The Rogue's Proposal (12 page)

“His partner—what was his name?” Emma breathed.

“Curtis. Something Curtis.” Macmillan frowned. “Harry?”

“Henry,” she corrected softly.

Henry had been in league with Roger Morton from the beginning. Emma gazed down at
the half-full teacup in her lap, blinking rapidly.

Luke’s hand closed over hers, stopping the frantic drumming cadence her fingers had
been tapping out on her thigh. She stilled. When she looked up at Macmillan, he was
studying their joined hands with interest.

“Tell us the rest,” Luke said harshly. “What happened with the loan and with Morton
and Curtis’s brewery?”

She remembered the brewery—Henry had “borrowed” several thousand pounds from Papa
to invest in it. Money Papa had never seen again.

She’d been nothing but a pawn in a grand, horrible scheme to steal her father’s fortune.

Macmillan shook his head. “Betimes when men of little means become men of fortune,
they lose their wits and turn to debauchery and vice. When I sent Morton a letter
requesting the promised payments, the lad told me Curtis had turned to drink and gambling,
that the potential of their investment was slipping through his fingers because the
man was a fool. He requested more time.”

Macmillan’s face went stern, his eyes dark, and Emma suddenly knew why this man had
done so well for himself. He did not suffer fools gladly.

“I sent him another letter—a threatening one, for he had broken the terms of our agreement—and
quite legal and proper terms, they were, too. I told him to rid himself of Curtis
and continue on his own. I warned him that if he did not remit the funds to me in
the allotted time, I would involve the authorities.”

“I assume he remitted the payment on time?” Luke asked.

“He did. He paid in full, a week before the due date.”

“What happened to Curtis?” Luke asked. “Did he tell you?”

“Nay. The name wasn’t mentioned. I assumed he’d taken my advice and got rid of the
fool.”

It seemed Morton had “got rid” of Henry just in time. By drowning him that night in
the Avon.

“Do you know where Mr. Morton is now?” Emma asked over her scraping throat.

“He kept a flat in Bristol.”

“He’s long gone from there,” Luke said gruffly. “Where do you think he would have
gone? Back to London?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But where in London?” Emma asked, her heart sinking. The city was so enormous and
so crowded that finding a single man within it seemed as difficult as locating a needle
in a haystack.

“He resided near the docks last I knew.” Macmillan shrugged. “But his fortunes have
certainly changed since those days.”

She leaned forward. “Is there anything, any information or clue that you could give
us to help us find his whereabouts, Mr. Macmillan? What about his family? Do you know
where any of his relatives live?”

“Aye, there’s that.” Macmillan tapped his chin. “His family. He’d a married sister,
if I recall. We were introduced once, quite by chance.”

“Do you know where she lived?” Luke asked.

“What did she look like?” Emma asked.

“Sorry, my lord. I truly cannot recall. But the one time I met her was outside a church
in Soho. They had just emerged from services—Morton and his sister, and her husband
as well, who was a redheaded and red-cheeked Irishman who appeared as though he’d
just arrived in London from that country. As to what
she
looked like…” Macmillan scrunched up his face. “She was dark-haired like her brother.
Of average height and build like him, too. They were very much alike—I remember commenting
on that. I thought they were twins, and said so, but they said no, they were more
than a year apart in age—the sister being the elder of the two.”

“Do you remember the husband’s name?” asked Luke.

“O’Binn? O’Brien? I’m not sure—sorry. It was O-somethin’ or other, however.”

“That’s helpful,” Emma breathed. “Thank you so very much.”

Luke glanced at her. “Looks like we’ll be heading south.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “To London.”

Macmillan tilted his head again, but this time there was a curious gleam in his eye.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Anderson, what is your relation to the Dowager
Duchess of Trent? You seem quite invested in Morton’s whereabouts.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but then she stopped, something black and ugly twisting
in her gut. She didn’t want to admit she’d married Henry Curtis. She didn’t want to
be associated with that bastard in any way anymore. She wondered vaguely if it was
even possible for her to change her name back to Anderson.

“She’s a close family friend,” Luke said, coming to her rescue. “Very close. My mother
had a way with children, and over time, she became practically a mother to Mrs. Anderson
as well. Of
course
she is invested. Our mother is important to all of us.”

Luke sounded pompous and aristocratic, and there was a warning edge to his voice that
had Macmillan retreating immediately.

“Of course,” he said sympathetically. “Well, then. I do wish you the very best. I
hope you find Morton and that he is able to help you locate your dear mother.”

“So do I, Mr. Macmillan,” Emma said softly. “So do I.”

That night, their last night in Edinburgh, Luke and Emma ate dinner in their sumptuous
lodgings at Cameron’s Hotel.

The food was splendid, and they had been given a small staff to serve it. After a
first course of cold soup and cucumbers, they enjoyed a salad, then Scottish fare
consisting of bannocks, haggis, duckling, and sage stuffing soaked in savory gravy.
The dessert consisted of a variety of fruits with sweet cream topping it, and cheese
and dried sweetmeats.

Feeling pleasantly full and content, Luke glanced at his wineglass—no, it was still
nearly full, so that wasn’t the reason for his contentment. It was the woman sitting
across from him.

They’d barely spoken throughout the meal, but that suited Luke. He liked that they
could be comfortable with each other in silence without feeling the awkward need to
converse about mundane topics.

Emma took a bite of the cream-covered pear and sighed. “Heavenly,” she murmured. After
she swallowed, she grinned at him. “Far preferable to the haggis.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“Not particularly. But now I can say I’ve tried it.”

He chuckled. “That you can.”

They ate in silence for a few more moments. Then, “Luke?”

“Mmm?”

She gazed at him steadily, stirring at her ice with a spoon. “Why do you dislike being
associated with your brother?”

His stomach clenched. All the peace that he’d seemed to have found snapped away.

It had been an illusion, anyhow.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly tired. “Do you really want to talk about
this now?”

She gazed at him for a long moment. Then she looked away. “No. Not if it upsets you.”

“Ah, Emma.” He shook his head as a feeling of hopelessness settled through him. It
seemed every other topic of conversation upset him these days.

He laid his spoon on the table and sat back in his chair, the silky upholstery caressing
him. “It’s not that I dislike being associated with him,” he said quietly. “It’s that
I dislike being compared to him and found lacking. It’s that I dislike the fact that
I am found lacking even before any comparison is made. It’s that I dislike that I
always have been, and always will be, his inferior.”

She stared at him, her lips parted. Her brows lowered in a frown. “That’s not true.”

“Try living your life with a brother who is a paragon. Try competing with him and
losing, in every way possible.”

“Luke,” she said in a low voice. As if she was about to chastise him for his words.

His lids were so heavy, they sank under the weight. He was suddenly bone weary. “I
don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about Trent. Because every time
his name is mentioned, I’m dragged back under his shadow.” He forced his eyes open.
“I am trying to step out of his shadow, Em. I want to do things on my own, live on
my own terms, be my own man. But every time he’s mentioned, every time someone reminds
me of how perfect he is, I am reminded that the probability of doing so is negligible.”

With a nod, Emma pushed away her food. “Are you finished with your dinner?”

He blinked at her, shaken by the sudden change of topic. “Yes.”

She rose and called a servant to clear the dishes. The staff of Cameron’s Hotel seemed
to pride itself on the expediency of its service, and within two minutes, the table
was completely clear of food—the soiled dishes replaced by a vase filled with blooming
heather.

The two women curtsied and left, closing the door softly behind them.

Luke remained in his chair, watching as Emma latched the door. His lips quirked. “Locking
me in?”

She turned to face him, folding her hands demurely in front of her. “I’ve told you
before, I don’t like it when you go downstairs and drink. Like you did last night.”

“Last night,” he repeated softly, staring at her lips, remembering that kiss that
had twisted him into so many knots he had hardly been able to stop himself from ravishing
her. He’d hardly been able to walk out of the room. God, he loved her lips. He loved
their color—such a deep red. He loved their shape—plump and smooth. He loved how they
tasted…

He loved—

“And the night before that,” she said.

He dragged his gaze up to her eyes.

“And before that.”

“You needn’t remind me,” he said dryly. “I haven’t been
that
sotted. I do recall each of those nights.”

She leaned back against the door and crossed her arms over her chest before raising
her gaze to his again. “I want you to know something, Lord Lukas Hawkins.”

He quirked a brow at her, bemused by her use of his name. “What’s that?”

“You won’t like it. I find it necessary to mention the person you dislike speaking
of.”

He ground his teeth. Bloody hell. Trent. Again. Of course she would bring the topic
of conversation back to his damned sainted brother.

“I don’t know him,” she said, “but I have heard only good things about him.”

“Of course.” He tried to keep his voice mild, but the words came out as a growl. “You
admire him. If you met him, you’d adore him. Everyone does.”

“But I know
you
, Luke.” Her voice softened. “And it’s you I admire. It’s you I adore. I don’t care
to compare you with anyone else, because you’re you. Just the way I like you.”

“Good.” He sure as hell didn’t want Emma, of all people, comparing him to Trent. Because,
like everyone else, she’d find him lacking.

He hoped she never met his brother.

“It’s getting late,” she said softly. “We need to have an early start tomorrow if
you want to arrive in London in five days.”

She took her nightgown from a drawer and slipped behind the standing privacy screen
off to the side of the bed.

Fabric rustled as she changed into her nightgown, and he closed his eyes, remembering
last night. Remembering this morning. What she had told him about her desires.

He wanted to give them to her, and more. He wanted to soak her in pleasure. Bring
her to a height of ecstasy Curtis had never come close to reaching with her.

He stood beside the bed when she emerged from behind the screen, wearing that innocent
white nightgown that had driven him to the brink of madness again and again over the
past several nights.

She had told him she wanted to exist in the present. That was how he lived most of
the time. Only since he’d known her had he grown cautious.

He didn’t want to hurt her. But the need to give her pleasure, to take his own pleasure
from her, drowned all reason.

She’d braided her hair into a thick plait down her back. That would have to be remedied.

She’d stopped next to the screen, and he held out his hand. “Come here,” he said gruffly.

She approached, taking his hand. He pulled her close. “Turn around,” he murmured.

She complied, and he undid the thin ribbon at the bottom of her braid and laid it
on the table. He slowly untwined her hair, reveling in the smooth, thick waves he
so seldom had the opportunity to see in full, coppery glory.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m not going downstairs tonight.”

She released a relieved breath.

“Because I want to stay with you. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” It was a whispered word, but it was solid. There was no hesitancy behind it.

He closed his eyes. Already, his cock was hard, his body hot and demanding and impatient.
“Tell me if I do something that you don’t want. That you don’t like. That you find
demeaning or unacceptable or too wicked or debauched—”

She spun around, facing him. “Stop, Luke.”

“No. You need to know. If I become too…” God, how to say it? Feral? Animalistic? Wild?
“Just tell me to stop. Promise me you’ll do that, Emma.”

He couldn’t countenance taking this woman beyond her limits.

She gazed up at him, golden sparks lighting her eyes. “I’ve wanted this…wanted you…since
that very first night. You do know that, don’t you?”

He hadn’t known her that first night. All he’d seen was her beauty, how much pleasure
her body could bring him.

He found her more beautiful now. The way she looked at him—with trust, with desire,
with need—made him want her in a way that was so much deeper than that first night.
But he was afraid of that look changing into one of distrust, disgust, dislike. If
that happened, he didn’t know if he could bear it.

“You didn’t know me then,” he said.

“I know you now, and I want you even more.”

He kissed her, dragging her to him with one arm snagged around her waist. The other
he wrapped in her glorious, soft mass of hair, holding her locked in place against
him as he took her mouth.

He nipped her upper and lower lips. His tongue thrust into her sweet mouth, mimicking
the action his cock would take within her soon. He pressed himself against her, trying
to give his cock some relief. But there was only one way for it to find relief.