The Rogue's Proposal (23 page)

But he didn’t come to see her.

He’d gone downstairs. She lay in bed for a long while, unable to sleep, fighting with
herself about whether she should try to stop him. But how could she? She had no power
over him anymore, no right to tell him what he shouldn’t be doing. She couldn’t hold
him as he shuddered from his nightmares. They couldn’t even touch. She belonged to
someone else.

She’d never felt more alone. More hopelessly miserable.

The following morning, they drove back in the direction of London. After they’d been
on the road for about half an hour, the carriage slowed in front of this tall wrought-iron
fence.

They stopped outside the gate. There were already a half-dozen carriages standing
out here, as well as several tethered horses.

“Welcome to Bordesley Green,” Luke murmured.

She gazed through the gates as Luke spoke to the postilions. Beyond the gates was
a vast green lawn dotted with small clusters of strolling people. The lawn wrapped
around an enormous, dark house with Gothic beams and cornices. If the day wasn’t so
bright and the lawn so green, she might have called it forbidding.

Luke came around to lift her out of the carriage. “Put all of your weight on me,”
he told her sternly. “I do not want you to hurt that ankle again.”

She complied, gripping her cane in one hand and slipping her arm around him. He moved
his own arm around her waist to support her.

She gazed at the house in the distance. “What is this place?”

“It is an asylum for idiots,” he said tersely. “Come.”

He nodded to the man at the gate, and he opened it. They went through, slowly traveling
down the graveled path that meandered to the house.

“Is it visiting day?” she murmured to Luke.

“Yes. Second Friday of every month.”

“And you come every month?”

“Yes, but only since August.”

They passed groups of people walking on the lawn, and she could now tell the residents
of the asylum apart from the people who visited them. Family members and loved ones,
she thought. The residents didn’t wear nightgowns to set them apart, but it was obvious
who they were anyhow. They spoke differently, gestured differently, walked differently
from the people who’d come to see them. Their expressions were less guarded, easier
to read. There was the man of at least forty years, bouncing on his toes and grinning
like a lad on Christmas morning. There was the young woman with her arms flailing
wildly about, a man and woman with her speaking in soft voices, trying to calm her.

She took a breath. “Who are we visiting, Luke?”

He didn’t answer. They approached the door, which was opened by a stern-looking woman.
“Friend Luke,” she said in a businesslike tone, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Friend Hannah,” Luke said.

Emma tried to hide her surprise. This woman was clearly a Quaker, and Luke seemed
totally at ease with their way of communicating.

The Quaker woman’s gaze went to her, curious but not unfriendly.

“This is my friend, Mrs. Curtis.”

The woman nodded politely, then turned back to Luke. “He’s quite excited to see you.
He hasn’t stopped talking about visiting day for the last week.”

Luke smiled. “Where is he?”

“He is in the art room. I’ll take you to him. This way.”

Hannah led them down a long, dark corridor. As they were walking, she glanced back
at them. “Do not be surprised by the state of the art room. We like to give the idiots
some freedom of expression…and they do take advantage of the opportunity.”

Trepidation rose in Emma as they walked. Who was this person? An idiot? What did that
mean, exactly? It was disconcerting to be walking toward something she knew nothing
about.

Hannah stopped at a door, and choosing a key from the thick ring she wore about her
neck, she unlocked the door. “Wait here,” she said, and slipped inside. A moment later,
she opened the door wide and smiled at them. “Come in.” Turning to look back over
her shoulder, she called, “Friend Bertram, someone is here to see you.”

Emma stepped into a room the likes of which she’d never seen. It was a very large
room—perhaps meant to be a hall or drawing room in the original vision of the house—but
it was splattered with paint. The wood floor was patchy—black and red and green and
blues. Swirls and dabs. Big blocks of one color, then dull brown mixes of colors,
then cheerful, bright stripes, strips, and swirls.

There were a few paint-spattered easels strewn across the room. As they walked in,
a thickly built, blond-haired man turned toward them, a broad smile splitting his
round face.

“Luke!” he called. “Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke.” And he dropped his paintbrush,
spattering yellow paint over his bare feet and onto the floor, and ambled toward Luke.

“Bertram!” Luke said cheerfully.

Emma watched him carefully to see if this cheer was manufactured. But it wasn’t; she
was sure of it. Luke was truly pleased to see this man.

Bertram threw his arms around Luke, sending Luke stumbling backward. Laughing, the
man held Luke in a big bear hug and squeezed him tight. With a grin, Luke looked back
at Emma. “Bert, this is my friend Emma. Emma, meet Bertram, my brother.”

His…
brother
? She glanced at Hannah, who gave the two men a benevolent look.

“Emma!” Bertram hugged Luke even tighter.

“Let me go, man,” Luke said good-naturedly. “You’ll squeeze the life out of me.”

Bertram let him go immediately and began to pat his chest. “No squeezing, no squeezing.”
His words emerged fast and slightly slurred. Emma could hardly understand them.

Luke put a hand on his shoulder. “You may squeeze, brother, but not too much, all
right?”

Bertram’s head bobbed up and down, and he smiled. His teeth were very small—it looked
like he’d never lost his infant teeth.

Emma studied him. He looked…odd, like his facial features had been somewhat flattened.
He was shorter than Luke by several inches—about her height, actually—and he was far
softer than Luke. His skin had a pale, doughy complexion. His face was round, his
nose small and flat, his eyes tilted a bit upward at their corners. He looked quite
young, but his features were so smooth and soft, she couldn’t be certain of his age.

But there was something of Luke in those eyes—in the crystal-clear blue of them. His
hair, too, was a dark blond, nearly exactly the same shade as Luke’s.

He wore a white shirt and black wool trousers—the ensemble completely paint spattered.
She glanced at Luke to see that he’d been smeared with paint, too, but he didn’t seem
to mind.

“I know we usually walk and play on the grounds, Bert, but Emma has an injured ankle.
Would you mind if we stayed inside for a while?”

Bertram blinked at Emma, his blue eyes clear and guileless. In that way, they were
definitely not like Luke’s. His gaze landed on her cane. “Injured ankle?”

“I twisted it,” she explained, smiling at him. “I’m not supposed to walk at all.”

“There is no one else here in the painting room, so you may stay if you like,” Hannah
said. “Perhaps you could show your friends your paintings, Friend Bertram.”

Bertram looked down and shuffled his feet bashfully, his ears turning red. “Aw.”

Something in her heart softened at his sudden shyness. “I’d very much like to see
them,” Emma told him.

Luke flashed her a relieved smile. “As would I, Bert.”

Bertram looked up, but his expression was still tentative.

“Good,” Hannah said firmly. “Now I must go see to our other visitors. If you require
anything, please do not hesitate to call upon us. Friend Bertram, do be good to your
guests.”

“Thank you, Friend Hannah,” Luke said.

Hannah slipped out of the room, closing the door with a
snick
behind her.

“What a room this is, Bert,” Luke said, looking around as if impressed. “I didn’t
know you were a painter.”

“I like painting.” Bertram made a flourish with his hand as if he were holding a paintbrush
and making a grand sweep of color with it.

“Will you show us something you painted?” Emma asked him.

He turned, and they followed him, Luke supporting her as Bertram walked toward the
easel where he’d been standing as they entered. He walked around it and stopped, frowning.

They came to stand beside him.

“Well,” Luke said.

“That’s lovely,” Emma said.

“Flowers,” Bertram said bashfully.

It was, in fact, a bunch of yellow daffodils growing in a green field with a blue
sky overhead. It was a colorful, cheerful, happy painting, and quite good. Not something
Emma would have expected an “idiot” capable of.

“Pretty yellow flowers. And orange. Using red with yellow, like this.” And then Bertram
launched into a description of all the colors he’d used in the painting, speaking
so quickly he slurred a bit and showing them his pots of paint in various colors.
Emma couldn’t keep up with all he said.

“Well,” Luke said finally, and there was admiration in his voice as he clapped his
hand over Bertram’s shoulder, “you, brother, are a very talented artist indeed. Have
you any other paintings you can show us?”

Bertram looked up at him brightly. Then he turned from the easel and scurried over
to a far wall, where canvases lay piled on the floor. He got down on his knees on
the painted-over floor and began to spread them out.

“All mine, my paintings,” he told them, looking up and grinning.

Luke raised his brows at the pile on the floor, then murmured to Emma, “There aren’t
any chairs in here for you. Can you sit on the floor?”

“I think so.”

He helped her down so she could have a closer look, then he moved beside her. Bertram
handed them canvases, and Luke held them up one at a time.

There were many garden scenes. Brightly colored flowers. Trees. Sunshine. All painted
in bold, bright, heavy strokes. There were structures, too. A barn, and a picture
of a simplified Bordesley Green that made it look cheerful and open rather than dark
and sinister. Just looking at all these happy paintings infused an odd kind of well-being
in Emma.

And then Luke held up another house. This one was obviously a fine home—regal with
its redbrick fa��ade and front colonnade. Luke’s jaw worked as he studied it. Finally,
he looked up at her. “The Stanleys’ country home.”

And now she knew how Bertram was related to him. Bertram wasn’t a Hawkins—he was another
disregarded son of Lord Stanley’s.

Which was why, too, Luke hadn’t visited Bertram until this past August—August was
when he’d learned that Stanley was his true father. It must have been when he’d found
out about Bertram, too.

“Mama’s home,” Bertram corrected Luke now. “And baby Georgie is right there.” He pointed
to one of the tiny windows.

“Georgina,” Luke explained softly. “Our sister.”

Emma nodded rather than spoke—her throat was too constricted for her to say anything.

Bertram rifled through the paintings and pulled out a smallish one. It was of a beautiful
blond, blue-eyed baby lying upon a blanket, holding up a chubby fist. Bertram gave
the picture directly to Emma. “Georgie,” he told her, pointing at the infant.

“She is lovely,” Emma mused.

Luke smirked but quickly relaxed his expression and moved on to the next one. “What’s
this?”

She watched them mull over the remaining paintings, marveling at their easy camaraderie.
She couldn’t help but notice how much easier Luke was with Bertram than he’d been
with the Duke of Trent.

The duke was his half brother on his mother’s side, Bertram his half brother on his
father’s. Luke and Trent had gone through childhood together, but Luke and Bertram
had only known each other since August.

It was so interesting to Emma how some bonds seemed completely natural, while others
had to be forged by blood and sweat. And even then with no guarantees that they would
hold.

They remained with Bertram for several hours. They talked and laughed. They shared
the luncheon Luke and Emma had brought with them. Bertram wanted badly to show her
the gardens behind the house, so Luke helped her downstairs and sat her on a bench
while Bertram festooned her hair with little pink flowers.

And then visiting day was over. They said their good-byes. Luke hugged Bertram—it
was an odd sight to see an aristocratic man like Luke behaving in such an affectionate
fashion, but then again, Emma knew firsthand that he was naturally an affectionate
person.

Luke carried her to the carriage and set her gently inside. She settled in, waiting
for him as he instructed the postilions.

Moments later he climbed in and sat beside her, and the carriage began to move. It
was afternoon, but the days were growing so short now, it felt like dusk was upon
them.

He gazed at her, his expression inscrutable. “Well?”

She smiled at him. She touched her hair, and her thumb and forefinger came away trapping
a tiny flower. “He’s lovely, Luke. I can see why you couldn’t bear to break your promise
to visit him. But,” she added slowly, turning the flower between her fingers, “what
I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me sooner. Heavens, why didn’t you tell
me last month when we were here?”

He leaned his head back against the soft velvet squab. “Hmm, and what would I have
told you? That I have an idiot half brother who lives in an asylum? That would not
have given you the correct impression. Bert is…” He shook his head. “I didn’t understand
either, back in August when I first saw him. I thought he would be a drooling imbecile.
But then I met him and…” His voice trailed off.

“And…?” she prompted.

He gazed at her seriously. “I’ve never met anyone so simply pure,” he told her. “He’s
so full of innocence and…and
joy
. I find him, I don’t know, soothing somehow.”

“I think he is comforted by your presence as well.”