A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

He'd never seen her clumsy before, but she nearly stumbled twice, and bumped into two other ladies.

What the devil was wrong?

Something had changed, not just tonight but gradually. He'd been watching her closely; he wasn't mistaken. There'd been a joy in her eyes, a delight in life, that had, over the past days, slowly faded. Not the sensual glow he fought to avoid eliciting, but something else-something simpler. It had always been there, vibrant, in her eyes. Now, he could barely detect it.

The music ended with a flourish; the dancers bowed and curtsied. Flick turned from the floor and drew in a breath-he knew it was one of relief. He hesitated, then took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. "Come," he said, as she looked up at him. "I'll take you to my mother."

She, too, hesitated, then acquiesced with a small nod.

He didn't let her go until he'd planted her beside the chaise where his mother was chatting. Horatia looked up fleetingly, noting Flick's return, but turned back to her conversation immediately. Demon would have said something to her, if he could have thought of what to say. He glanced down at Flick; she still wouldn't meet his eyes. She was still very tense-he didn't dare press her.

Girding his loins for the inner battle he fought each time he left her, he stiffly inclined his head. "I'll leave you to your friends." Then he moved away.

Her court gathered around her almost instantly. Retreating to the wall nearby, Demon studied the group but could detect no reaction on Flick's part; he could discern no threat from any one of her admirers. Indeed, she seemed to treat them as the puppies he'd labelled them, managing them with an absentminded air.

He wanted to stride back and disperse them, but it was hardly acceptable behavior. His mother would never forgive him and Flick might not, either. He couldn't even join her circle; he'd be too utterly out of place within her youthful court, a wolf amidst so many sheep.

The evening, thank God, was nearly over.

Stifling a grunt, he forced himself to stroll farther away, and not stand there staring quite so hungrily at her.

Fate had one last trial in store for him that evening.

He was propping up the wall, minding Flick's business, when a gentleman, every bit as languidly elegant as he, caught sight of him, smiled, then strolled over.

Demon ignored the smile. Grimly, he nodded. "Evening, Chillingworth."

"One would never imagine it a good one from your expression, dear boy." Glancing over the intervening heads to where Flick was passing the time with an enjoy ment more apparent than real, Chillingworth's smile deepened. "A tasty little morsel, I grant you, but I never thought you, of them all, would saddle yourself with this."

Demon decided not to understand. "This what?"

"Why-" Chillingworth turned his head and met his eyes. "This torment, of course."

Demon held back a glare, but his eyes narrowed; Chillingworth grinned and looked again at Flick. "Devil, of course, was doomed to run the full race, but the rest of you had far greater latitude. Vane had the sense to avail himself of it and marry Patience away from the ton. Richard-I always considered him the most sane-married his wild witch in Scotland, as far from the mad whirl as it's possible to get. So-" Pondering Flick, Chillingworth mused, "I have to ask myself why-why you've put yourself in line for such punishment." Amused understanding in his eyes, he glanced at Demon. "You must admit it's hardly comfortable."

Demon was not about to admit anything, and certainly not that. That his inner demons were howling with frustration. That he was hardly sleeping, barely eating, and as physically uncomfortable as it was possible to be. He met Chillingworth's gaze steadily. "I'll live."

"Hmm." Chillingworth's lips curved into a full smile. "Your fortitude leaves me quite…" Turning, he studied Flick. "Envious."

Demon stiffened.

"As you know," Chillingworth murmured, "young innocents have never been my cup of tea." He glanced back and met Demon's stony stare. "However, I've always been in remarkable accord with your family's taste in women." He looked back at Flick. "Perhaps-?"

"Don't."

The single word rang with lethal warning. Chillingworth's head snapped around; he met Demon's eyes. For one instant, despite their elegance, the scene turned primitive, the force resonating between them both primal and violent.

Then Chillingworth's lips curved; triumph gleamed in his eyes. "Perhaps not." Smiling, he inclined his head and turned away.

Inwardly cursing, Demon was damned if he'd let him escape unmarked. "If Devil was doomed, and he was, then so will you be."

Chillingworth chuckled as he strolled away. "Oh, no, dear boy." His words floated back. "I do assure you, this will never happen to me."

"Thank you, Highthorpe." After handing over his gloves and cane, Demon strode down the corridor and swung into his parents' dining room.

And came to a dead halt.

His mother's brows rose. "Good morning. And what brings you out this early?"