A Rogue's Proposal Read Free

skirting the stables and paddocks edging the racecourse, then heading farther onto the open Heath. She glanced at the sun. They had at least an hour before twilight. With all the others back at the stables settling horses for the night, this part of the Heath was now deserted. If she found a spot where they were reasonably screened, it would be as good a place as any for the meeting that, it now seemed, had to be.
    Honesty was her only option. In truth, she would prefer it—lies and evasion had never been her style.
    A hundred yards ahead, a hedge beckoned. Her memory provided a picture of what lay beyond. The Flynn was tiring; she leaned forward and stroked the glossy neck, whispering words of praise, encouragement and outright flattery into his ear. Then she set him for the hedge.
    The Flynn soared over it, landing easily. Flick absorbed the jolt and wheeled left, into the long shadows thrown by a copse. In the space between the hedge and the copse, screened on three sides, she reined in and waited.
    And waited.
    After five minutes, she started to wonder if Demon had looked away at the crucial moment and not seen where she’d gone. When another minute passed and she sensed no ground-shaking thuds, she frowned and straightened in her saddle. She was about to gather her reins and move out to search for her pursuer when she saw him.
    He hadn’t jumped the hedge. Despite his wish to catch her, wisdom—care for his horse—had prevailed; he’d gone along the hedge until he’d found a gap. Now he cantered up through the late afternoon, broad shoulders square, long limbs relaxed, head up, the sun striking gold from his burnished curls, his face a grim mask as he scanned the fields ahead, trying to catch sight of her.
    Flick froze. It was tempting—so tempting—to sit still. To look her fill, and let him pass by, to worship from afar as she had for years, letting her senses feast while she remained safely hidden. If she made no sound, it was unlikely he would see her. She wouldn’t have to face him . . . unfortunately, there were too many hurdles along that road. Stiffening her spine, taking a firm grip on her unruly senses, she lifted her chin. “Demon!”
    His head snapped around; he wheeled aggressively, then saw her. Even at that distance, his gaze pinned her, then he scanned her surroundings. Apparently satisfied, he set his grey trotting toward her, slowing to a walk as he neared.
    He was wearing an elegant morning coat of a blue that matched his eyes; his long thighs, gripping the saddle skirts, were encased in tight buckskin. Ivory shirt, ivory cravat and gleaming Hessians completed the picture. He looked what he was—the very epitome of a London rake.
    Flick kept her gaze fixed on his face and wished, very much, that she were taller. The closer he came, the smaller she felt—the more childlike. She was no longer a child, but she’d known him since she had been. It was hard to feel assured. With her cap shading her face, her muffler over her nose and chin, she couldn’t imagine how he might see her—as a girl still with pigtails, or as the young lady who’d trenchantly avoided him. She’d been both, but she was neither now. What she was now was on a crusade. A crusade in which she could use his help. If he consented to give it.
    Lips firming beneath her muffler, she tilted her chin and met his hard stare.
    Demon’s memories churned as he walked his horse into the copse’s shadow. She’d called him “Demon”—only someone who knew him would do that. Images from the past jumbled and tumbled, glimpses through the years of a child, a girl, who would without a blush call him Demon. Of a girl who could ride—oh, yes, she’d always ridden, but when had she become a maestro?—of a girl he had long ago pegged as having that quality Carruthers described as “good bottom”—that open-hearted courage that bordered on the reckless, but wasn’t.
    When he stopped his horse, nose to tail with The Flynn, he