A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens

only twenty. He’d been three years out, but, given the General’s assessment, with which he concurred, she might as well be twenty-three.
    Twenty-three made her easier to deal with, given he was thirty-one. Thinking of her as twenty made him feel too much like a cradle-snatcher.
    But he still couldn’t understand why he hadn’t sighted her in the last five years. The last time he’d seen her was when, after importing his first Irish stallion, he’d come to give the General the relevant information for the stud records. She’d opened the door to him—a short, thin, gawky schoolgirl with long braids. He’d barely glanced at her, but he had remembered her. He’d been here countless times since, but hadn’t seen her. He hadn’t, however, stayed for a meal in all those years.
    Demon turned from the window. “Yes, why not?” The General would attribute Demon’s break with long-standing habit to concern for him, and he would be half-right at that.
     
    So he stayed.
    And had the pleasure of seeing Felicity sweep imperiously into the dining parlor, then nearly trip over her toes, and her tongue, deciding how to react to him.
    Which was only fair, because he had not a clue how to react to her. Or, more accurately, didn’t dare react to her as his instincts suggested. She was, after all—despite all—still the General’s ward.
    Who had miraculously grown up.
    In full light, dressed in ivory muslin sprigged with tiny green leaves, she looked like a nymph of spring come to steal mortals’ hearts. Her hair, brushed and neat, glowed like polished gold, a rich frame for the distinctive, eerily angelic beauty of her face.
    It was her face that held him, compelled him. The soft blue of her eyes, like a misty sky, drew him, urging him to lose himself in their gentle depths. Her nose was straight, her brow wide, her complexion flawless. Her lips begged to be kissed—delicately bowed, soft pink, the lower lip full and sensual, they were made to be covered by a man’s.
    By his.
    The thought, so unequivocal, shocked him; he drew breath and shook free of the spell. A swift glance, a rake’s appraisal of her figure, nearly had him in thrall again.
    He resisted. The realization that he’d been bowled over for the first time in his life was enough to shake him to his senses. With his usual grace and an easy smile, he strolled forward and took Flick’s hand.
    She blinked and very nearly snatched it back.
    Demon quashed the urge to raise her quivering fingers to his lips. He let his smile deepen instead. “Good afternoon, my dear. I do hope you don’t mind me joining you for lunch?”
    She blinked again, and shot a quick glance at the General. “No, of course not.”
    She blushed, very slightly; Demon forced himself to ignore the intriguing sight. Gracefully, he led her to the table. She claimed the chair by the General’s left; he held it for her, then strolled around the table to the place on the General’s right, directly opposite her.
    The placement couldn’t have been more perfect; while chatting with the General, it was perfectly natural that his gaze should frequently pass over her.
    She of the swanlike neck and sweetly rounded shoulders, of the pert breasts encased in skin like ivory silk, their upper swells revealed by the scooped neckline of her gown. She was perfectly prim, perfectly proper, and perfectly delectable.
    Demon’s mouth watered every time he glanced her way.
    Flick was very aware of his scrutiny; for some mystical reason, the touch of his gaze actually felt warm. Like a sun-kissed breeze touching her—lightly, enticingly. She tried not to let her awareness show; it was, after all, unsurprising that he found her appearance somewhat changed. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been fifteen, skinny, scrawny, with two long braids hanging down her back. He’d barely registered her existence—she’d stared at him and hadn’t been able to stop.
    That was the last time she’d allowed herself the