A Rogue's Proposal

  Other Avon Books by

  Stephanie Laurens

  The Bar Cynster Series

  DEVIL’S BRIDE

  A RAKE’S VOW

  SCANDAL’S BRIDE

  CAPTAIN JACK’S WOMAN

  STEPHANIE LAURENS

  A ROGUE’S PROPOSAL

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  A ROGUE’S PROPOSAL Copyright © 1999 by Savdek Management Proprietory, Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™. Published by arrangement with the author.

  PerfectBound™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

  MS Reader edition v 1. November 2001 ISBN 0-06-009520-2

  First Avon Books Printing: October 1999

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Chapter

  1 Unfettered freedom! He’d escaped.

  With an arrogant smile...

  2 She tilted her chin—a delicate, pointy little chin. Set as it was, it looked...

  3 Demon rose before dawn the next morning and rode to his stable...

  4 The next days passed uneventfully; Flick swallowed her impatience...

  5 After dinner that evening, Demon retired to the front parlor of his farmhouse...

  6 Demon ran Gillies to earth later that evening in the crowded tap...

  7 He’d seen her face so often in his dreams that he didn’t notice...

  8 “I wondered if you’d care for a drive?” Gasping, Flick whirled...

  9 When the next dance commenced, Demon was...

  10 For Flick, their journey to the library was the start of a most peculiar week.

  11 Demon set out for London just after dawn.

  12 She’d never seen so many men crammed into one space in her life.

  13 Flick studied him. “Do you know him?”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  14 “Drive on!” Demon climbed into the manor’s carriage...

  15 Despite their languid elegance, when Cynsters acted, things happened...

  16 “Just look at them!” Amanda hissed disgustedly in Flick’s ear...

  17 Time was indeed passing, but not as Flick had hoped.

  18 Yet another ball—Flick wished, very much, that she was back at Hillgate...

  19 Desperate needs called for desperate deeds. Flick knew her needs qualified...

  20 Luckily, Albemarle Street wasn’t far. She found the narrow house easily...

  21 The instincts of years hadn’t died—Demon woke long before anyone else...

  22 What occurred next happened so quickly that to Flick it was just a blur.

  Epilogue

  Everyone attended. The Duke and Duchess of St. Ives sat in the first...

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  March 1, 1820

  Newmarket, Suffolk

  Unfettered freedom! He’d escaped.

  With an arrogant smile, Harold Henry Cynster—Demon to everyone, even to his mother in her weaker moments—drew his curricle to a flourishing halt in the yard behind his Newmarket stable. Tossing the reins to his groom, Gillies, who leaped from the back of the elegant equipage to catch them, Demon stepped down to the cobbles. In a buoyant mood, he ran a loving hand over the glossy bay hide of his leader and scanned the yard with a proprietorial eye.

  There was not a scheming mama or disapproving, gimlet-eyed dowager in sight.

  Bestowing a last fond pat on his horse’s shoulder, Demon headed for the open rear door of the stable. He’d left London at midday, unexpectedly content to have the breeze blow the cloying perfume of a certain lascivious countess from his brain. More than content to leave behind the ballrooms, the parties, and the myriad traps the matchmaking mamas laid for gentlemen such as he. Not that he’d found any difficulty in evading such snares, but, these days, there was a certain scent on the breeze, a presentiment of danger he was too experienced to ignore.

  First his cousin Devil, then his own brother Vane, and now his closest cousin, Richard—who next of their select band of six, the Bar Cynster as they were called, would fate cause to trip into the arms of a loving wife?

  Whoever it was, it wouldn’t be him.

  Pausing before the open doors of the stable, he swung around, eyes squinting in the slanting sunlight. Some of his horses were ambling in the paddocks with their lads in close attendance. On the Heath beyond, other stables’ strings were exercising under the eyes of owners and trainers.

  The scene was an exclusively male one. The fact that he felt entirely at home—indeed, could feel himself relaxing—was ironic. He could hardly claim he didn’t like women, didn’t enjoy their company. Hadn’t—didn’t—devote considerable time to their conquest.

  He couldn’t deny he took pleasure in, and derived considerable satisfaction from, those conquests. He was, after all, a Cynster.

  He smiled. All that was true. However . . .

  Whereas the other members of the Bar Cynster, as wealthy, well-born gentlemen, had accepted the fact that they would marry and establish families in the time-honored tradition, he had vowed to be different. He’d vowed never to marry, never to tempt the fate with which his brother and cousins had fenced and lost. Marriage to fulfill society’s obligations was all very well, but to marry a lady one loved had been the baneful fate of all male Cynsters to date.

  A baneful fate indeed for a warrior breed—to be forever at the mercy of a woman. A woman who held one’s heart, soul and future in her small, delicate hands.

  It was enough to make the strongest warrior blanch. He was having none of it.

  Casting a last glance around the neat yard, approving the swept cobbles, the fences in good repair, Demon turned and entered the main stable housing his racing string. Afternoon stables had already commenced—he would view his exercising horses alongside his very capable trainer, Carruthers.

  Demon was on his way to his stud farm, located three miles farther south of the racecourse in the gently undulating countryside bordering the Heath. As he had every intention of avoiding marriage for the term of his natural life, and the current atmosphere in London had turned fraught with the Season about to start, and his aunts, as well as his mother, fired with the excitement of weddings, wives and the consequent babies, so he’d elected to lie low and see out the Season from the safe distance of his stud farm and the unthreatening society of Newmarket.

  Fate would have no chance to sneak up on him here.

  Looking down to avoid the inevitable detritus left by his favored darlings, he strolled unhurriedly up the long central alley. Boxes loomed to his left and right, all presently empty. At the other end of the building, another pair of doors stood open to the Heath. The day was fine, with a light breeze lifting manes and flicking long tails—his horses were out, doing what they did best. Running.

  After spending the last hours with the sun warming his shoulders, the stable’s shadows felt cool. A chill unexpectedly washed over the back of his shoulders, then co
alesced into an icy tingle and slithered all the way down his spine.

  Demon frowned and wriggled his shoulders. Reaching the point where the alley widened into the mounting area, he stopped and looked up.

  A familiar sight met his eyes—a lad or work rider swinging a leg over the sleek back of one of his champions. The horse was facing away, wide bay rump to him; Demon recognized one of his current favorites, an Irish gelding sure to run well in the coming season. That, however, was not what transfixed him, rooting his boots to the floor.

  He could see nothing of the rider bar his back and one leg. The lad wore a cloth cap pulled low on his head, a shabby hacking jacket and baggy corduroy breeches. Baggy except in one area—where they pulled tight over the rider’s rear as he swung his leg over the saddle.

  Carruthers stood beside the horse, issuing instructions. The lad dropped into the saddle, then stood in the stirrups to adjust his position. Again, corduroy strained and shifted.

  Demon sucked in a breath. Eyes narrowing, jaw firming, he strode forward.

  Carruthers slapped the horse’s rump. Nodding, the rider trotted the horse, The Mighty Flynn, out into the sunshine.

  Carruthers swung around, squinting as Demon came up. “Oh, it’s you.” Despite the abrupt greeting and the dour tone, there was a wealth of affection in Carruthers’s old eyes. “Come to see how they’re shaping, have ye?”

  Demon nodded, his gaze locked on the rider atop The Mighty Flynn. “Indeed.”

  With Carruthers, he strolled in the wake of The Flynn, the last of his horses to go out on the Heath.

  In silence, Demon watched his horses go through their paces. The Mighty Flynn was given a light workout, walking, trotting, then walking again. Although he noted how his other horses performed, Demon’s attention never strayed far from The Flynn.

  Beside him, Carruthers was watching his charges avidly. Demon glanced his way, noting his old face, much lined, weathered like well-worn leather, faded brown eyes wide as he weighed every stride, considered every turn. Carruthers never took notes, never needed any reminder of which horse had done what. When his charges came in, he would know precisely how each was faring, and what more was needed to bring them to their best. The most experienced trainer in Newmarket, Carruthers knew his horses better than his children, which was why Demon had pestered and persevered until he’d agreed to train for him, to devote his time exclusively to training Demon’s string.

  His gaze fastening once more on the big bay, Demon murmured, “The lad on The Flynn—he’s new, isn’t he?”

  “Aye,” Carruthers replied, his gaze never leaving the horses. “Lad from down Lidgate way. Ickley did a runner—leastways, I assume he did. He didn’t turn up one morning and we haven’t seen him since. ’Bout a week later, young Flick turned up, looking for a ride, so I had him up on one of the tetchy ones.” Carruthers nodded to where The Flynn was trotting along, pacing neatly with the rest of the string, the small figure on his back managing him with startling ease. “Rode the brute easily. So I put him up on The Flynn. Never seen the horse give his heart so willingly. The lad’s got the touch, no doubt about that. Excellent hands, and good bottom.”

  Demon inwardly admitted he couldn’t argue. “Good,” however, was not the adjective he’d have used. But he must have been mistaken. Carruthers was a staunch member of the fraternity, quite the last man to let a female on one of his charges, let alone trust her with The Flynn.

  And yet . . .

  There was a niggle, a persistent whisper in his mind, something stronger than suspicion flitting through his brain. And at one level—the one where his senses ruled—he knew he wasn’t wrong.

  No lad had ever had a bottom like that.

  The thought reconjured the vision; Demon shifted and inwardly cursed. He’d left the countess only a few hours ago; his lustful demons had no business being awake, much less raising their collective head. “This Flick . . .” Saying the name triggered something—a memory? If the lad was local, he might have stumbled across him before. “How long’s he been with us?”

  Carruthers was still absorbed with the horses, now cooling before walking in. “Be two weeks, now.”

  “And he pulls his full load?”

  “I’ve only got him on half-pay—didn’t really need another hand with the stablework. Only needed him for riding—exercising and the gallops. Turned out that suited him well enough. His mum’s not well, so he rides up here, does morning stables, then rides back to Lidgate to keep her company, then comes up again for afternoon stables.”

  “Hmm.” The first horses were returning; Demon drew back into the stable, standing with Carruthers to the side of the mounting area as the stable lads walked their charges in. Most of the lads were known to him. While exchanging greetings and the occasional piece of news, and running knowledgeable eyes over his string, Demon never lost sight of The Flynn.

  Flick ambled at the rear of the string. He’d exchanged no more than brief nods and occasional words with the other lads; amid the general camaraderie, Flick appeared a loner. But the other lads seemed to see nothing odd in Flick; they passed him as he walked the huge bay, patting the silky neck and, judging from the horse’s twitching ears, murmuring sweet nothings with absolute acceptance. Demon inwardly cursed and wondered, yet again, if he could possibly be wrong.

  The Flynn was the last in; Demon stood, hands on hips, to one side of Carruthers in the shadows, shadows rendered even deeper by the sudden brilliance of the westering sun. Flick let the bay have a last prance before settling him and guiding him into the stable. As the first heavy hoof clopped hollowly on the flags, Flick looked up.

  Eyes used to the sunshine blinked wide, finding Carruthers, then quickly passing on to fix on Demon. On his face.

  Flick reined in, eyes widening even more.

  For one, tense instant, rider and owner simply stared.

  Jerking the reins, Flick wheeled The Flynn, sending Carruthers a horrified glance. “He’s still restless—I’ll take him for a quick run.” With that, she and The Flynn were gone, leaving only a rush of wind behind them.

  “What the—!” Carruthers started forward, then stopped as the futility of any chase registered. Bemused, he turned to Demon. “He’s never done anything like that before.”

  A curse was Demon’s only answer; he was already striding along the alley. He stopped at the first open box, where a lad was easing the girth strap on one of his heavier horses.

  “Leave that.” Demon shouldered the startled lad aside. With one tug and a well-placed knee, he recinched the girth. He vaulted into the saddle and backed the horse, fumbling with the stirrup straps.

  “Here—I can send one of the lads after him.” Carruthers stepped back as Demon trotted the horse past.

  “No—leave it to me. I’ll straighten the lad out.”

  Demon doubted Carruthers caught the emphasis; he wasn’t about to stop and explain. Muttering, he set out in hot pursuit.

  The instant his mount cleared the stable door, he dug in his heels; the horse lengthened his stride from trot to canter to gallop. By then, Demon had located his prey. In the far distance, disappearing into the shadows thrown by a stand of trees. Another minute and he’d have lost her.

  Jaw setting, he struggled with the stirrups as he pounded along. Curses and oaths colored the wind of his passage. Finally, the stirrups were lengthened enough; he settled properly into the saddle, and the chase began in earnest.

  The bobbing figure on the back of The Flynn shot a glance behind, then looked forward. A second later, The Flynn swerved and lengthened his stride.

  Demon tacked, trying to close the gap by cutting diagonally across—only to find himself careening toward a stretch of rough. Forced to slow and turn aside, he glanced up—and discovered that Flick had abruptly swung the other way and was making off in a different direction. Instead of shortening, the distance between them had grown.

  Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, Demon forgot about swearing and concentrated on riding. Wi
thin two minutes, he’d altered his initial plan—to ride Flick down and demand an explanation—to simply keeping the damned female in sight.

  She rode like a demon—even better than he. It didn’t seem possible, but . . .

  He was a superlative rider, quite possibly the most accomplished of his day. He could ride anything with four legs, mane and tail anywhere, over any terrain. But Flick was leading him a merry dance. And it wasn’t simply the fact that his horse was already tired or that he rode much heavier than she. The Flynn was tired, too, and was being ridden harder; Flick was fleeing; he was only following. But she seemed to merge with her mount in that way only other expert riders could understand.

  He understood it and couldn’t help admiring it grudgingly, even while acknowledging he had not a hope in hell of catching her.

  Her. There was no doubt of that now. Lads did not have delicate shoulders and collarbones, swanlike necks, and hands that, even encased in leather gloves, looked small and fine-boned. As for her face, the little he’d glimpsed above the woollen muffler wound about her nose and chin had been more Madonnalike than manlike.