A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

The carriage lurched forward. Demon sat back and pretended not to notice Flick's scowl.

"I can't see why we couldn't ask at the houses-what harm could there be?" She sat back, folding her arms. "They're perfectly ordinary residences-there must be some way we can inquire."

"I'll put some people onto it tomorrow," Demon lied.

Better a lie than have her decide to investigate herself. That particular row of ordinary residences hosted a number of high-class brothels, none of which would welcome inquiries as to the identity of their evening's guests. "I'll see Montague first thing tomorrow, and swing all our people into the fashionable areas." Inwardly, Demon nodded. Things were starting to make sense.

Flick merely humphed.

Demon had the hackney drop them off just around the corner from Berkeley Square, then take Gillies on to Albemarle Street. He checked the Square, but it was late-there was no one about to see him bring Flick the lad home. He only hoped he could sneak her past Highthorpe.

"Come on." He strolled along the pavement; Flick strolled beside him.

As they climbed the steps to his parents' door, he glanced down at her. "Go straight up the stairs as silently as you can-I'll distract Highthorpe." He gripped the doorknob and turned it-"Damn!" He turned the knob fully and pushed. Nothing happened. He swore. "My father must have come home early. The bolts are set."

Flick stared at the door. "How will I get in?"

Demon sighed. "Through the back parlor." He glanced around, then took her hand. "Come on-I'll show you."

Striding back down the steps, he led her down the narrow gap between his parents' house and the next, into a lane running along the backs of the mansions. A stone wall, more than seven feet tall, lined the lane.

He tried the gate in the wall; it, too, was locked.

Flick eyed the wall and groaned. "Not again."

" 'Fraid so. Here." Demon linked his hands. Grumbling, Flick placed her boot in them-he threw her up. As in Newmarket, he had to slap his hand under her bottom and heave her over-she grumbled even more.

Demon caught the top of the wall, hauled himself up, then dropped down to join Flick in the bushes below. Grabbing her hand, he led her through the rhododendrons, across the shadowed lawn, and onto the back terrace. He signalled her to silence, then, using a small knife, he set to work on the French doors of the back parlor. In less than a minute, the lock clicked and the doors swung open.

"There you are." Pocketing the knife, he gestured Flick in. Hesitantly, she crossed the threshold. He stepped in behind her to get off the open terrace-

She clutched his sleeve. "It all looks so different in the dark," she whispered. "I've never been in this room-your mother doesn't sit here." Her fingers tightened; she looked up at him. "How do I get to my room?"

Demon stared at her. He wanted to see her alone-to talk to her privately-but a more formal setting in daylight was imperative, or he'd never get out what he had to say. Not before he forgot himself and kissed her. Screened by the dark, he scowled. "Where's your room?"

"I turn left from the gallery-isn't that the other wing?"

"Yes." Stifling a curse, he locked the French doors, then found her hand. "Come on. I'll take you up."

The house was large, disorientating in the dark, but he'd slipped through its corridors on countless nights past. He'd grown up in this house-he knew his way without looking.

Flick bided her time, trailing him up the stairs and into the long gallery. The curtains at the long windows were open; moonlight streamed in, laying silver swaths across the dark carpet. She waited until they drew abreast of the last window, then she tripped, stumbled-

Demon bent and caught her-

Quick as a flash, she straightened, lifted her arms, framed his face and kissed him, wildly, wantonly-she wasn't going to wait to learn if he was planning to kiss her. What if he wasn't?

Her preemptive action rendered Demon's plans academic. Curses rang in his head-he didn't hear them. Couldn't hear them over the sudden pounding of his blood, the sudden roar of his needs. Her lips were open under his; before he'd even thought, he was deep inside, tasting her, exulting in the sweet mystery of her, drinking her deep.

And she met him-not tentatively or shyly, but with a demand so flagrant it left him giddy.

He pulled back from the kiss to draw in a huge breath, conscious to his toes of the firm swells of her breasts compressed against his expanding chest. He straightened; hands sliding to his nape, she held tight. Eyes glinting under heavy lids, she drew his lips back to hers.

He went readily, urgently hungry for more heady kisses, his pulse pounding in anticipation of the deeper satiation her body, pressed to his in sweet abandon, promised. His arms had locked about her, but it was she who sank against him, a simple surrender so evocative he shook.

Pulling back, he dragged in a breath; dazed, he looked into her face, subtly lit by the moonlight. From under heavy lids, she studied him, then with one finger, traced his lower lip.

"Lady Osbaldestone said you've been keeping your distance because that's what society demands." She arched one fine brow. "Is that right?"