A Rogues Proposal

"Shall we?"

Flick glanced at his face, but it was his mask she saw; his tone held the same boredom. Studiously correct, he offered his arm; inclining her head, she rested her fingertips on his sleeve.

She kept a sweet smile on her lips as they progressed through the door and on up the curving staircase-and tried not to dwell on his stiff stance, his bent arm held away from his body. It was always thus, these days. No longer did he draw her close, as if she was special to him.

They greeted Lady Arkdale, then followed Horatia to a chaise by the wall. Demon immediately requested the first cotillion and the first country dance after supper, then melted into the crowd.

Stifling a sigh, Flick held her head high. It was always the same-he assiduously escorted her to every ball, but all that ever came of it was her laying her hand on his sleeve on the way in, one distant cotillion, one even more distant country dance, a stilted supper surrounded by her admirers, a few glimpses through the crowd, then her placing her hand on his sleeve as they departed. How anyone could imagine there was anything between them-anything with the potential to lead to marriage-she couldn't comprehend.

His departure was the signal for her court to gather. Infusing her features with appropriate delight, she set her self to manage the youthful gentlemen who, if she let them, would fawn at her feet.

In no way different from the evenings that had preceded it, this evening, too, rolled on.

"I say-careful!"

"Oh! I'm so sorry." Flick blushed, quickly shifted her feet, and smiled apologetically at her partner, an earnest young gentleman, Lord Bristol. They were swinging around the floor in a waltz; unfortunately, she found dancing with anyone but Demon more a trial than a delight.

Because, if she wasn't dancing with him, she was forever trying to catch glimpses of him as he stood conversing by the side of the floor.

It was a dreadful habit, one she deplored, one she lectured herself on constantly. To no avail. If he was there, her eyes were drawn to him-she was helpless to prevent it. Luckily, the ton's ballrooms were large and excessively crowded; a quick glimpse was all she ever caught. Her partners, as far as she knew, had not noticed her fixation.

Even when she stepped on their toes.

Inwardly wincing, she sternly told herself to pay attention. She hated the taste her silly behavior left in her mouth. Once again, she was a besotted girl peering through the banisters for a glimpse of him. Her idol. The one man she'd wanted but who'd been out of her reach. More and more, she was starting to feel he was still out of her reach.

She didn't like watching him, but she did-compulsively. And what she saw brought no joy. There was inevitably a woman by his side, some hideously beautiful lady, head tilted as she looked into his face, her own creasing into smiles as she laughed at some risque quip. It only needed a glimpse for her to take it all in-the languidly elegant gestures, the saber-witted remarks, the arrogantly seductive lift of a brow.

The women pressed close, and he let them. Some even lifted their white hands to his arms, his shoulders, leaning against him while he charmed and teased, employing the seductive wiles he no longer used on her.

Why she kept looking-fashioning a whip for her own back-she didn't know. But she did.

"Do you think the weather will hold fine tomorrow?"

Flick refocused on Lord Bristol. "I suppose so." The skies had been blue for a week.

"I was hoping I might prevail upon you to honor me and my sisters with your presence on a drive to Richmond."

Flick smiled gently. "Thank you, but I'm afraid Lady Horatia and I are fully committed tomorrow."

"Oh-yes, of course. Just a thought."

Flick let regret tinge her smile-and wished it was Demon who'd asked. She didn't care a fig for the constant round of entertainments; she would have enjoyed a drive to Richmond, but she couldn't encourage Lord Bristol to imagine he had any chance with her.

Supper had come and gone; Demon had coolly claimed her, stiffly escorted her into the supper room, then sat by her side and said not a word as her court endeavored to entertain her. This waltz had followed immediately; she performed without thought, waiting for their revolutions to bring them once more in sight of her obsession. He was standing at the end of the room.

Then Lord Bristol swung her into the turn. She looked-and nearly gasped. Whirling away, she dragged in a breath, struggling to mask her shock. Her lungs constricted; she felt real pain.

Who was she-the woman all but draped over him? She was stu

Blissfully unaware, Lord Bristol swung her up the room. Blankness descended, blessed relief from the clawing, shrieking jealousy that had raked her. The change left her dizzy.

The music faded, the dance came to an end. Lord Bristol released her-she nearly stumbled, only just remembering to curtsy.

Flick knew she was pale. Inside she was trembling. She smiled weakly at Lord Bristol. "Thank you." Turning, she walked into the crowd.

She hadn't known he had a mistress.

That word kept repeating in her mind-incessantly. As she tacked through the crowd all but blind, instinct came to her aid; she headed for a group of potted palms. There was no alcove, but in the shadow cast by the large fronds close by the wall, she found sanctuary.

Not once did she question the correctness of her assumption; she knew she was right. What she didn't know was what to do. She'd never felt so lost in her life.

The man she'd just glimpsed, heavy lids at half-mast as he traded sensuous quips with his mistress, was not the man she'd met on Newmarket Heath-the man to whom she'd willingly given herself in the best bedchamber at The Angel.

Her mind wouldn't work properly-bits of her problem surfaced, but she couldn't see the whole.

"Can't see her at present, but she's a pretty little thing. Quite suitable. Now that Horatia's taken her under her wing, all will, no doubt, go as it should."

The words came from the other side of the palms, in accents of matriarchal approval. Flick blinked.

"Hmm," came a second voice. "Well, one can hardly accuse him of being besotted, can one?"

Flick peeked through the fringed leaves-two old ladies were leaning on their sticks, sca

"As it should be," the first intoned. "I'm sure it's precisely as Hilary Eckles said-he's had the sense to recognize it's time for him to take a wife, and he's chosen well-a gently reared chit, ward of a friend of the family. It's not a love match, and a good thing, too!"

"Indeed," the second old biddy nodded decisively. "So tiresomely emotional, these love matches. Can't see the sense in them, myself."

"Sense?" The first snorted. "That's because there isn't any to see. Unfortunately, it's the latest fashion."

"Hmm." The second lady paused, then, with a puzzled ah", said, "Seems odd for a Cynster to be unfashionable, especially on that point."

"True, but it appears Horatia's boy's the first one in a while to have his head screwed on straight. He may be a hellion but in this, he's displayed uncommon sense. Well"-the lady gestured-"where would we have been if we'd allowed love to rule us?"

"Precisely. There's Thelma-let's see what she says."

The two ladies stumped off, leaning heavily on their canes, but Flick no longer felt safe behind the palms. Her head was still spi

She slipped through the crowd, avoiding anyone she knew, especially any Cynsters. Reaching the door to the corridor, she stepped into the shadows. A little maid jumped up from a stool and led her to the room set aside for ladies to refresh themselves.