A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 5

After dinner that evening, Demon retired to the front parlor of his farmhouse to consider the ramifications of all they'd learned. Frowning, he paced before the fireplace, where a small blaze cheerily danced.

His thoughts were not cheery.

He was deeply mired in them when a tap sounded on the curtained window. Dismissing it as an insect or misguided sparrow, he didn't pause, didn't rouse from his reverie.

The tapping came again, this time more insistent.

Demon halted. Raising his head, he stared at the window, then swore and strode across the room. Jerking the curtains aside, he looked down on the face that haunted his dreams. "Dammit-what the devil are you doing here?"

Flick glared, then mouthed, "Let me in!" and gestured with her hands for him to lift the sash.

He hesitated, then, muttering a string of epithets, opened the catch and flung up the sash.

He was presented with a gloved hand. "Help me in."

Against his better judgment, he did. She was dressed in breeches-not her stable lad attire but a pair of what looked to be Dillon's cast-off inexpressibles, which fitted her far too well for his equanimity. Flick clambered over the sill and into the room. Releasing her hand, he lowered the sash and redrew the curtains. "For God's sake, keep your voice down. Heaven only knows what Mrs. Shephard will think if she hears you-"

"She won't." With a dismissive wave, Flick stepped to the settee and sank down on one arm. "She and Shephard are in the kitchen-I checked."

Demon stared at her-she stared ingenuously back. Deliberately, he thrust both hands into his trouser pockets-against the temptation to lay them on her. "Do you often flit through the twilight dressed like that?"

"Of course not. But I didn't know whether I'd be able to reach you without knocking on the door. Luckily, I saw your shadow on the curtains."

Demon clamped his lips shut. There was no point expostulating that her calmly knocking on his front door and asking his housekeeper, a matronly woman with sharp eyes, to show her into his parlor would have been unwise; she would only argue. Swinging on his heel, he strode back across the room; in the circumstances, the least he should do was put some real distance between them.

Regaining the fireplace, he turned to face her, propping his shoulders against the mantel. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I came to discuss the situation, of course."

He raised one brow. "The situation?"

Flick held his gaze for a moment, then looked down and, with patent determination, removed her gloves. "It seems to me that what we learned today raises a number of issues." Laying the gloves on one thigh, she raised her hands and ticked each point off on her fingers. "First and foremost, if another race is to be fixed, should we warn the authorities? However"-she proceeded to her next finger-"there's the consideration that if we tell the stewards, they may alert the contact and he'll simply disappear, along with all connection to the syndicate. If that happens, we'll lose any chance of redeeming Dillon. Even worse"-she moved to her next finger-"if we inform the stewards and they question that man, it sounds, from what Dillon said, that he'll simply implicate him, and very likely cast him as the instigator of the scheme, thus protecting the syndicate from exposure."

Lifting her head, she looked across the room at the long, lean figure lounging, all brooding elegance, against the mantel. If she'd harbored any doubts that he intended to curtail her involvement in their investigations, his present attitude dispelled them; resistance poured from him in waves. His eyes, his attention, were fixed on her, but he showed no inclination to respond. She tilted her chin. "So, are we going to inform the authorities?"

He continued to study her intently, unwaveringly, but he said nothing. Lips thinning, she raised a brow. "Well!"

"I haven't yet decided."

"Hmm." She ignored his clipped, definitely pointed tone. "That man offered the jockey one hundred and twenty-five pounds-a small fortune for a race jockey. It seems unlikely the jockey will change his mind."

He humphed; she took it as agreement.

"Which means your horse is almost certain to win." Eyes wide, she met his gaze. "That places you in a rather awkward position, doesn't it?"

He straightened; before he could speak she went on. "It's a horrible fix-with Dillon to rescue on the one hand, and your responsibilities to the Jockey Club on the other. I suppose it's a clash between loyalty and honor." In the same even tone, she asked, "Which will you choose?"

Hands sunk in his pockets, he stared at her, then looked down and paced before the fire. "I don't know." He shot her a glance, one dark with irritation. "I was considering the matter when you came through the window."

His look was lightened by a hint of curiosity; she grinned. "I came to help." She ignored his derisive snort. "We need to weigh things up-consider our options."

"I can't see any options." He continued to pace, his gaze on the floor. "That one of my horses is involved is irrelevant-it simply makes things worse. Having learned of an attempt to fix a race, my duty as a member of the Jockey Club is clear. I should inform the Committee."

"How absolute is that duty?"

The glance he sent her was hard. "As absolute as such things can be. I could not, in all honor, let a fixed race run."

"Hmm. I agree it's impossible to let a fixed race run-that's quite out of the question. But…" She let her words trail away, her gaze, questioning, fixed on Demon.

He halted, and looked her way. Then he raised a brow. "But can I-" He broke off, his gaze on her, then briefly inclined his head. "Can we legitimately withhold the information until closer to the race, to give ourselves time to follow this contact back to the syndicate?"

"Exactly. That race is next month-more than a couple of weeks away. And the stewards could stop it even if we told them just before the start."

"Not quite, but if we hold back the information until the week before the race, it would leave us five weeks in which to trace the syndicate."

"Five weeks? That's plenty of time."

Demon suppressed a cynical humph. Flick's face was triumphantly aglow; although it was partly at his expense, he had no wish to dim it. When she'd come through the window, he'd been thinking solely in the singular; he was now talking in the plural. Which was what she'd intended; that was why she'd come.

Now she sat, perched victorious on the arm of his settee, one boot swinging, a satisfied smile in her eyes. Her understanding of the honor and responsibilities involved in his position intrigued him. She understood racing, the fraternity and its traditions-not something he'd encountered in a woman before.

But discussing such matters with a sweet innocent felt odd. Especially late in the evening, in his front parlor.

Entirely unchaperoned.

He resumed his pacing-this time, in her direction.

"So"-she almost bobbed in her eagerness-"how do we find the man we saw this evening? Shouldn't we be trying to locate him?"

He halted beside her, his gaze on her face. "We are. At this instant, three of my men are rolling around the town, searching the inns and taverns."

She beamed at him. "Excellent! And then?"

"And then…" He reached for her hand; she surrendered it readily. Smoothly, he drew her to her feet. "Then we follow him"-holding her gaze, he lowered his voice to a deep purr-"until we learn all we need to know."

Trapped in his gaze, her hand in his, eyes widening, she mouthed an "Oh."

He smiled intently. Wrapping his fingers about her hand, he waited, just a heartbeat, until she trembled.

"We'll find the contact and follow him." His lids veiling his eyes, he lowered his gaze to her lips, soft, sheening, succulent pink. "Until he leads us to the syndicate-and then we'll tell the stewards all they need to know."

When he spoke of "we" he didn't mean her-but he'd tell her that tomorrow; no need to mar the night.

Raising his lids, he recaptured her gaze, marvelling at the softness of her clear blue eyes. The two of them stood, handfast, gazes locked, mere inches distant, with her trapped between the settee and him. Without conscious thought, he shifted his fingers, brushing the backs of hers.

Her eyes widened even more; her lips parted slightly. Her breath hitched-

Then she blinked, and narrowed her eyes. Frowning, she tugged her hand free. "I'll leave you now."

Blinking himself, he released her.

She stepped sideways, heading for the window.

He followed. Close.

She glanced back and up at his face, eyes very wide, her breathing too rapid. "I dare say I'll see you tomorrow at the stables."

"You will."

With fluttering hands, she pushed at the curtains. He reached over her head and drew them wide.

She tugged at the sash. To no avail.

He stepped behind her and reached for the handles, one on either of the pane's lower frame.

Trapping her between his arms, between the window and him. His fingers brushed hers, clasped about the handles. She sucked in a breath and snatched her hands away. Then froze as she realized he surrounded her.

Slowly, he raised the sash-all the way up.

As he straightened, she straightened, too. Her spine stiff, she turned her head and looked him in the eye. "I'll bid you a good night."

There was ice and frost in her words. Turning to the window, she sat on the sill; behind her, Demon smiled, slowly, intently.

She swung her legs over and slipped into the darkness. "Good-bye."

Her voice floated back to him; in seconds, she'd become a shadow among many, and then she was gone.

Demon's smile deepened, his lips curving as triumphantly as hers had. She wasn't averse to him-the signs had been there, clear for him to read. He didn't know why she'd pulled back, why she'd shaken free of his hold, but it would be easy to draw her back to him.

And then…

He stood at the window for a full five minutes, a smile of anticipation on his lips, staring into the night and dreaming-before reality struck.

Like a bolt.

It transfixed him. Chilled him.

It effectively doused his fire.

Face hardening, he stood in the middle of his parlor and wondered what the hell had got into him.

He rose before dawn and headed for the racecourse, for his stables and Carruthers, who was not at all pleased to learn that he'd lost the services of the best work rider he'd ever employed. For once declining to remain and watch his string exercise, Demon left Carruthers grumbling and set his horses ambling back down the road to his farm. The same road led to the cottage.

Fine mist wreathed the hedgerows and blanketed the meadows; it turned golden as dawn tinged the sky. Flick appeared through the gilded haze, a sleepy stable lad atop the plodding cob, heading in for the start of a new day. Demon reined in his bays and waited for her to reach him.

By the time she halted the cob beside his curricle, she was frowning; deep suspicion glowed in her eyes. He nodded, ineffably polite. "I've tendered your resignation to Carruthers-he doesn't expect to see you again."

Her frown deepened; to her credit, she didn't ask why. "But-"

"The matter's simple. If you hadn't resigned, I would have had to dismiss you." He trapped her gaze and raised a brow. "I thought you'd prefer to resign."

Flick studied his eyes, his face. "Put like that, I don't have much choice."

The ends of his lips lifted fractionally. "None."

"What story did you tell Carruthers?"

"That your ailing mother slipped away, and you'll be joining your aunt's household in London."

"So I'm not even supposed to be in the vicinity?"

"Precisely."

She humphed, but without much heat; they'd found Dillon's contact-she was already thinking ahead. "What about identifying the contact? Have your men turned up anything?"

Because she was watching closely, she saw his hesitation-the swift weighing of his options.

"We've located him, yes." His gaze swept her consideringly. "Gillies is currently doing the honors, with strict instructions to miss nothing. If you'd consent to get properly dressed, perhaps we might confer in more conventional style?"

She raised her brows in question.

His smile-a teasing, alluring temptation to dalliance- flashed. "Go home and change. I'll call at eleven and take you for a tool about the lanes."

"Perfect-we can discuss how best to go on without any risk of being overheard." Flick turned the cob and urged him back toward the cottage. "I'll be ready at eleven."

Her voice floated back to Demon., The reins lax in his hands, he sat in the strengthening sunshine, watching her bob away from him. His smile deepening, he flicked the reins and set his curricle slowly rolling in her wake.

As promised, she was ready and waiting, a vision in mull muslin, a parasol shading her complexion, when he drew his horses to a scrunching halt before the front steps of Hillgate End.

Tying off his reins, he stepped down from the curricle. Face alight, a soft smile on her lips, she eagerly approached. She was too slender to bustle-her movement was more a sweeping glide. Demon watched her advance, his every faculty riveted, effortlessly held in thrall.

Luckily, she didn't know it-she had no idea. Secure in that knowledge, he returned her smile. Taking her hand, he bowed elegantly and handed her up to the box seat. She shuffled across; as he turned to follow, Demon caught sight of a maid hovering by the steps. "I'll return Miss Parteger later in the afternoon-you might mention that to Jacobs."

"Yes, sir." The maid bobbed a curtsy.

Climbing up, he took his seat and met Flick's questioning glance. "Mrs. Shephard packed a hamper so we won't need to return for lunch."

Her eyes widened, then she nodded. "It's turning into a lovely day-a picnic is a very good idea."

Clicking the reins, Demon set the bays pacing, omitting to mention just whose idea it had been.

As he turned out of the drive and the horses stepped out, Flick angled her parasol and glanced at him. "I take it your men located our quarry?"

Demon nodded, taking the turn to Dullingham in style. "He's staying at the Ox and Plough."

"The Ox and Plough?" Flick frowned. "I don't think I know it."

"There's no reason you would. It's a seedy little inn off the main road north of Newmarket."

"Did your man learn the contact's name?"

"He goes by the unenviable name of Bletchley."

"And he's a Londoner?"

"From his accent, that much seems certain." Demon slowed his horses as the hamlet of Dullingham came into view. "Gillies is prepared to swear an oath that Bletchley was born within hearing of Bow bells."

"Which suggests," Flick said, turning impulsively to him, "that the syndicate is London-based."

"That was always on the cards. The most likely base for a group of rich and greedy gentlemen is London, after all."

"Hmm."

When Flick ventured nothing more, Demon glanced at her. She was frowning absentmindedly, her gaze unseeing. It wasn't hard to follow her thoughts. She was considering the syndicate, and the possible need to journey to London to unmask them.

He left her undisturbed, content with her abstraction. As the cottages of Dullingham fell behind, he kept the bays to a steady trot, searching the hedges lining the roadway for the small lane he remembered from years gone by. It appeared on his left; he slowed and turned the bays.

The lane was deeply rutted; despite the strong springs of the carriage, the rocking jerked Flick to attention. Grabbing the front rail, she blinked and looked around. "Good heavens. Where-oh! How lovely!"

Demon smiled. "It is a pretty spot."

The lane dwindled to a track; turning the bays onto a stretch of grass, he reined in. "We'll leave the carriage here." He nodded to where willows, lit by the sun, hung catkin-draped limbs over a rippling stream. The babble of the brook filled the rustic stillness; sunlight flashed off the water, shooting rainbows through the air. Between the willows, an expanse of lush grass beckoned. "We can spread the rug by the stream and enjoy the sunshine."

"Oh, yes! I didn't even know this place existed."

Alighting, he handed Flick down, then retrieved the well-stocked luncheon basket and a large plaid rug from the boot. Flick relieved him of the rug; holding it in her arms, she strolled beside him to the grassy bank.

Laying aside her parasol, Flick shook out the rug. Demon helped her spread the heavy folds, then handed her onto it. He waited while she settled, then subsided to lounge, large, lean-all elegantly indolent-beside her.

She had overheard maids exclaiming how their beaux made their hearts go pitter-patter. She'd always thought the description a silly nonsense.

Now she knew better. Her heart was tripping in double time. Definitely pitter-patter.

Reaching for the basket Demon had set by their legs, she hauled it closer. More definitely between them. It was a ridiculous reaction-she knew she was safe with him-but the solidity of the basket made her feel much better. Pulling out the linen napkins Mrs. Shephard had tucked about the food, she uncovered roast chicken, slices of beef, and crisp, fresh rolls. She went to speak, and had to clear her throat. "Would you prefer a leg, or a breast?"

She looked up; her eyes clashed with Demon's, burning blue.

Burning?

She blinked and looked again, but he'd looked away, calmly reaching for the bottle poking out from the basket.

"A leg will do for the moment."

His voice sounded slightly… strained. Hiding a frown, she watched as he eased the cork from the bottle. It popped free and he looked up, but there was nothing to be read in his eyes or his expression beyond an easy pleasure in the moment. He held out a hand for glasses; pushing aside her uncertainties, she delved into the basket.

Discovering two long flutes, she handed them over; the wine hissed as he filled them. She took the one he offered her, studying the tiny bubbles rising through the straw-colored liquid. "Champagne?"

"Hmm." Raising his glass to her, Demon took a sip. "A suitable toast to Spring."

Flick sipped; the bubbles fizzed on her palate, but the wine slid down her throat very pleasantly. She licked her lips. "Nice."

"Hmm." Demon forced himself to look away from her lips-sheening pink curves that he ached to taste. Inwardly frowning at how definite that ache was, he accepted the chicken leg she handed him, a napkin neatly folded about the bone.

Their fingers brushed; he felt hers quiver-was conscious to his bones of the shivery tremble that raced through her. Focusing on the chicken, he sank his teeth into it, then fixed his gaze on the meadows beyond the stream while she busied herself-calmed herself-laying out their repast. Only when she drew in a breath, took a sip of champagne, then fell to eating, did he glance at her again. "How's Dillon faring?"

She shrugged. "Well enough." After a moment, she volunteered, "I haven't really spoken to him since that evening we learned the truth."

Demon looked back at the stream to hide his satisfaction; he was delighted to hear that her break with Dillon had not yet healed. "Who else knows he's there?" He looked at Flick and frowned. "How does he get food?"

She'd finished her chicken; he watched as she licked her fingers, her wet pink tongue sliding up and around-then she licked her lips. And looked at him.

He managed not to tremble-not to react at all.

"The only one other than us who knows Dillon's at the cottage is Jiggs. He's a footman-he's been at Hillgate End for… oh, ten years at least. Jiggs takes Dillon food every second day. He told me there's always leftover roast or a pie left wrapped in the larder." She wrinkled her nose. "I'm quite sure Foggy also knows Dillon's somewhere close."

"Very likely."

They ate and sipped in silence, the tinkling of the brook and the chirp of insects a spring symphony about them. Replete, Demon dusted his hands, then stretched full length on the rug. Folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes. "Have you told Dillon anything of our discoveries?"

"I haven't told him anything at all."

From under his lashes, he watched Flick gather up crumbs, then start to repack the basket.

"I decided it wouldn't be wise to tell him we'd found his contact, in case he took it into his head to do something rash-like go into town to see the man himself. It wouldn't do for him to be recognized and taken up for questioning, just when we're making progress."

Demon suppressed a cynical snort. Dillon was no hothead; he was lazy and indolent. Flick was the one who, with eyes wide open, would rush in where wiser souls feared to tread, supremely confident in her ability to pull things off-to make things happen. To unmask the syndicate.

Loyalty, devotion-and good bottom. Her hallmarks.

The thought slid through his brain and captured his attention. Focused it fully on his angel in disguise.

Lifting his lids a fraction more, he studied her; at the moment, she was all angel-a creation from one of his recent dreams. The sunshine turned her hair to blazing glory, framing her face in golden flames. Her cheeks were delicately flushed-from the warmth of the day and the champagne. As she scanned the meadows, her eyes, soft blue, large and wide, were alive with innocent intelligence.

His gaze dropped-to the slender column of her throat, to the firm swells that filled the bodice of her demure gown, rendering it anything but demure. The fall of her dress hid her waist, the folds swathed her hips and thighs, but having seen her so often in breeches, he didn't need the evidence to conjure the vision.

His smile deepening, he let his lids fall, and he relaxed on the rug. He waited until the basket was neatly repacked and, with her arms wrapped around her knees, her half-filled glass in one hand, she settled to enjoy the view.

"It occurs to me," he murmured, "that now we've identified Bletchley and will be following him in earnest, and you no longer need to change clothes and horses morning and afternoon, it would be wise not to go to the cottage at all-just in case Bletchley, or one of his friends, turns the tables on us and follows us back to Dillon. As it's central to our plan to keep Dillon safely hidden, the last thing we want is to lead the syndicate to him."

"Indeed not." Flick considered. "I'll send a message with Jiggs." Staring at the stream, she narrowed her eyes. "I'll say that there's no longer any point in me working at the stables-that we think someone from the syndicate is about and don't want to compromise his safety." She nodded. "That should keep him at the cottage."

Sipping her champagne, Flick abandoned all thoughts of Dillon. Dillon was safe at the cottage, and there he could remain until she and Demon had resolved the imbroglio he had mired them all in. On such a lovely afternoon, she refused to dwell on Dillon. A sense of pleasurable ease held her. A curious warmth, like the glow from a distant fire, enveloped her. It wasn't the breeze, for her curls didn't dance, and it wasn't the sun, for it didn't affect all of her at once. Instead, it washed like a warm wave over her, leaving her relaxed, oddly expectant.

In expectation of what she had no idea.

The fact didn't worry her-with Demon, so large, so physically powerful beside her, nothing on earth could threaten her.

The moment was perfect, serene-and strangely intriguing.

There was something in the air-she sensed it with every pore. Which was odd, for she was hardly a fanciful chit. She was, however, abidingly curious-in this case, abidingly interested. Whatever it was that hung in the air, shimmering like a fairy's spell in the bright sunshine, almost of this world but not quite substantial enough for mortal eyes to see-whatever that was, she wanted to know it, understand it.

Whatever it was, she was experiencing it now.

The buzz of the bees, the murmur of the stream, and that undefined, exciting something held her in silent thrall.

Demon slowly sat up and reached for the basket. She turned to see him draw out the almost empty bottle. He refilled his glass, then glanced at hers, almost empty. He looked at her face, briefly searching her eyes, then reached over and tipped the last of the wine into her flute.

It fizzed; she smiled and took a sip.

The bubbles got up her nose.

She sneezed. He looked up; she waved his concern aside. She took another, more careful sip as he returned the bottle to the basket, leaving it by the side of the rug. That done, he lay back again, this time propping on one elbow, his glass in his other hand.

"So," she asked, shuffling to face him, "how are we going to follow Bletchley?"

His gaze on the stream, Demon fortified himself with a long sip of champagne, then turned his head and met her gaze, studiously ignoring the expanse of ivory skin, the warm swells promising all manner of earthly delights, now mere inches from his face. "It's not a hard task. I've got Gillies and two stablemen rotating the watch. It's a small town-now we know what he looks like, and where he's staying, keeping an eye on him shouldn't overtax us."

"But-" Flick frowned at a nearby willow. "If we don't learn something soon, won't he notice? Seeing a particular stableman forever about will surely make him suspicious. Newmarket stablemen don't have nothing to do."

A warm flush swept her shoulders, her breasts. She looked at Demon; he was looking into his glass, his lids veiling his eyes.

Then he looked at the stream. "You needn't worry. He'll presumably be at the Heath during morning and afternoon stables-I'll watch him there and in the High Street." He drained his glass. "Gillies and the stablemen will watch him in the inns and taverns-they won't be so identifiable in a crowd."

"Hmm. Perhaps." Flick stretched her stockinged feet to the sun. "I'll help, too. About the tracks and in the High Street." She met Demon's gaze as he looked up at her. "He won't suspect a young lady of watching him."

He stared at her for a moment, as if he'd lost the thread of the conversation, then he murmured, "Very likely not." His gaze grew intent; he lifted one hand. "Hold still."

She froze so completely that she stopped breathing. A vise clamped about her lungs; her heart stuttered, skipped, then raced. She held quiveringly still as his fingers slid through the curls above one ear, ruffling the locks as he disengaged… something. When he withdrew his hand and showed her a long leaf, flicking it onto the grass, she dragged in a breath and smiled weakly. "Thank you."

His eyes met hers. "My pleasure."

The words were deep, rumbling; the tone set something inside her vibrating. Her gaze trapped in his, she felt flustered panic rise. She looked down and gulped a mouthful of champagne.

The bubbles hit her again; this time, she nearly choked. Eyes watering, she waved a hand before her face and hauled in a much-needed breath. "I'm really not used to this." She lifted her glass. "This is all new to me."

Demon's gaze had remained steady, his eyes on hers. His lips lifted lightly. "Yes, I know."

Flick felt curiously warm, distinctly light-headed. There was a light in Demon's eyes, an understanding she couldn't fathom.

Demon saw confusion grow in her eyes-he looked away, uncertain of how much of his interest, his curious, newfound obsession with innocence, showed in his. He gestured to the sylvan scene before them and looked at her, his expression easy, controlled. "If you haven't been here before, you couldn't have strolled the path by the stream. Shall we?"

"Oh, yes! Let's."

He retrieved her almost empty glass, drained it, then set both glasses back in the basket. Then he rose and held out his hands to her. "Come. We'll investigate."

She gave him her hands; he drew her to her feet, then led her to where a beaten path followed the meandering stream. They strolled along; she ambled beside him, sometimes ahead of him, furling her parasol when it limited her view of his face. Demon was grateful-the parasol had prevented him from watching her-any of her. They saw a mother duck with a gaggle of tiny ducklings, all paddling furiously in her wake; Flick pointed and exclaimed, and smiled delightedly. A sleek trout broke the rippling surface, chasing a fat fly; a kingfisher swooped out of the shade, dazzling them with his brilliant plumage. Flick grabbed his arm in her excitement, then sighed as the bird flew on down the stream.

"There's a bronze dragonfly."

"Where?" She searched the banks.

"Over there." He leaned close; she leaned closer still, following his pointing finger to where the dragonfly hovered above a patch of reeds. Engrossed, she drew in a breath and held it; he did the same.

The scent of her washed through him, sweet, fresh-quite unlike the cloying perfumes to which he was accustomed, to which he was immune. Her fragrance was light, airy; it reminded him of lavender and appleblossom, the essence of spring.

"Ah." The dragonfly darted away, and she exhaled.

His head swam.

She turned to him; they were so close that her skirts brushed his boots. If she took another deep breath, her breasts would touch his coat. His nearness surprised her; she looked up, eyes widening, lips parting on a silent gasp as her breath seized. Her eyes met his-for one fleeting instant, pure awareness invested the soft blue. Then puzzlement seeped in.

He saw it, but had too much to do holding his own desires in check to attempt a distraction. For the last hours, he'd delighted in her-in her innocence, in the fragile beauty of a female untouched, unawakened. He'd seen, sensed, her first glimmerings of consciousness-of him, of herself, of their inherent sensuality.

Sensuality was a quality he'd lived with daily for ten years and more; experiencing it anew, through her innocent eyes, had heightened his own far-from-innocent desires.

Her eyes held his; about them, the pulse of burgeoning spring hummed and throbbed. He felt it in his bones, in his blood. In his loins.

She felt it, too, but she didn't know what it meant. When he said nothing, she relaxed, just a little, and smiled, tentatively yet without the slightest fear. "Perhaps we'd better head back."

He held her gaze for an instant, then forced himself to nod. "Perhaps we had."

His voice had deepened; she threw him another, slightly questioning look. Ignoring it, he took her hand and turned her back along the path.

By the time they regained the swath of green, Flick's puzzlement had grown. Absentmindedly, she helped him fold the rug, then, picking up her parasol, followed him to the curricle.

After stowing the basket and rug, he returned to where she waited by the curricle's side, her frowning gaze fixed on the grass where they'd lain. She looked up as he halted beside her. She said nothing, but her frown was etched in her eyes. He saw it, and read her unvoiced questions with ease.

He had a very good idea what she was feeling-the disconcerting uncertainty, the nervous confusion. She was so open, so trusting, that she thought nothing of showing her vulnerability to him. He knew all the questions crowding her mind-the questions she couldn't begin to formulate.

He knew the answers, too.

She waited, her eyes on his, clearly hoping for some hint as to what it was she sensed. Her stance was both a demand and a plea-a clear wish to know.

Her face was tilted up to him; her tapered chin was firm. Her full lips, tinted delicate rose, beckoned. The soft blue of her eyes, clouded by the first flush of desire, promised heaven and more.

If he'd stopped to think, he would never have risked it, but the web of her innocence held him, compelled him-assured him this was simple, straightforward, uncomplicated.

His eyes locked with hers, he slowly lifted one hand and gently framed her jaw. Her breath caught; deliberately, still moving with mesmerizing slowness, he brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. The contact shook her-and him; he instinctively tightened his hold on his demons. Their gazes held, hers unwaveringly curious.

He drew in a shallow breath and slowly lowered his head, giving her plenty of time to balk. Other than tightening her grip on her parasol, she moved not at all. Her gaze dropped to his lips; she sucked in a breath, only to have it tangle in her throat. Her lashes fluttered, then lowered; her eyes shut on a sigh as his lips touched hers.

It was the most delicate kiss he could remember sharing-a communion of lips, nothing more. Hers were soft, as delicate as they looked, intensely feminine. He brushed them once, twice, then covered them, increasing the pressure only slightly, aware to his bones of her youth.

He was about to draw back, to bring the light caress to an end, when her lips moved beneath his-in clear response, artless, untutored. Enthralling.

She kissed him back-gently, tentatively-her question as clear as it had been in her eyes.

Without thought, he responded, the hand framing her jaw tightening, holding her face steady as he shifted closer, angling his head as he deepened the kiss.

Her lips parted under his.

Just a little-just enough for him to taste her. He ran the tip of his tongue over her lower lip, caressing the soft flesh within, then briefly stroked her tongue, teasing her senses, already taut, quiveringly tight.

They quaked; she shuddered delicately, then stepped closer, so her breasts met his chest, her hips his thighs. Completely trusting, she leaned into him, into his strength.

Demon's head reeled; his blood pounded urgently. The need to close his arms about her-to lock her against him and mold her to him-was almost overwhelming.

But she was too young, too innocent, too new to this game for that.

His demons wailed and demanded-with what wit he had left he fought to deny them.

Even while he fell deeper into their kiss.

Unaware of his problem, Flick reveled in the sudden heat that suffused her, in the heady sense of male strength that surrounded her, in the firm touch of his lips on hers, on the sensual slide of his tongue between her lips.

This was a kiss-the sort of kiss she'd heard maids giggling over, a kiss that slowly curled her toes. It was enthralling, demanding yet unfrightening, an experience of the senses.

The vicar's son had once kissed her-or tried to. That had been nothing like this. There had been no magic shimmering in the air, no skittering sensations assailing her nerves. And none of the excitement slowly growing within her, as if this was a beginning, not an end.

The idea intrigued her, but Demon's lips, firm, almost hard, cool yet imparting heat, effortlessly held her attention, denying all her efforts to think. Leaning against him, her only certainty was a feeling of gratitude-that he'd consented to show her what could be, not just in a kiss but in one glorious afternoon of simple pleasure.

The sort of pleasure a man and a woman could share, if the man knew what he was about. She was immensely grateful to him for explaining, for demonstrating, for enlightening her ignorance. Now, in the future, she'd know what to look for-know where to set her standards.

As for today, she'd enjoyed his tutelage, enjoyed the afternoon-and this kiss. Immensely.

Her unrestrained, open appreciation very nearly overwhelmed Demon. Inwardly shaking with the effort of resisting the powerful instincts that had for so long been a part of him, he finally realized his hand had fallen from her face to her shoulder. Raising his other hand, he gripped her upper arm as well and gently eased her back from him. Then, with gentle care and a reluctance he felt to his soul, he drew back and ended the kiss.

He was breathing too fast. He watched as her lids fluttered, then rose to reveal eyes a much brighter blue than before. She met his gaze; he prayed she couldn't read his state. He attempted a suave smile. "So now you know."

She blinked. Before she could speak, he turned her to the curricle. "Come-we should return to Hillgate End."

He drove her back directly. To his surprise, she was patently unflustered, sitting beside him, her parasol open, sweetly smiling at the sunwashed countryside.

If anyone was flustered, it seemed it was he. He still felt disoriented, nerves and muscles twitching. By the time he turned the bays through the gates of Hillgate End, he was inwardly frowning, and feeling a touch grim.

He wasn't at all sure what had happened that afternoon, especially not who or what had instigated the proceedings. He'd certainly organized to spend a comfortable, enjoyable afternoon with an angel, but he couldn't remember deciding to seduce her.

Things had not gone according to any plan of his.

Which was possibly not surprising-in this sphere, he was a rank amateur. He'd never dallied with anyone so young, so untouched-so damned innocent-before. Which was at least half his problem-half the reason he was increasingly attracted to her. She was a very fresh taste to his definitely jaded palate; awakening her was a rare pleasure, a sweet delight.

But seducing an innocent carried responsibility-a heavy, unavoidable responsibility he'd happily steered clear of for all his years. He didn't want to change-had no intention of changing. He was happy with his life as it was.

The taste of her-apple and delicate spice-returned to him, and had him stiffening. Swallowing a curse, he drew the bays up before the front steps. He tied off the reins and stepped down; rounding the carriage, he helped her down.

She smoothed her skirts, then straightened and smiled-gloriously, openly, entirely without guile. "Thank you for a delightful afternoon."

He stared at her, conscious to his bones of a demonic urge to taste her again. It took all his concentration to maintain a suitably impassive mien, to take the hand she held out to him, squeeze it gently-and let go.

With a nod, he turned back to the curricle. "I'll keep you informed of anything we learn. Do convey my respects to the General."

"Yes, of course."

She watched him drive away, a smile on her lips; as the shadows of the drive enclosed him, a frown settled on Demon's face.

He was still frowning when he reached home.