A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens

need to journey to London to unmask them.
    He left her undisturbed, content with her abstraction. As the cottages of Dullingham fell behind, he kept the bays to a steady trot, searching the hedges lining the roadway for the small lane he remembered from years gone by. It appeared on his left; he slowed and turned the bays.
    The lane was deeply rutted; despite the strong springs of the carriage, the rocking jerked Flick to attention. Grabbing the front rail, she blinked and looked around. “Good heavens. Where— oh ! How lovely!”
    Demon smiled. “It is a pretty spot.”
    The lane dwindled to a track; turning the bays onto a stretch of grass, he reined in. “We’ll leave the carriage here.” He nodded to where willows, lit by the sun, hung catkin-draped limbs over a rippling stream. The babble of the brook filled the rustic stillness; sunlight flashed off the water, shooting rainbows through the air. Between the willows, an expanse of lush grass beckoned. “We can spread the rug by the stream and enjoy the sunshine.”
    “Oh, yes! I didn’t even know this place existed.”
    Alighting, he handed Flick down, then retrieved the well-stocked luncheon basket and a large plaid rug from the boot. Flick relieved him of the rug; holding it in her arms, she strolled beside him to the grassy bank.
    Laying aside her parasol, Flick shook out the rug. Demon helped her spread the heavy folds, then handed her onto it. He waited while she settled, then subsided to lounge, large, lean—all elegantly indolent—beside her.
    She had overheard maids exclaiming how their beaux made their hearts go pitter-patter. She’d always thought the description a silly nonsense.
    Now she knew better. Her heart was tripping in double time. Definitely pitter-patter.
    Reaching for the basket Demon had set by their legs, she hauled it closer. More definitely between them. It was a ridiculous reaction—she knew she was safe with him—but the solidity of the basket made her feel much better. Pulling out the linen napkins Mrs. Shephard had tucked about the food, she uncovered roast chicken, slices of beef, and crisp, fresh rolls. She went to speak, and had to clear her throat. “Would you prefer a leg, or a breast?”
    She looked up; her eyes clashed with Demon’s, burning blue.
    Burning?
    She blinked and looked again, but he’d looked away, calmly reaching for the bottle poking out from the basket.
    “A leg will do for the moment.”
    His voice sounded slightly . . . strained. Hiding a frown, she watched as he eased the cork from the bottle. It popped free and he looked up, but there was nothing to be read in his eyes or his expression beyond an easy pleasure in the moment. He held out a hand for glasses; pushing aside her uncertainties, she delved into the basket.
    Discovering two long flutes, she handed them over; the wine hissed as he filled them. She took the one he offered her, studying the tiny bubbles rising through the straw-colored liquid. “Champagne?”
    “Hmm.” Raising his glass to her, Demon took a sip. “A suitable toast to Spring.”
    Flick sipped; the bubbles fizzed on her palate, but the wine slid down her throat very pleasantly. She licked her lips. “Nice.”
    “Hmm.” Demon forced himself to look away from her lips—sheening pink curves that he ached to taste. Inwardly frowning at how definite that ache was, he accepted the chicken leg she handed him, a napkin neatly folded about the bone.
    Their fingers brushed; he felt hers quiver—was conscious to his bones of the shivery tremble that raced through her. Focusing on the chicken, he sank his teeth into it, then fixed his gaze on the meadows beyond the stream while she busied herself—calmed herself—laying out their repast. Only when she drew in a breath, took a sip of champagne, then fell to eating, did he glance at her again. “How’s Dillon faring?”
    She shrugged. “Well enough.” After a moment, she volunteered, “I haven’t really spoken to him since