A Rogues Proposal

and swollen from his kisses. Most importantly, she hadn't been wearing hood or veil. Demon stared at her.

She stared back. 'Who was that?'

He considered her, then turned back to the door and removed the key. 'Fate. Disguised as Lord Selbourne.'

Chapter 13

Flick studied him. 'Do you know him?'

'Oh, indeed.' Slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket, Demon started back toward her. 'Everyone in the ton knows Rattletrap Selbourne.'

'Rattletrap?'

Stopping directly before her, Demon looked into her eyes. 'His tongue runs on wheels.'

She searched his eyes, his face; her lips formed a silent Oh.

'Which means,' he explained, 'that at all the balls in London tomorrow evening, the juiciest bon mot will be just who the deliciously youthful 'widow' discovered consorting with me at Bury St. Edmunds really was.'

Flick stiffened; her eyes flashed. 'Don't start that again. Just because he saw me doesn't mean I'm compromised. He doesn't know who I am.'

'But he will.' Demon tapped her nose with one finger. 'That's how Rattletrap secures his invitations-the particular niche he's carved in the bosom of the ton. He ferrets out all the indiscretions committed by the rest of us, and whispers them in the matrons' ears.'

He held Flick's gaze steadily. 'He'll find out who you are-you're well known in Newmarket, and that will be the first place he'll look. Gillies described the scene you created to get this room-that's precisely how a lady, living near but not in town, desirous of a room in which to meet her lover, would behave.'

Flick folded her arms and set her chin stubbornly. 'I am not compromised.'

'You are.' Demon didn't blink. 'As of the instant Selbourne laid eyes on your face, your situation is the definition of compromised.'

She narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she stated, 'Even if, theoretically, I am, that changes nothing.'

'On the contrary, it changes a great deal.'

'Indeed? Such as?'

He reached out and tugged her hand free; puzzled, she let him raise it. Catching the other, he lifted both to his shoulders, drawing her nearer. Releasing her hands, he closed his arms about her.

She quickly slid her hands down, bracing them against his chest. 'What are you doing?'

He met her gaze, then lowered his head. 'Demonstrating how much has changed.'

He kissed her-and kept kissing her, not forcefully but persuasively, not ruthlessly but relentlessly, until she surrendered. When she melted against him, he locked his arms about her-and kissed her some more. She responded with her customary eagerness. Steadily, progressively, he retraced their earlier steps until their breathing fragmented, until her hips were pressed tight to his, until heat licked their senses and passion hovered in the wings.

Only then did he lift his head.

Her hands were fisted on his lapels. Her eyes glinted from beneath heavy lids. 'You don't want to marry me-not really.'

Flick made the statement without conviction; tight against him, his rampant arousal riding against her, she could hardly claim ignorance of what he wanted. It was a powerful incentive to give in. But… She wanted him to marry her not just for that, no matter how exciting. She wanted him to marry her for more-for at least one other reason. A more important reason.

Tension invested his face. The same tension held her. His eyes remained on hers, his gaze steadfast, unwaveringly blue. Her lips throbbed. Entirely without her permission, her gaze lowered to his lips-clever lips, lean and strong, just like him. They dipped, and brushed hers.

'I do want to marry you.' Again he kissed her-a tantalizing promise as he slid his hands down her back, lifting her against him once more. 'I will marry you.'

His lips closed on hers, and the kiss turned ravenous. And hot. She could cope with ravishment, but the heat-that welling sense of fire and flame-defeated her. He pressed it on her, and she drank it in. It slid through her veins, through her limbs, through her brain.

And she burned, as did he. There was fire in his touch, in his lips-despite the swelling heat, she couldn't get enough. As her limbs melted and resolution evaporated, she clung to her wits and inwardly cursed. How would she get him to love her if he married her like this?

How to stop him?

As if in answer, he deepened the kiss. Her head spun. Boneless, near to spineless, she sank deeper into his arms, into his strength. Into his shocking heat.

'I've dreamed of marrying you.'

The words were a gravelly whisper. He steered her back a few steps; her hips met the dressing table.

'You have?' Breathless, she struggled to lift her lids.

'Mmm-hmm.' Propping her against the dressing table, he eased back.

The sudden loss of his hard body against her, all but around her, left her disoriented. She dragged in a breath, watching as he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tossing them on a nearby chair. He returned to her, his hands sliding, then firming about her waist.

'You've dreamed of our wedding?' She found that hard to believe.

His lips kicked up at the ends; his expression remained driven. 'My dreams were more concerned with our wedding night.'

He drew her to him. Eyes flaring wide, very certain of what she glimpsed in his, she braced her hands against his chest. 'No. You know how I feel about marrying for such a reason.'

He didn't force her closer, didn't pull her against him and simply melt her resistance. Instead, he ducked his head and dotted gentle kisses along her jaw, over her earlobe. Then his lips slid farther, to caress the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

She shivered.

'Would marrying me be such a hardship?'

He breathed the words against her ear, then drew back just enough so that as she turned, her eyes met his.

Their faces were so close that their breaths mingled. Wide-eyed, Flick looked deep into serious blue eyes, into his perfectly serious, well-beloved face. 'No.'

He didn't move, didn't grab her in triumph and crow. He simply waited. She studied his eyes, his face, then drew in a shallow breath. About them, the air shimmered, stirring, alive, invested with power. She felt his temptation, his promise, and more. Lifting one hand, she traced the line from one cheekbone to the corner of his lips. Hauling in another breath, she stretched up on her toes and touched her lips to his.

It was madness-a delicious, heady, compulsive madness-a sudden need that seared her, drove her, impelled her. It was impulse-pure, distilled and potent; she had no idea where it would lead.

But she kissed him-invitingly, encouragingly, challengingly. And sank into his arms as they closed about her, sank into his embrace, and into the kiss.

It caught her up, swept her up, and they were back in the fire, back in the flames.

Demon knew very well that she'd simply sprung her horses, that she was riding wild before the wind with no particular goal in mind. It was enough. He was expert enough to ride with her, to set his hand gently on her reins and guide her where he willed.

It took him a moment to work out the details-to plot and plan the where and how. Courtesy of her wildness, her increasingly abandoned kisses, he was already aching, but that was his most minor concern. He'd never made love to an innocent, wild or otherwise-she looked set to test his expertise, his control, to the limit.