movements in the dance.

She swayed closer, looking up as he drew her nearer, and felt the temptation to surrender. To surrender to the conviction of what he was telling her, to give in and believe that he wanted her to be his wife. And would have

Вы читаете A Rogues Proposal
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

1

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату