The Rogue's Proposal (3 page)

“Yes,” he continued, “I’ll agree to your business proposition. You help me find Roger
Morton and you may join me in my search. I will refrain from engaging in…what did
you call it? Oh, yes…
relations
with you.”

She gave a very businesslike nod, as if they truly were men of trade agreeing on the
terms of a deal.

He raised a hand as if to stop her. “But I have a condition of my own.”

Her heart sank. “What’s that?”

“I can offer you the heights of pleasure, Mrs. Emma Curtis. If, at some point during
the term of our agreement, you were to beg…I promise, I’ll not deny you.”

E
mma woke at the break of dawn the following morning. She’d been up late at the inn
with Luke last night, but her nerves were so raw she’d hardly been able to sleep,
and when the first gray shadows of light began to creep into her room, she popped
out of her bed like a jack-in-the-box and began to pack.

She chose carefully, knowing it would be impractical, and probably annoying to Luke,
if she brought too much. So she brought two sets of undergarments, a nightgown, and
one other dress, an old but once-beautiful day dress of white muslin sprinkled with
pink and green rosebuds and festooned with matching ribbons whose corners were now
frayed. After she finished packing her valise, she donned the black-and-white half-mourning
dress she’d worn the evening before.

After her husband died, Papa, refusing to blame Henry for any part of the loss of
his fortune, had insisted on spending some of the few remaining funds they had to
purchase her two stylish mourning dresses. She’d worn them all year long, alternating
between the two of them, both black and somber and altogether depressing. They had
become frayed and stained, not to mention out of fashion—and since they’d been purchased
in autumn, she’d sweltered in them all through summer.

Just last month, Papa and her sister Jane had gifted her with the half-mourning dress.
Jane had scrimped and saved so they could afford it. But it was a fashionable dress,
and wearing a light color—even with black trim—had made Emma feel alive again. She’d
once possessed a closetful of fashionable clothes; now this was the only dress she
owned that was presentable in the company of a duke’s brother.

A
duke’s
brother.
Lord Lukas was the famous Duke of Trent’s brother. Even now, that fact stunned her.
The duke was well known for being a paragon, an absolutely upright gentleman of perfect
scruples, respected by everyone in England. But he’d recently caused an enormous scandal
by marrying one of his housemaids. The wave of excitement had yet to die down—everyone
was still gossiping about the duke and the housemaid.

Even Jane and Emma had huddled together over the newssheets and decided it must have
been a love match. Instead of thinking him scandalous, the act only raised their compassion
and respect for the man. In the sisters’ eyes, the Duke of Trent was a prime example
of a powerful man who was honest in his love.

Jane and Emma had been exposed to the
ton
, to some degree. They had been raised as wealthy young ladies, and they had associated
with daughters of marquises and earls and viscounts in school every day. But their
father was in trade, and he wasn’t of the aristocracy. They were nouveau riche, and
the aristocratic girls resented their admittance into the prestigious Derbyford School
For Girls. They never let Emma and Jane forget their place, which was firmly entrenched
in the very lowest rung of the school’s social ladder.

So when the highly respected and widely admired Duke of Trent married a commoner,
it felt like a victory of sorts to Emma and Jane. A victory for the common folk. To
Emma and Jane, not only was he a paragon, but also he was clearly an intrinsically
good
man.

She’d learned tonight that the Duke of Trent’s brother was something else altogether.
Good
would not be the first word to come to mind when she thought of Lord Luke.
Wicked
and
arrogant
and
kissable
and
handsome
and
dashing
were five words that came in well ahead.

Taking a deep breath, wiping her memory clear of the way his dark blond hair curled
over his ears, Emma snapped her valise shut. It was packed to the brim with her extra
dress and underclothes, and, because the days were growing colder, her shabby pelisse,
which had once been sky blue but had faded after many washings to a dull slate color.

Straightening, she gazed around her bedchamber for the last time.

Two years ago, a soft Persian carpet had covered the floor. The bed had been of an
elaborately feminine design, with whitewashed carved wood and lavender silk bed curtains
that matched the curtains on her windows. She’d had a walnut armoire and matching
desk and chair, where she used to sit and write letters.

Now it was all gone. Sold to the highest bidder, down to the yellow silk counterpane
that had once lain on the bed.

Maybe someday they’d have it all back. But only if she was successful in her search
for Roger Morton…and in finding what that awful man had done with her father’s money.

Grabbing her valise, she left the room and traversed the long, empty corridor. Papa
had moved them to this enormous modern house on the outskirts of Bristol when she
was just three years old and Jane was a babe. Before that, they had lived by the harbor,
where her father had owned a ship manufactory. He’d overseen the building of many
of the great English sailing ships that dominated the world’s oceans.

Downstairs, Emma slipped into his study, which was now, for the most part, used only
by her. Papa could hardly leave his bedchamber these days—he was afflicted with the
dropsy, but it was more than that. No one could determine exactly what was sapping
the strength from his body, though Emma had a firm suspicion that it was a broken
heart. When Mama had died, Papa had hardly been able to hold on. Then Henry had been
murdered, Roger Morton had stolen everything, and Papa had sunk deep into this miserable
sickness that no one seemed able to cure.

Emma couldn’t bring Mama back—that was impossible—but her father’s money was still
out there somewhere. She would do whatever was in her power to return it to him.

Maybe then Papa would at least
try
. They would have the money to find him the best doctors. They’d have the money to
refurnish and heat the house for his maximum comfort, to buy the best medicines.

Lowering her valise near the study door, she fetched the key from where it was hidden
on the bookshelf between the covers of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
and
Richard III
, two of the books on the single shelf they’d retained. Once, these wall shelves had
been brimming with books. Now the shelves were bare, except for this one small row
of books.

She went to the desk and used the key to unlock the tiny drawer hidden within a larger
one. She removed her father’s pistol. The small, deadly weapon lay in its velvet-lined
case innocently, as if it weren’t capable of cold-blooded murder. She checked its
parts carefully before relocking the drawer, then going to the door and locking that
as well.

Kneeling on the floor, she removed everything from the valise and repacked it with
the gun case at the very bottom. She followed that with the two papers she’d studied
ad nauseam for the past year—those that implicated Roger Morton in Henry’s death and
the crimes against her father—and finally placed her clothes on top.

Then she went to the desk, retrieved the inkpot, a pen, and a used sheet of parchment,
which she turned over to write on the blank side, and proceeded to write out detailed
instructions to Jane.

Her list included a catalogue of Papa’s medicines, reminders about the daily exercises
one of the doctors had recommended, and the list of foods he was forbidden to eat
as well as those the doctor had said would be beneficial to him. It included information
on their dwindling funds and detailed instructions on how to manage bill collectors
if they came calling.

She recommended the best and cheapest places for Jane to purchase food and supplies.
Then she listed, in detailed precision, the instructions for the keeping and maintaining
of the house and the six acres of land it lay upon.

Finally, she listed her ideas on how to obtain funds should one of the bill collectors
lose all patience. It probably wouldn’t happen—she’d managed to placate most of them
so far, and she intended to be back in Bristol within a few weeks. But just in case,
she wrote them in order from first to last to sell:

Papa’s bed—he can be relocated to mine.

The remaining books.
She winced at that one. She had kept only her favorite books, and to lose them would
be like losing a part of her heart.

The desk in the study.
The very desk she wrote upon now—one of the last remaining original opulent pieces
her father had purchased.

Mama’s pearl earrings and her gold ring.
It physically hurt her to write that. Those pieces of jewelry were the only pieces
of their mother they’d kept. When they’d gone through their mother’s possessions and
sold them, Emma had decided that she and her sister should each keep something to
remind them of Mama. Emma had chosen the earrings and Jane had chosen the ring.

Finally, she listed a few men in Bristol who might be willing to purchase the items
in question.

She removed the earrings from her ears and laid them beside the lists she’d written.
The near-perfect pearls gleamed against the black shine of the desk, and she stared
at them for a long moment.

With a sigh, she rose and returned upstairs, where she slipped into Jane’s room, once
a lovely haven, now as barren as her own.

Jane was already stirring. An early riser like herself, Emma’s twenty-year-old sister
was competent and intelligent. Emma had no doubts or worries about leaving Papa in
Jane’s capable hands.

Jane sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Emma, is something wrong with—” She broke off abruptly,
her gaze moving to the valise Emma held firmly in her grip. Then she looked into Emma’s
eyes, her own widening with alarm.

“Where are you going?” she breathed.

“I’m going with Lord Lukas,” Emma told her sister. “We’re leaving this morning.”

“Em!” Jane gasped, her eyes like saucers.

“It’s my only hope to find Roger Morton. Lord Lukas has as much desire to locate him
as I do, but not only that, he also has the support of the Duke of Trent—all the resources
he’d ever need to bring that bastard to justice.”

Jane flinched as she always did when Emma cursed. She frowned and slipped out of the
bed, the skirt of her white nightgown falling around her ankles. “But you cannot travel
with him alone. Take Marta with you.”

Marta was their maid—the only remaining servant, when once they had had a butler and
a half-dozen footmen, as well as a housekeeper, housemaids, chambermaids, a cook,
scullery maids…

“Absolutely not. You will require her here. You cannot manage this house and take
care of Papa all by yourself.”

“Are you mad?”

“Are you?”

The sisters stared at each other with challenges in their eyes. But Jane knew when
Emma wouldn’t retreat.

She lowered her eyes. “People will talk. Do you realize what it will do to your reputation?”

Emma’s lips twisted. “What reputation? I am a widow with no money and no prospects.
It’s not like any gentleman will take a fancy to me now. My reputation is of no consequence,
and I’d gladly give it up for a chance to retrieve what is rightfully ours.”

Jane sighed. “Oh, I do wish you’d give this some thought first.”

“I have. There’s no alternative.” She took a step forward. “Jane, have
you
thought about what would happen if Papa’s fortune was returned to him? About what
it would do to Papa?”

“Of course I have. But I wouldn’t have you sacrifice yourself for Papa’s sake. Is
there no solution that will keep you both safe?”

“
This
is the solution,” Emma said. “I
am
safe. Lord Lukas is a”—she pushed the word out, because she didn’t believe it for
a second, despite his pedigree—“gentleman.” But then she dealt the winning blow. “Don’t
forget, he’s the Duke of Trent’s brother.”

Jane sighed wistfully, as she and every other young lady in England were wont to do
whenever the Duke of Trent’s name was mentioned.

“You’re right. I had forgotten.” She straightened. “In that case, I’m sure he’ll realize
that this shall be a sensitive position for you, and he’ll do whatever is necessary
to protect your reputation in light of the scandalous nature of the situation.”

Do you like to be bound, Mrs. Curtis?

A shudder pulsed through her.

“Exactly,” Emma lied to her sister. “He will be discreet. I am certain of it.”

Jane’s brow furrowed. “Oh, Em. I still don’t like it.”

“There is no choice,” Emma said again.

“I wish I could think of something else.”

“You can’t. I can’t. Papa can’t. We’ve all tried.”

“Will you say good-bye to him before you go?”

“I don’t think I should.”

The sisters stood in silence for a few moments, then Jane said, “You’re right. You
probably shouldn’t. He’ll try to force you to stay, and I know you. You’ll defy him…”

“And I’m not sure if his constitution could withstand such a blow,” Emma finished.

“I don’t think you should take that risk.”

“Nor do I.”

Her sister’s brown eyes were shining with concern and trepidation. “But what will
I tell him?” she whispered.

Emma closed her eyes as all the possible excuses ran through her mind. She went off
on holiday with Miss Delacorte, an old school friend. Her grandmother had summoned
her to Leeds because she was ill and demanding to see Emma. She wasn’t feeling well
and was worried she might be contagious—she wouldn’t want to further weaken Papa’s
constitution by making him ill.

“I’ll tell him the truth,” Jane said. “There’s nothing else to tell.”

“No,” Emma said quietly, “tell him I’ve gone to Scotland to help a friend in need.”
In one of their rare moments of camaraderie, Henry had told her that the best way
to lie to someone was to remain as close to the truth as possible. “Tell him I’ll
be back in a few weeks.”

“You know he’ll ask who took you.”

Emma pursed her lips. “Tell him…tell him it is a relation of the Duke of Trent. And
if he demands more, then you must lie.” Because if Jane told Papa she’d run off with
a man…No, that wouldn’t be good at all. “Tell him
she’s
a relation of the Duke of Trent.”