A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

He needed to talk to her, explain things, but he couldn't do it now-not tonight. Thanks to her wantonness, and his, he couldn't think straight-and they had to get back to the ball.

Chapter 19

Desperate needs called for desperate deeds. Flick knew her needs qualified as desperate, especially after last night. She needed much more from her lover-her prospective husband. She knew what she wanted. The big question was: How to get it?

Surrounded by her court, in the middle of Lady Ashcombe's drawing room, she pretended to listen while inwardly she plotted. She'd come to London with one clear aim: to make Demon fall in love with her. If he'd been going to look at her face and fall down smitten, it would have happened long ago. As it hadn't, she was going to have to do something-take some active steps-to achieve her desired goal.

Insisting he spend more time with her was the logical next step. She'd made a start last night, although they'd got distracted. She'd enjoyed the distraction, as far as it had gone, but that had only made her more determined, more stubbornly set on her course. Such distractions, and the subsequent empty yearning, provided yet more reasons to act soon. She didn't want to find herself in the situation of having to agree to his suit. That would leave her with absolutely no leeway to secure her dream. And she definitely wanted to ease the desolate, empty feeling their interlude outside the library had left about her heart.

She was still convinced he could love her if he tried. They had so many things in common. She'd enumerated them at length in her cold bed last night; she felt confident the possibility of love was there.

The first step to making it a reality was to ensure that he spent more time with her. To do that, she needed to speak with him alone. She also wanted to talk to him about Dillon. Recalling how the previous night's interlude had come about, she eyed her would-be suitors measuringly.

Demon saw her proposition Framlingham. His mental imprecations as he strolled to the side door to cut off their escape should have set her ears aflame.

"Oh, ah! Evening, Cynster."

"Framlingham." With a perfunctory nod to Flick, he met his lordship's eyes. "Dissatisfied with her ladyship's entertainments?"

"Ah-" Although bluffly genial, Framlingham was not slow. He shot a glance at Flick. "Miss Parteger needed a breath of fresh air, don't you know."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed," Flick verified. "However, now you're here, I won't need Lord Framlingham's kind escort." She gave Framlingham her hand and smiled sweetly. "Thank you for coming to my aid, my lord."

"Any time-er." Framlingham glanced at Demon. "Pleased to have been of assistance, my dear." With a nod, he beat a hasty retreat.

Demon watched him go, then slowly turned his head and met Flick's limpid gaze. "What are you about?"

She opened her eyes at him. "I would have thought that was obvious. I want to speak with you."

So she'd jerked his leash. Demon clenched his jaw and fought to preserve some semblance of debonair aloofness.

She swung to the door. "Is the garden this way?"

Along with the terrace. "I find it difficult to believe you're in need of fresh air. You're not the wilting sort." She certainly hadn't wilted last night.

"Of course not, but we need to speak privately."

"Indubitably." He bit the word off. "Not, however, out there." He wasn't about to risk a repeat of last night.

Meeting his gaze, she tilted her chin. "Where, then?"

One challenge to which he had an answer. "There's a chaise in an alcove over there."

He caught her hand, placed it on his sleeve, and led her through the crowd. Although this was only a party, there were still too many guests crowding the room. It took them some minutes to cross it, time in which his anger faded to resentment-at her action, his reaction, and the ever present, irritating confusion that dogged him.

Never in his life had he had so much trouble with a woman. As on horses, so too in the ballrooms. He was widely acknowledged as clever in the saddle, yet for all his experience, Flick was forever running her own race, perpetually relegating him to following at her heels. He was constantly having to reassess, rethink, readjust, which was not what he'd expected. Unfortunately, there seemed little else he could do.

He had to follow, and try to keep his hands on their reins. And ignore the nagging feeling that he was out of his depth with her.

Deep inside, he knew it, but he couldn't accept it-he was infinitely more experienced than she. But this was not the young chit he'd made blush under the wisteria, the innocent miss he'd kissed by the banks of the stream, and taught to love at The Angel. This Flick was a conundrum, one he'd yet to work out.

The alcove was deep but open to the room. If they kept their voices down, they could talk freely, but in no real sense were they private.

He handed her to the chaise, then sat beside her. "Do you think, next time you wish to speak with me, you could dispense with manipulation and simply send a note?"

She looked him in the eye. "From someone who has so consistently tried to manage me, that's definitely a case of the pot calling the kettle black." Her voice was even but her eyes spat blue sparks.