Read Online A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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She shrugged. “I always imagined he’d grow out of them eventually. He hasn’t yet.”
Demon considered her face, her open expression, the honesty in her soft blue eyes. They didn’t tell him how she felt about Dillon; given her apparent resistance to him, he had to wonder if Dillon was the cause. When she and Dillon were together, she was the dominant party—the one in charge. She’d grown accustomed to Dillon being dependent on her—it was possible she liked it that way. There was no doubt she liked to lead.
Which was all very well, but . . .
“So,” she blinked up at him, “what do you imagine will happen next?”
He raised his brows. “Probably not a lot.” At least, not in his stables. “However, if you do stumble on any clue, I will, of course, expect to be notified immediately.”
“Of course.” She lowered her hand and turned toward the stables. “Where will you be?”
Investigating far and wide. “Send a message to the farm—the Shephards always know where to find me.”
“I’ll send word if I hear anything.” She stopped at the edge of the garden and held out her hand. “I’ll see you at the stable in a few hours.”
Demon took her hand. He lifted his gaze to her eyes—and fell into the blue. Her fingers lay, trusting, quiescent in his grasp. He considered raising them, considered brushing a lingering kiss upon them, considered . . .
Madness and uncertainty clashed.
The moment passed.
He released her hand. With an elegant nod, he turned and, jaw setting, strode for the stables, more conscious with every stride of a demonic desire to capture a Botticelli angel—and take her to his bed.
Chapter 4
T he next days passed uneventfully; Flick swallowed her impatience and doggedly watched, doggedly listened. She rode morning and afternoon track work every day, then slouched about the stable for as long as she could in the mornings, and until all the stable lads left in the evenings. After three days, the only suspicious character she’d spotted had proved to be one of the lads’ cousins, visiting from the north. The only surprising information she’d heard concerned the activities of some redheaded barmaid.
As he’d intimated, Demon had attended all the track work religiously—he’d watched her religiously, too; her sensitivity to his gaze grew more acute by the day. She’d sighed with relief when, within her hearing that morning, he’d told Carruthers that he’d be spending the afternoon about the other stables looking over the competition.
So at three o’clock, she left the General nodding over his records and set off on Jessamy for the cottage—Felicity garbed in her blue velvet riding habit—feeling less trepidatious, certainly more sure of herself. No longer wary of what she might face at the stable.
Dillon was in the clearing when she rode up, the cob placidly munching nearby. She reined in and slid out of her saddle, turned on her heel and marched into the cottage to change—without a single glance at Dillon. He’d have the cob saddled and bridled, and Jessamy unsaddled and tethered, by the time she came out.
She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d learned the truth. Every time she’d come by, he’d tried to catch her eye, to smile and make amends.
Struggling out of her velvet skirts, Flick humphed. Dillon was being excessively careful around her—he could be careful for a while more. She hadn’t forgiven him for deceiving her—she hadn’t forgiven herself for being so gullible. She should have guessed; she knew he wasn’t that innocent any more, but the idea that he could have been so comprehensively stupid hadn’t entered her head.
Smoothing her curls, she crammed her cap over them. She was exceedingly tired of putting right Dillon’s wrongs, of easing his way, but . . .
She sighed. She would continue to shield Dillon if the alternative was upsetting the General. Distress wasn’t good for him, as Dr. Thurgood had made very clear.
Demon considered her face, her open expression, the honesty in her soft blue eyes. They didn’t tell him how she felt about Dillon; given her apparent resistance to him, he had to wonder if Dillon was the cause. When she and Dillon were together, she was the dominant party—the one in charge. She’d grown accustomed to Dillon being dependent on her—it was possible she liked it that way. There was no doubt she liked to lead.
Which was all very well, but . . .
“So,” she blinked up at him, “what do you imagine will happen next?”
He raised his brows. “Probably not a lot.” At least, not in his stables. “However, if you do stumble on any clue, I will, of course, expect to be notified immediately.”
“Of course.” She lowered her hand and turned toward the stables. “Where will you be?”
Investigating far and wide. “Send a message to the farm—the Shephards always know where to find me.”
“I’ll send word if I hear anything.” She stopped at the edge of the garden and held out her hand. “I’ll see you at the stable in a few hours.”
Demon took her hand. He lifted his gaze to her eyes—and fell into the blue. Her fingers lay, trusting, quiescent in his grasp. He considered raising them, considered brushing a lingering kiss upon them, considered . . .
Madness and uncertainty clashed.
The moment passed.
He released her hand. With an elegant nod, he turned and, jaw setting, strode for the stables, more conscious with every stride of a demonic desire to capture a Botticelli angel—and take her to his bed.
Chapter 4
T he next days passed uneventfully; Flick swallowed her impatience and doggedly watched, doggedly listened. She rode morning and afternoon track work every day, then slouched about the stable for as long as she could in the mornings, and until all the stable lads left in the evenings. After three days, the only suspicious character she’d spotted had proved to be one of the lads’ cousins, visiting from the north. The only surprising information she’d heard concerned the activities of some redheaded barmaid.
As he’d intimated, Demon had attended all the track work religiously—he’d watched her religiously, too; her sensitivity to his gaze grew more acute by the day. She’d sighed with relief when, within her hearing that morning, he’d told Carruthers that he’d be spending the afternoon about the other stables looking over the competition.
So at three o’clock, she left the General nodding over his records and set off on Jessamy for the cottage—Felicity garbed in her blue velvet riding habit—feeling less trepidatious, certainly more sure of herself. No longer wary of what she might face at the stable.
Dillon was in the clearing when she rode up, the cob placidly munching nearby. She reined in and slid out of her saddle, turned on her heel and marched into the cottage to change—without a single glance at Dillon. He’d have the cob saddled and bridled, and Jessamy unsaddled and tethered, by the time she came out.
She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d learned the truth. Every time she’d come by, he’d tried to catch her eye, to smile and make amends.
Struggling out of her velvet skirts, Flick humphed. Dillon was being excessively careful around her—he could be careful for a while more. She hadn’t forgiven him for deceiving her—she hadn’t forgiven herself for being so gullible. She should have guessed; she knew he wasn’t that innocent any more, but the idea that he could have been so comprehensively stupid hadn’t entered her head.
Smoothing her curls, she crammed her cap over them. She was exceedingly tired of putting right Dillon’s wrongs, of easing his way, but . . .
She sighed. She would continue to shield Dillon if the alternative was upsetting the General. Distress wasn’t good for him, as Dr. Thurgood had made very clear.
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