A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

The musicians chose that instant to strike up the waltz-he could have cheerfully strangled them with their own strings. Still, that was why they were here, at this moment. He focused on Flick's face, saw the eager light in her eyes, the invitation in her expression. And inwardly cursed. "That's a…" he drew a tight breath, "very lovely gown."

She looked down. "It's from Cocotte." She spread the silvery skirts and pirouetted in time to the opening bars, then looked at him. "Do you like it?"

"Very much." He could state that honestly, convincingly. When he'd first seen her on the stairs in Berkeley Square, he'd felt winded. The gown flattered her figure so well that he was of the opinion it should be outlawed, but he definitely liked it-and what was in it. So much so that it was impossible for him to take her in his arms and waltz beneath the sharp eyes of his too-interested family.

With one hand, he gestured. "Turn again." It was no hardship to keep his gaze on her hips as she twirled.

"Hmm." He kept his gaze on her skirts, not wanting to see the disappointment gathering in her eyes. She'd told him in the carriage that Emily Cowper, a friend of his mother's, had, in light of her years, given her formal permission to waltz. The waltz was now in full swing. "That's very well cut-slightly different-the way the skirts fall." He was a past master at seduction-couldn't he do better? Next, he'd be talking about the weather.

"Have you heard anything from Newmarket?"

He looked up-he'd heard the soft sigh that had preceded that question; there was no longer any hint of anticipation in her eyes. She looked resigned, yet still gracious. He straightened. "Not specifically. But I have heard from a close acquaintance of a member of the Committee that no one has sighted Dillon yet, nor has anyone spoken to the General."

"Well, that's some relief. I just hope Dillon doesn't do anything stupid while we're in town. I'd better send him a letter tomorrow."

She said nothing more but gazed past the bust to where couples were revolving about the floor. Demon pressed his lips tight shut. However badly he felt about making her miss her first London waltz, he couldn't regret it. Unable to dance with her himself, he couldn't have borne standing by the ballroom's side, watching her in the arms of some other gentleman. He would have turned into an incarnation of his nickname-that was certainly how he felt simply at the thought of her in another man's arms.

It was better for her to miss this waltz. "I heard from Carruthers that The Flynn's shaping well."

That caught her attention. "Oh?"

"He's been pushing him morning and afternoon."

"Carruthers told me he was trying to build his endurance."

"Carruthers wants me to try him in a steeple." He glanced at her. "What do you think?"

Unsurprisingly, she told him. What did surprise him was how detailed her opinion was, how much she understood, how deeply she'd merged with her one-time mount. For the first time in his life, he learned about, and took advice on, one of his horses from a female.

By the time they'd discussed The Flynn's future, and touched on that of the filly Flick had also ridden, the waltz was long over, the next dance about to begin.

A cotillion. Demon turned and beheld a circle of hovering males, all waiting for their chance with Flick. He smiled tightly and turned back to her, still partially hidden by him. His smile softened as he reached for her hand. "Will you grant me the honor of this dance, my dear?"

She looked up and smiled-the gesture lit her face and flooded her eyes. "Of course." She gave him her hand and let him lead her to the floor.

His experience, thankfully, came to the fore-he artfully complimented her, elegantly teased her, all with just the right touch, that of the accomplished rake he was. As only their hands met, and their bodies passed no closer than a handsbreath, she smiled and laughed, but didn't glow. No one watching them, no matter how closely, would have seen anything beyond a young lady responding predictably to an experienced rake's blandishments.

Which was precisely what he wanted them to see.

At the end of the measure, he bowed elegantly and surrendered her to the coterie of admirers, eagerly awaiting their turn. Satisfied he'd weathered the worst of the night and made the best of it, he retreated to the end of the room.

Gabriel and Lucifer joined him there.

"Why do we do this?" Lucifer grumbled. "Amanda all but ripped up at me, little shrew. Just because I insisted on waltzing with her."

"I got the ice treatment," Gabriel returned. "I can't remember when last I waltzed with an iceberg. If ever."

He glanced at Demon. "If this is a taste of what the Season will bring, I think I'll take a holiday."

When Demon, staring over the assembled heads, said nothing, Gabriel followed his gaze to where Flick was holding court. "Hmm," Gabriel murmured. "Didn't see you waltzing, coz."

Demon didn't shift his gaze. "I was otherwise occupied."

"So I noticed-discussing the fate of the Roman legions, no doubt."

Demon grinned and reluctantly deserted the sight of Flick chatting animatedly. She'd taken to social outings like a duck to water. "Actually…" There was a note in his drawl that brought his cousins' gazes to his face. "I'm investigating a crime." Briefly, he filled them in, told them all he knew of the race-fixing and the syndicate, all he suspected of who they really were.

"Hundreds of thousands," Gabriel repeated. "You're unquestionably right-it's got to show somewhere."