A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens Page A

liberty; thereafter she made sure that whenever he called, she kept out of his sight. Even if she glimpsed him, she’d force herself to walk the other way—precisely because her impulse lay in the opposite direction. She had far too much pride to stare at him like some silly, lovestruck schoolgirl. Despite the fact that was how he made her feel—hardly surprising, as he’d been her ideal gentleman for so many years—she had a strong aversion to the notion of mooning over him. She was quite sure he got enough of that from other lovestruck girls and all the lovestruck ladies.
    She had absolutely no ambition to join their ranks.
    So she forced herself to contribute to the conversation about horses and the coming season. Having grown up at Hillgate End, she knew more than enough about both subjects to hold her own. Demon twice tripped over her name, catching himself just in time; she manfully—womanfully—resisted glaring at him the second time it happened. His eyes met hers; one brow quirked and his lips curved teasingly. She pressed her lips tight shut and looked down at her plate.
    “Could you pass the vinegar, m’dear.”
    She looked for the cruet set only to see Demon lift the bottle from the tray further down the table. He offered it to her; she took it—her fingers brushed his. A sharp shock lanced through her. Startled, she nearly dropped the bottle but managed to catch it in time. Carefully, she handed it to the General, then picked up her knife and fork and looked down at her plate. And breathed slowly in and out.
    She felt Demon’s gaze on her face, on her shoulders, then he turned to the General. “The Mighty Flynn’s shaping well. I’m expecting to have another two wins at least from him this season.”
    “Indeed?”
    The General was instantly distracted; Flick breathed a touch easier.
    Demon kept the conversation rolling, not a difficult task. Much more difficult was keeping his gaze from Flick; his attention, of course, remained riveted. Ridiculous, of course—she was twenty, for heaven’s sake.
    But she was there, and utterly fascinating.
    He told himself it was the contrast between Flick the righteous, who dressed as a stable lad and single-handedly set out to expose a race-fixing syndicate, and Felicity, the delicate and determinedly proper Botticelli angel.
    It was a contrast designed to intrigue him.
    “Perhaps,” he said as they all stood, the light luncheon disposed of, “Felicity would care to take a turn about the lawns?”
    He deliberately phrased the question to give the General an opening to support him. He needn’t have bothered. Flick’s head came up; she met his gaze.
    “That would be pleasant.” She glanced at the General. “If you don’t need me, sir?”
    “No, no!” The General beamed. “I must get back to my books. You go along.”
    He shooed them toward the open French doors; Demon caught his eye. “I’ll drop by if I have any news.”
    The General’s eyes dimmed. “Yes, do.” Then he glanced at Flick and his smile returned. Nodding benignly, he headed for the door.
    Leaving Flick by her chair, staring at Demon. He raised a brow, and gestured to the French doors. “Shall we?”
    She came around the table but didn’t pause by his side, didn’t wait for him to offer his arm. Instead, she walked straight past, out of the open doors. Demon stared at her back, then shook his head and followed.
    She’d paused on the terrace; as soon as he appeared, she led the way down the steps. With his longer stride, he easily caught up with her as she strolled the well-tended lawn. He fell in beside her, sauntering slowly, trying to decide what gambit would work best with an angel. Before he could decide, she spoke.
    “ How am I supposed to hear any comments or see anyone approaching the riders in your stables when I barely spend a moment in them?” She cast a darkling glance his way. “I arrived this morning to discover The Flynn already saddled. Carruthers sent me straight