A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

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. Pembe

rton 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 vicarage dance floor.

Flick inwardly grinned at the thought.

As if sensing her gaze, he glanced down at her, then raised a quizzical brow. She hesitated, but with the General so close, she couldn't upbraid him as he deserved for getting her into this-into this room, into this gown, into this situation. With a speaking glance, she elevated her chin and haughtily looked away.

Mrs. Pemberton materialized before them. "Allow me to present Mrs. March and her family from the Grange."

Mrs. March nodded approvingly at Flick's curtsy, smiled appreciatively at Demon's elegant bow, then turned to chat with the General.

"And this is Miss March, who we all know as Kitty."

A young girl in a white dress blushed furiously and curtsied.

"And her friend, Miss Avril Collins."

The second young lady, a brunette in yellow muslin, curtsied rather more assuredly.

"And Henry, who is squiring his sister and Miss Collins tonight."

Henry was obviously a March, as fair as his sister. He blushed furiously while executing the stiffest bow Flick had ever seen. "It's a g-great pleasure, M-Miss Parteger."

Mrs. Pemberton turned away; a second later, together with Mrs. March, she led the General away to where the older guests were gathering to chat and gossip.

"I say-have you lived in these parts long?"

Flick turned to find Henry March earnestly regarding her. His sister, too, lifting her gaze from a perusal of her blue silk gown, looked interested in the question.

Not so Avril Collins, who was brazenly looking interested in Demon.