A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

She slanted a glance at her abductor. He was looking ahead, his expression easy but uninformative. There was nothing to say he'd planned this-that he'd purposely had the blacks put to that morning just so he could distract her.

She wouldn't mind betting he had.

Unfortunately, after enjoying herself so thoroughly, it would be churlish indeed to cavil. So she sat back and enjoyed herself some more, watching as he deftly tacked through the increasing traffic to pull up before the lending library, just off the High Street halfway through the town.

As was usual, the sight of a magnificent pair had drawn a gaggle of boys in their wake. After handing her to the pavement, Demon selected two and, with strict instructions, left the blacks in their care.

That surprised Flick, but she was too wise to show it; carrying her books, she headed for the library door. Demon followed on her heels; he reached over her shoulder and pushed the door wide.

She walked through into familiar surroundings-the wide front bay where two old gentlemen sat, dozing over their history books, the narrow aisles leading away toward the back of what had once been a hall, each aisle lined on both sides with bookshelves crammed to overflowing.

"Hello, Mrs. Higgins," Flick whispered to the large, homely woman who presided over her domain from behind a table near the entrance. "I'm returning these."

"Good, good." Perching her pince-nez on her nose, Mrs. Higgins peered down at the titles. "Ah, yes, and did the General enjoy the Major's biography?"

"He did indeed. He asked me to see if there were any more like it."

"You'll find all we have in the second aisle, dear-about midway down…" Mrs. Higgins's words trailed away. Looking past Flick, she slowly raised her hand and removed her pince-nez, the better to take in who had strayed into her castle.

"Mr. Cynster's escorting me," Flick explained. Facing Demon, she gestured to the chairs in the front bay. "Would you like to wait there?"

He glanced at the two old gents, then looked back at her, his expression utterly blank. "I'll follow you."

He proceeded to do so, strolling directly behind her as she wandered down the aisles.

Flick tried to ignore him and concentrate on the books, but novels and literary heroes could not compete with the masculine presence prowling in her wake. The more she tried to shut him out, the more he intruded on her mind, on her senses. Which was the very last thing she needed.

She was confused enough about him as it was.

After spending the hours until dawn reliving their second dance, reliving that amazing waltz, and replaying everything they'd said in the moonlight, over her breakfast toast she'd made a firm resolution to put the entire matter from her-and wait and see.

Wait for him to make the next move-and see if it made any more sense than his last.

She had a very strong notion she was misinterpreting, through lack of experience, reading more into his words, his actions, than he intended. He was accustomed to dallying with sophisticated ladies of the ton. Doubtless, that matter of their second dance, and the waltz, and his warm words in the moonlight-and, of course, that kiss-were all simply tonnish dalliance, the way ladies and gentlemen of his ilk entertained themselves of an evening. A form of sophisticated teasing. The more she thought of it, the more that seemed likely.

In which case, the last thing she should do was place any great emphasis on any of it.

Determinedly, she halted before the bookshelf housing her favorite novels-those of Miss Austen and Mrs. Radcliffe. Ignoring the disapproving humph from behind her, she stubbornly scanned the shelves.

Demon propped one shoulder against a bookshelf, slid his hands into his pockets, and watched her with a distinctly jaundiced eye. If she wanted romance, why the hell was she looking at books?

The fact she was didn't auger well for his plans. He watched as she pulled books out and studied them, returning some, retaining others-and wondered if there was any way he could step up his campaign. Unfortunately, she was young and innocent-and strong-willed and stubborn.

Which meant that if he pushed too hard, drove too fast, she might turn skittish and difficult.

Which would slow things down all the more. He'd gentled enough high-couraged horses to know the value of patience. And, of course, this time, there was no question of him not succeeding-he intended to get his ring on her finger no matter how long it took.

This time, he refused to entertain any possibility of defeat. Last time, when he'd turned up at the manor, ready to offer himself up on a sacrificial matrimonial altar, he hadn't known what he was about. He hadn't stopped to think-he'd reacted instinctively to the situation about him. Discovering that Flick had made everything right so there was no need for them to marry had brought him up short. He'd been stunned, but not with joy. He had, in fact, been distinctly unamused, and even less amused by that fact.

That had certainly made him think. He'd spent the next twenty-four hours doing precisely that, doggedly separating his real desires from the disguise of convenience he'd wrapped them in, only to discover that, as usual, his instincts hadn't misled him.

He wanted to marry the chit-never mind why-and having her compromised so innocently had been a convenient, if not perfect, avenue by which to stake his claim. His wish to marry her was not at all innocent-his thoughts, even then, had been colored by desire. His disappointment had been so acute that he'd actually felt hurt, which had annoyed him all the more.

No woman had ever made him feel this uncertain, had made him ache with desire with no surety of relief.

His sudden susceptibility-his need for an angel-was something he wanted dealt with quickly. Once he had her safely wedded and bedded, he was sure he'd feel better-back to his usual, assured, self-reliant, self-confident self.

Which was why he proposed to dog her every step until she agreed to marry him. He could only pray it wouldn't take too long.