A Rogues Proposal

"Well, there you are." Amanda nodded decisively. "That's all of you-Honoria said she didn't choose first, but she definitely chose. Patience and Catriona both said they chose first. And so did you. So choosing is obviously the best way forward."

Flick glanced at them again, at their beautiful faces, and saw the stubborn wills underneath. She nodded. "Yes, that's probably true." The twins were very much like her.

"We'd better circulate." Amelia nudged them from their nook. "Mama is looking for us."

Adopting easy smiles, they slid into the crowd.

Smiling, Flick separated from the twins; although she forbade herself to scan the room, her senses searched for Demon. Over the last days, she'd seen him only fleetingly at the park, and once, by accident, in Bond Street. They'd exchanged no more than a few whispered phrases about the syndicate. And not once had his ever-so-slightly bored social mask slipped.

They had, however, been in public.

He'd arrived this evening at precisely the right moment to escort them down to the carriage, so they hadn't had a moment in private to catch up-on anything.

Which was becoming frustrating.

As was the fact she couldn't locate him.

She stopped before a bust of Caesar mounted on a pedestal. Dispensing with subtlety, she stretched on her toes and tried to scan the heads-she knew Demon's was somewhere in the room.

From behind, his hand closed on her arm.

She gasped and swung around.

He was standing beside the pedestal-he hadn't been there a moment before. Swiftly, he drew her to him, then swung and drew her past, until she was standing in the shallow alcove behind the pedestal. He faced her, leaning one arm on the pedestal's top, blocking her view.

Flick blinked. The ballroom possessed three semicircular alcoves; before each stood some arrangement, like the palms or the pedestal, leaving a small area behind. Those desirous of a quiet moment could avail themselves of the spot, partially private but in full view of the ballroom.

Looking into Demon's hard-featured face, she smiled gloriously. "Hello-I was looking for you."

His gaze on her face, he hesitated, then said, "I know."

She searched his face, his eyes-she couldn't quite place his tone. "Have you… ah, learned anything about the money?"

Demon drank in the sight of her, wallowed in the eager, welcoming light in her eyes, basked in the sensual glow that lit her face. She was screened from the ballroom by his shoulders. He drew a deep breath, and shook his head. "No. But we are making progress."

"Oh?" Her gaze lowered, and fixed on his lips; briefly, she moistened hers.

Clenching the fist hidden from the room by the bust, Demon nodded. "Montague has eliminated various securities-financial instruments through which that much money might have been hidden. While so far the results have been negative, we're narrowing our search."

She continued to stare at his lips, then realized they'd stopped moving; catching her breath on a little hitch, she looked up. And blinked. "It seems like we've been chasing the syndicate forever. Catching them seems like a dream." She paused, her eyes softening as they locked with his. Her "Do you think we ever will?" was softer yet.

Demon held her gaze and fought to remain still, to resist the impulse to lean forward, slide one arm about her and bring her against him. To bend his head, set his lips to hers, and answer the question in her eyes. Her gown, a sheath of silver-blue silk caught beneath her breasts with silver cords, then flaring over her hips into skirts that flirted about her ankles, didn't help. Its only claim to modesty lay in a froth of filmy silk gauze artfully looped about the neckline and over the points of her shoulders. It was an effort to remember her question. "Yes." His tone was deep, harsh; she blinked free of his hold, clearly puzzled when she saw his face harden.

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 Fly

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 Fly

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.