A Rogues Proposal

Then Lord Bristol swung her into the turn. She looked-and nearly gasped. Whirling away, she dragged in a breath, struggling to mask her shock. Her lungs constricted; she felt real pain.

Who was she-the woman all but draped over him? She was stunningly beautiful- dark hair piled high over an exquisite face atop a body that flaunted more sumptuous curves than Flick had imagined possible. Much worse, her cloying closeness, the way she looked into his face, positively screamed their relationship.

Blissfully unaware, Lord Bristol swung her up the room. Blankness descended, blessed relief from the clawing, shrieking jealousy that had raked her. The change left her dizzy.

The music faded, the dance came to an end. Lord Bristol released her-she nearly stumbled, only just remembering to curtsy.

Flick knew she was pale. Inside she was trembling. She smiled weakly at Lord Bristol. 'Thank you.' Turning, she walked into the crowd.

She hadn't known he had a mistress.

That word kept repeating in her mind-incessantly. As she tacked through the crowd all but blind, instinct came to her aid; she headed for a group of potted palms. There was no alcove, but in the shadow cast by the large fronds close by the wall, she found sanctuary.

Not once did she question the correctness of her assumption; she knew she was right. What she didn't know was what to do. She'd never felt so lost in her life.

The man she'd just glimpsed, heavy lids at half-mast as he traded sensuous quips with his mistress, was not the man she'd met on Newmarket Heath-the man to whom she'd willingly given herself in the best bedchamber at The Angel.

Her mind wouldn't work properly-bits of her problem surfaced, but she couldn't see the whole.

'Can't see her at present, but she's a pretty little thing. Quite suitable. Now that Horatia's taken her under her wing, all will, no doubt, go as it should.'

The words came from the other side of the palms, in accents of matriarchal approval. Flick blinked.

'Hmm,' came a second voice. 'Well, one can hardly accuse him of being besotted, can one?'

Flick peeked through the fringed leaves-two old ladies were leaning on their sticks, scanning the ballroom.

'As it should be,' the first intoned. 'I'm sure it's precisely as Hilary Eckles said-he's had the sense to recognize it's time for him to take a wife, and he's chosen well-a gently reared chit, ward of a friend of the family. It's not a love match, and a good thing, too!'

'Indeed,' the second old biddy nodded decisively. 'So tiresomely emotional, these love matches. Can't see the sense in them, myself.'

'Sense?' The first snorted. 'That's because there isn't any to see. Unfortunately, it's the latest fashion.'

'Hmm.' The second lady paused, then, with a puzzled ah', said, 'Seems odd for a Cynster to be unfashionable, especially on that point.'

'True, but it appears Horatia's boy's the first one in a while to have his head screwed on straight. He may be a hellion but in this, he's displayed uncommon sense. Well'-the lady gestured-'where would we have been if we'd allowed love to rule us?'

'Precisely. There's Thelma-let's see what she says.'

The two ladies stumped off, leaning heavily on their canes, but Flick no longer felt safe behind the palms. Her head was still spinning; she didn't feel all that well. The withdrawing room seemed her safest option.

She slipped through the crowd, avoiding anyone she knew, especially any Cynsters. Reaching the door to the corridor, she stepped into the shadows. A little maid jumped up from a stool and led her to the room set aside for ladies to refresh themselves.

The room was brightly lit along one side, which was lined with mirrors, leaving the rest of the room heavily shadowed. Accepting a glass of water from the maid, Flick retreated to a chair in the gloom. Sipping the water, she simply sat. Other ladies came and went; no one noticed her in her dim corner. She started to feel better.

Then the door swung wide, and Demon's mistress stepped through. One of the ladies preening before the mirrors saw her; smiling, she turned. 'Celeste! And how goes your conquest?'

Celeste had paused dramatically just inside the door; hands rising to her voluptuous hips, she scanned the room. Her gaze stopped, briefly, on Flick, then lifted to her friend. She smiled, a gesture full of feminine sensuality. 'Why it goes, cherie-it goes!'

The lady before the mirrors laughed; others smiled, too.

In a sensuous glide that focused attention on her bounteous hips, tiny waist and full breasts, Celeste crossed the room. Stopping before a long mirror, hands on hips, she critically examined her reflection.

Exchanging glances and raised brows, the other ladies departed, all except Celeste and her friend, who was artfully rerouging her lips.

'You have heard, have you not,' Celeste's friend murmured, 'the rumors that he's to wed?'

'Hmm,' Celeste purred. In the mirror, her eyes sought Flick's. 'But why should that worry me? I don't want to marry him.'

Her friend snickered. 'We all know what you want, but he might have other ideas-at least once he marries. He is a Cynster after all.'

'I do not understand this.' Celeste had a definite accent, one Flick couldn't place; it only made her purring voice more sensual, more evocative. 'What matter his name?'

'Not his name-his family. Not even that, but… well, they've all proved remarkably constant as husbands.'

Celeste made a moue; she tilted her head-from beneath half-closed lids, her eyes glinted. Deliberately, she leaned toward the mirror, trailing her fingers tantalizingly across the full curves and deep cleavage thus revealed. Then she straightened, gracefully lifting her arms and half turning to examine her bottom, superbly displayed by her satin gown. Then her gaze locked with Flick's. 'I suspect,' she purred, 'that this case will prove an exception.'

Feeling more ill than when she'd entered, Flick rose. Summoning strength from she knew not where, she crossed to the table by the door. Shakily, she set the glass down-the click drew the attention of Celeste's friend. As she slipped through the door, Flick glimpsed a horrified face and heard a moaned 'Oh, Lord!'

The door closed; Flick stood in the dim corridor, the impulse to flee overpowering. But how could she leave? Where could she go? Drawing in a huge breath, she held it and lifted her chin. Defying the sick giddiness that assailed her, refusing to let herself think of what she'd heard, she headed back to the ballroom.

She'd gone no more than three paces when a figure materialized from the shadows.

'There you are, miss! I've been chasing you for hours.'

Flick blinked-into the pinched features of her Aunt Scroggs. Clinging to the tattered remnants of her dignity, she bobbed a curtsy. 'Good evening, Aunt. I hadn't realized you were here.'

'No doubt! You've been far too busy with those young blighters that surround you. Which is precisely what I want to speak to you about.' Wrapping thin ringers about Flick's elbow, Edwina Scroggs looked toward the withdrawing room.

'There are ladies in there.' Flick couldn't bear to go back, much less explain why.

'Humph!' Glancing around, Edwina drew her to the side, hard against the tapestry-covered wall. 'This will have to do then-there's no one about.'

The comment sent an unwelcome chill through Flick; she was already inwardly shivering. Lady Horatia had helped her locate her aunt; she'd visited her early in her stay. There was, however, nothing more than duty between them-her aunt had married socially beneath her and now lived as a penny-pinching widow, despite being relatively affluent.

Edwina Scroggs had been paid by her parents to take her in for the short time they'd expected to be away. The minute news of their deaths had arrived, Mrs. Scroggs had declared she couldn't be expected to house, feed and watch over a girl of seven. She'd literally flung Flick onto the mercy of the wider family-thankfully, the General had been there to catch her.

'It's about all these youngsters you've got sniffing at your skirts.' Putting her face close, Edwina hissed,