A Rogues Proposal

'Indeed?'

'Indeed,' Flick verified. 'However, now you're here, I won't need Lord Framlingham's kind escort.' She gave Framlingham her hand and smiled sweetly. 'Thank you for coming to my aid, my lord.'

'Any time-er.' Framlingham glanced at Demon. 'Pleased to have been of assistance, my dear.' With a nod, he beat a hasty retreat.

Demon watched him go, then slowly turned his head and met Flick's limpid gaze. 'What are you about?'

She opened her eyes at him. 'I would have thought that was obvious. I want to speak with you.'

So she'd jerked his leash. Demon clenched his jaw and fought to preserve some semblance of debonair aloofness.

She swung to the door. 'Is the garden this way?'

Along with the terrace. 'I find it difficult to believe you're in need of fresh air. You're not the wilting sort.' She certainly hadn't wilted last night.

'Of course not, but we need to speak privately.'

'Indubitably.' He bit the word off. 'Not, however, out there.' He wasn't about to risk a repeat of last night.

Meeting his gaze, she tilted her chin. 'Where, then?'

One challenge to which he had an answer. 'There's a chaise in an alcove over there.'

He caught her hand, placed it on his sleeve, and led her through the crowd. Although this was only a party, there were still too many guests crowding the room. It took them some minutes to cross it, time in which his anger faded to resentment-at her action, his reaction, and the ever present, irritating confusion that dogged him.

Never in his life had he had so much trouble with a woman. As on horses, so too in the ballrooms. He was widely acknowledged as clever in the saddle, yet for all his experience, Flick was forever running her own race, perpetually relegating him to following at her heels. He was constantly having to reassess, rethink, readjust, which was not what he'd expected. Unfortunately, there seemed little else he could do.

He had to follow, and try to keep his hands on their reins. And ignore the nagging feeling that he was out of his depth with her.

Deep inside, he knew it, but he couldn't accept it-he was infinitely more experienced than she. But this was not the young chit he'd made blush under the wisteria, the innocent miss he'd kissed by the banks of the stream, and taught to love at The Angel. This Flick was a conundrum, one he'd yet to work out.

The alcove was deep but open to the room. If they kept their voices down, they could talk freely, but in no real sense were they private.

He handed her to the chaise, then sat beside her. 'Do you think, next time you wish to speak with me, you could dispense with manipulation and simply send a note?'

She looked him in the eye. 'From someone who has so consistently tried to manage me, that's definitely a case of the pot calling the kettle black.' Her voice was even but her eyes spat blue sparks.

He waved a hand at the crowd. 'Face forward and look bored. Make it appear we're idly chatting while you rest.'

Her eyes flared, but she did as he said. 'See?' she hissed.

'Look bored, not irate.' He looked down; her fists were clenched in her lap. 'Relax your hands.' Despite his irritation, he'd lowered his voice to a cajoling murmur; after an instant's hesitation, her fingers uncurled.

Looking ahead, he drew in a breath, intending to explain, simply, succinctly, that in this sphere he was infinitely more experienced than she, that he knew precisely what he was doing and if she'd only deign to follow his lead, all would be well-

'I want you to spend more time with me.'

The demand made him bridle, but he preserved his bored facade. His instinctive response to any outright demand was resistance, but in this case, resistance was tempered by desire. It was a shock to realize he was not at all averse to spending the bulk of his days by her side. He felt his features harden as the implication sank in, while all the reasons he couldn't do so replayed in his mind.

Not least was that sensual glow of hers-if they were frequently together, he'd never preserve a safe distance. And she'd react. On top of that, there was a quality in their interactions now that simply shouldn't be there. For instance, if he leaned closer, she would turn to him, not draw away as an innocent would. Physically, she was completely at ease in his company-womanly, seductively alluring, not nervous and skittish as she should be.

Drawing in a breath, he considered telling her, but… the very last thing he wanted was for her to change.

'No.' He spoke decisively. After a moment, he added, 'That's not possible.'

She didn't, to his surprise, react-didn't turn her head and glare. Instead, she continued to study the room.

It took Flick some time to absorb his words. She'd made her demand expecting an argument, not bald denial. Yet she'd sensed his stiffening the instant the words were out-she'd braced herself to hear something she'd rather not.

Nevertheless… she had trouble taking it in. Trying to understand. What was he telling her?

A sudden premonition swept her-last night she'd accused him of wanting her solely as an ornament. She'd said it to prod him to deny it. He hadn't. Forcing in a breath, she concentrated on not gripping her ringers and wringing them. Had she, from the first, completely misread him-completely misunderstood what this something between them was?

Had she fooled herself into believing he might, one day, love her?

The cold started in her toes and flooded upward; her lungs froze-she felt giddy. But she had to know the truth. She glanced at his face. His features were set, determined. It wasn't his social mask that watched her, but another more stony, more ruthless. She searched his eyes, steady crystalline blue, and found no softness there either.'No?'

The word trembled on her lips. Abruptly, she looked away, struggling to mask the effect of that word-a blow to her unwary heart.

He tensed, shifted, then sat back. After a moment, he said in an even voice, 'If you agree to marry me, then I can spend more time with you.'

Flick stiffened. 'Indeed?' First a blow, then an ultimatum.

In the same controlled tone, he continued, 'You know I wish to marry you-that I've been waiting for you to make up your mind. Have you done so?'

She turned her head further away so he couldn't see the fight she waged to keep her hurt from showing.

Demon swallowed a curse. Her agitation reached him clearly, leaving him even more confused than before. But he couldn't reach out and force her to face him-force her to tell him what the devil was wrong. Kept going wrong between them.

He now wished he hadn't pressed for her answer. But he wanted her, and the agony got worse every night. His gaze locked on her curls, he waited, conscious to his bones of that deep wanting, of the contradictions between his mask, his behavior, and his feelings. He wanted to press her, wanted to reassure her. He desperately wanted to tell her the right answer.

One of her curls, the same one he'd often tucked back, had come loose. Raising one hand, he caught it, adjusted it.

And saw his hand shaking.

The sight shook him even more, forcing the vulnerability he'd tried to ignore to the forefront of his mind. His face set; his jaw clenched. A moment later, he demanded, his tone harsh, 'Have you decided?'

Flick looked at him, forced herself to meet his hard blue eyes, tried to see behind the ruthless mask. But she could catch no glimpse of what she searched for-this was not the man she loved, the idol of her dreams, the man who'd made long slow love to her all night at The Angel. The man she'd hoped would learn to love her.

Looking away, she drew in a shaky breath and held it. 'No-but I think I've made a dreadful mistake.'

He stiffened.