A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

Later, she strolled with him to the stable. She waited, but, other than an artful comment about enjoying the view-it was a brisk day and her skirts were flapping-he said nothing. His eyes, however, seemed unusually brilliant, his gaze especially attentive; despite the breeze, she didn't feel cold.

Day followed day; his visits highlighted each one. She could never be certain when or where he would appear, which was doubtless why she found herself listening for his footsteps.

And it wasn't just his gaze that was attentive.

Occasionally, he would touch her, just a hand at her back, or a sliding of his fingers from her hand to her wrist. Such touches always made her catch her breath-and flush in a most peculiar way.

Her worst moment came when he called one afternoon and inveigled her into joining him to watch the strings exercising on the Heath-he was still watching Bletchley during morning and afternoon stables.

"Hills and Cross are doing the bulk of it these days. They're less identifiable than Gillies or me."

They were standing by the Heath, she with her hands clasped on the handle of her furled parasol. "Has Bletchley made any further arrangements-fixed any more fixes?"

Demon shook his head. "I'm starting to wonder…"

When he said nothing more, she prompted, "What?"

He glanced at her, then grimaced and looked across the close-cropped turf to where his string was going through their paces. Bletchley lounged under his favorite oak; from there, he could see three separate strings working.

"I'm starting to wonder," Demon mused, "whether he's got any more fixes to place. He's been chatting up the jockeys, true enough, but lately it's been more in the nature of ingratiating himself with them. Other than those three fixes we know of, all of which are for major Spring Carnival races, he hasn't made any further arrangements."

"So?"

"So it's possible all the fixes the syndicate want for the Spring Carnival are now in place-just those three. Considering the races involved, they should clear enough for the greediest of men. I'm wondering if Bletchley is simply whiling away time until his masters are due to check with him, and putting in his hours by learning as much as he can about the race jockeys with a view to making his next round of fixes, most likely in a few months-maybe at the July meeting-easier to arrange."

Flick studied Bletchley. "He's looking for weaknesses? Something to give him a hold over the jockeys?"

"Hmm. Possibly."

She knew the instant he switched his gaze from Bletchley to her, knew precisely when his mind shifted from fixes to… whatever it was he was thinking about her.

A gentle tug on one curl had her turning her face, only to find him much nearer, closer…

"Stop staring at him so deliberately-he'll notice."

"I'm not staring at Bletchley." She was staring at his lips. They curved, then drew fractionally nearer…

She stiffened, blinked and dragged her eyes up to his. "Perhaps we'd better stroll." Dalliance was all very well, but she was not about to indulge in any of his mind-whirling kisses-not on the open Heath.

His lips quirked, but he inclined his head. "Perhaps we had."

He turned her; with her hand on his sleeve, they strolled along the Heath's edge-while she hoped he'd exercise his usual initiative and find an empty stable.

To her unreasoning annoyance, he didn't.

The next morning, he took her into town, so they could savor the scones at The Twig and Bough, which he insisted were a cut above excellent. After their repast, they strolled down the High Street, where Mrs. Pemberton beamed at them from her carriage, exchanging gracious greetings.

Flick was quite sure the vicar's wife had never before looked at her with such patent approval.

Which, more than anything else-far more than the insistence of her silly senses or the wonderings of her ill-informed mind-made her question what Demon was about. Really about.

She'd ridden high-bred horses all her life; she'd long ago learned the knack of putting aside all unnerving thoughts and emotions. She had, she thought, been doing an excellent job of ignoring the uncertainties his constant squiring of her had evoked. But after their meeting with Mrs. Pemberton, she could no longer ignore the fact that it really did appear that he was wooing her. Courting her.

Just like he'd said.

Had the moonlight addled his wits-or hers?

The question demanded an answer, not least because his continuing presence was stretching her nerves taut. As it was the same question, albeit in slightly different form, that had been circling in her brain for the past week without answer, there was obviously only one way forward.