The Rogue's Proposal (6 page)

“No. She seems perfectly fine. I was imagining it.”

“Well, let’s keep an eye on her,” she said.

“Yes.”

Luke urged the horses into a trot, pretending to take it slow for the gray’s sake.
He’d lied. The gray hadn’t been limping.

But he’d needed to get off the curricle for a moment. Put some distance between himself
and Emma. Because the fact of the matter was, his level of rage was not commensurate
to the situation.

He hardly knew Emma Curtis. But damned if he didn’t want to wring Henry Curtis’s dead,
rotting neck right now.

He tightened his hands over the reins and took deep, slow breaths to calm his lingering
fury.

The man had hurt her. She sat next to Luke, cold as hell because she couldn’t afford
to buy herself a decent coat, wrapped up in that woolen blanket. And she looked vulnerable
and alone.

He’d seen grieving women before. Women who were so full of regret and sadness they
advertised it when they walked down a street. But he’d never felt this way about any
of those women. For the most part, he’d ignored them, though he was sickeningly aware
of his own selfishness.

More than anything, he wanted Emma to feel better. He wanted to help her. But he had
no idea how.

Just keep doing what you’re doing.

That was one way to help her. Find Morton, dissuade her from her foolish notion of
killing him, and see the man hanged for his crimes against their families.

Still, that wouldn’t provide her with physical comfort. It wouldn’t make her feel
loved. It wouldn’t make her believe in her true strength and beauty.

Luke wanted to make her feel that way. He wanted to make her feel like the loveliest,
most cherished woman in the world.
He
wanted to be the one to cherish her.

Where in the hell were these thoughts coming from? Good
God
.

He noted that the air of his breaths emerged in little clouds. It was growing colder.
And she was correct—if they stayed out in this cold, they would catch their deaths.
She would, anyhow, as underdressed as she was.

The first order of business would be to buy her a damned coat.

“I think we’re almost there,” she said after they went through a turnpike.

“Good,” he snapped, realizing belatedly that he still sounded angry. He took a deep
breath and modulated his voice. “I grow hungry.”

“I should have thought to order some food packed so we could bring it with us,” she
said.

“No, you shouldn’t. We’ll dine at the Cambridge Inn at the proper hour.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll be sure to bring something.”

“As you wish.” One corner of his lips cocked upward. “However, it’s not your responsibility
to ensure I’m fed, you know.”

She blew out a breath, causing a light cloud of fog that wisped over a curl that had
fallen from her bonnet and dangled over her cheek. He tightened his right hand on
the rein, resisting the sudden urge to tuck that soft strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re doing all the driving,” she pointed out. “You’ve taken it upon yourself to
be responsible for the traveling, so I think I should be responsible for keeping our
bellies full, don’t you?”

“Very well,” he conceded. “If you wish it. Still, I’ve managed to keep myself alive
for many years without someone feeling it necessary to feed me.”

She tilted her head at him. “Do you live alone? Not with your family?”

“I live alone in London. I own a town house there. No country houses—alas, those were
all bestowed to my brothers.”

“So you aren’t often in the company of the duke?”

“Sometimes, when I am feeling inordinately blessed with patience and temperance, I
will take it upon myself to visit my family at Ironwood Park. I wouldn’t say I go
there to visit Trent specifically, but rather my sister and my mother. Sometimes one
of my other three brothers.”

“Ironwood Park is your brother’s seat, is it not? Did you spend your childhood there?”

“Yes, it is his country seat. All six of us spent our childhoods there.”

“Do you like it?”

Luke shrugged. “In some ways. But I can never stay there long. It is an enormous house
with vast lands, but it has always felt like a prison to me.”

“Aren’t you your brother’s heir? Ironwood Park could be yours someday.”

He chuckled. “Highly doubtful. My sister-in-law is increasing already. I predict she’ll
bear Trent a dozen strapping sons.”

“Does that upset you? The fact that you might lose your position as heir?”

“Hell no.” He slanted a suspicious look in her direction. “Does it upset
you
, Emma?”

Was that why she seemed so interested in him? Was she angling for a position at his
side so that she might someday become a duchess? Women had attempted to play him like
that before. It was the worst kind of deception, and when he’d found them out, his
reaction hadn’t been a kind one.

But she frowned at him. “Why would it matter to me?”

“Think about it,” he said.

She did, her brow creased as she studied him, then her eyes widened in horror. “If
you believe I have designs on you, that I have some horrid intention to become the
next Duchess of Trent, then you don’t know me at all.”

His lips twitched. “Are you certain?”

“Of course I am!” She shuddered as if in disgust. “Good
Lord
.”

Her reaction placated him. “That’s a relief.”

She looked away, gazing at the landscape rolling by for several moments before she
turned to him once again. “I am curious about the home where you grew up—but I assure
you, it’s not because I intend to be its mistress one day.”

He gave a small smile. “Understood.”

“It is in the Cotswolds, is it not?”

“It is.”

“We shall be traveling near it, then. It can’t be far off our course. Shall we visit?”

“It’s directly on our course, actually,” he said. “But, no. We won’t be visiting Ironwood
Park.”

She seemed to shrink an inch. “Oh. I understand. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Why are you using that tone of voice?”

“What tone of voice?”

“The same one you used when you told me your husband didn’t love you.”

She stiffened, her shoulders straightening.
Good.
He much preferred this Emma over the defeated one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her tone haughty.

“Oh, yes, you do.”

She pulled the blanket tighter around her. She was all wrapped up like a present he
wanted to open for Christmas. The most voluptuous, delicious present ever. Too bad
she’d made it quite clear it wasn’t for him.

Not yet, anyhow.

“It’s nothing. Just that I understand why you wouldn’t want to bring me to your family.”

“What?” Understanding washed over him, and he cast an exasperated look to the heavens.
“Oh, good God, woman. You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

She sat there, rigid as one of the statues in the Stone Room at Ironwood Park, and
he sighed. “Listen, my brother and I don’t often see eye to eye. I wouldn’t want to
subject you to our quarrels. That’s all. It has nothing to do with you or their perceptions
of you. I wouldn’t give a damn what Trent thinks about you.” He frowned, feeling the
furrow deepen between his brows. “Actually, I would. If he judged you—” He broke off,
shaking his head.

She didn’t move but stared straight ahead. They were passing a copse of trees, the
leaves glorious shades of red, orange, and brown. The wind had kicked up, sending
swirls of leaves off branches and scattering them across the road.

Finally, she said, “You’re an odd man, Lord Luke.”

“Just Luke.”

“Just Luke,” she murmured. She looked at him, her bronze eyes large and soft, her
lips curled into a smile. “But…thank you.”

“For what?”

“For…” She hesitated, then laughed, the sound a low, throaty chuckle that warmed him
to his marrow. “Well, I suppose for having that angry look on your face when you thought
about your brother judging me. It made me feel…better.”

“If he judged you, I would be less than pleased.” An understatement. He reached down
to hold her hand where it was tapping her leg. She couldn’t return the gesture as
her hand was trapped beneath the blanket, but that was all right.

Her fingers stilled beneath his. He kept his hand tight over hers until they reached
Slimbridge.

The Cambridge Inn was a rectangular building made of white brick with uniform rows
of square-paned windows on its first floor and a front door flanked by two sash windows
on either side. The innkeeper was a burly man who appeared to be in his thirties and
more suited to farm labor than to the comparatively sedentary venture of running an
inn.

Luke registered them as Mr. and Mrs. Charles Hawkins. Emma didn’t say a word about
this until they were safely in their room and the servant who’d carried their luggage
shut the door, leaving them in privacy.

The room was larger than the room in Bristol had been—nearly twice the size, with
a round table and two comfortable-looking chairs on one side of the door and a bed
flanked by two small tables on the other.

She gazed for a long moment at the bed, noting it was large enough for the two of
them, then looked deliberately at Luke. He smirked at her.

She crossed her arms over her chest. Now where would she sleep? She should probably
make him sleep on the floor and take the bed for herself. “Why on
earth
did you do that?”

“My second name is Charles.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He shrugged. “If I’d requested two rooms, what would people have thought? That I am
a man attempting to pretend I’m not traveling with my mistress?”

“You could have said we were brother and sister.”

“Right,” he said in a tone dripping with sarcasm. “We do look
so
much alike.”

They looked nothing alike. It would be a stretch of the imagination to believe them
to be brother and sister. Him with his blond hair and narrow face and sharp features,
her with her dark hair and round face and soft features. Still, not impossible.

She sighed. They should have discussed this beforehand. Agreed upon a suitable course
of action.

Turning away from him, she removed her pelisse and hung it over a chair. When she
turned back, he leaned over his trunk, busying himself with removing a clean waistcoat,
tailcoat, and a simple white cravat. When he closed the trunk, he straightened, unbuttoning
the black cloth buttons of his long greatcoat. He looked beautiful, his hair wind-tossed
around his face, his eyes a dark, tumultuous blue, his face roughened by his afternoon
beard. She could almost imagine how it would feel to run her fingers through his hair
or to have the scruff of his beard scratch her skin as he kissed his way softly down
her neck—

“I’m going downstairs.”

“What?” She fought back a blush as she was quickly jolted from her fantasy. “Why?”
Had he forgotten something in the curricle?

His gaze didn’t quite meet hers. “I’ll take my dinner in the pub.”

For a moment, she stared at him, startled by his change in demeanor. Then, she raised
her brows. “I thought you told the servant we’d take dinner here.”

“Changed my mind.”

Emma steadied herself, but her mind was in a tumult. “Oh. All right, then.”

He busied himself with donning the waistcoat and tailcoat, then deftly tied his cravat
as he gazed into the small looking glass mounted on the wall beside the table. She
watched him in silence.

He swiveled and went to the door, and laying his hand on the door handle, he said,
“Lock it behind me.”

She just stared at him. Without another word, he opened the door and shut it with
a firm click behind him.

Silence.

Then a muffled, “Emma. Lock the damn door.”

With a sigh, she went to the door and locked it. He didn’t say anything else, but
she heard his footsteps as he retreated down the corridor.

She turned back to the empty room to face an evening alone with nothing but the fascinating
company of
Paterson’s British Itinerary
.

L
uke returned to the room after midnight. He’d sat at the table all evening with a
glass of ale that kept magically refilling itself. As he ascended the stairs, he tried
to remember the serving girl who’d brought him the ale, but for the life of him, he
couldn’t remember seeing a serving girl at all, after that one who’d removed his empty
dinner plate.

Surely there’d been a serving girl. Why in hell couldn’t he remember her?

He was still mulling this over when he found himself at the door to the room he was
sharing with Emma.
Lovely Emma.

He searched his pockets but couldn’t find a key. He tried the door but it was locked.
He smiled slightly. Good girl, his Emma.

Damn. What had he done with the key?

He rattled the door handle as if that would make a key suddenly appear. It didn’t
work.

But he heard movement on the other side of the door and then the lock turned. The
door opened to reveal Emma standing there, decidedly disheveled. And delicious.

Her hair—God, that glorious hair. It was twisted into a thick, decadent braid that
trailed down over the front of one shoulder. Its end tickled her luscious breast over
her nightgown. He reached out to touch that soft, round curve, but she stepped back.

“My lord.” Her tone was frosty. “I trust you had a good
dinner
.”

Even in his drunken state, he knew very well the tone of a disgruntled woman.

He tried to remember why she’d be disgruntled. He did remember a pretty woman who’d
approached him this evening. He remembered staring at her, thinking she looked something
like Emma with her dark hair and generous curves. Thinking that she would have seemed
very appealing to him two days ago. That was before he’d met Emma Curtis. Tonight,
that woman had done nothing for him. He’d sent her away, feeling vaguely disconcerted
about this sudden change in behavior that had seemed to come over him.

“Excellent,” he said. “Now that you’re with me.”

A part of him registered that that had made no sense.

She stepped back, waiting for him to enter the room. So he did. She closed the door
behind him. He turned to see her watching him warily in the dimness. The lantern on
the table had been lowered so that he could see the expression on her face but not
its finer details. Not the velvet-thick lashes on her eyes or the exact shade of the
pink of her lips. All those features he’d memorized while he drove the curricle earlier
today.

The loveliness of her nightgown snagged his gaze. The bits of lace that adorned its
collar and hem and sleeves—he could see those. He could also see the way the white,
flowing gown made her look so innocent and virginal.

She isn’t a virgin
, the sober part of him said. But she might as well be, the way that bastard Curtis
had treated her. She’d never been properly loved. All women should be properly loved.
Especially this one.

God, how Luke loved women. Especially this one.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked.

“Because I’m drunk, and I can’t stop admiring your loveliness,” he told her honestly.

Was that his imagination or did the pale pink of her cheeks deepen? He took a step
toward her, intent on pinning her to the door as he had last night—was that last night?
He couldn’t remember. And tasting her again…oh, she’d tasted so…damn…good. But she
slipped under his arm and escaped.

“I made a bed for myself, my lord.” She gestured to the floor, where she had taken
one of the pillows and one of the blankets and folded it to look like it was covering
a bed.

Oh,
hell
no.

“You are not sleeping on the floor.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I am not sleeping with
you
.”

A vague part of him remembered the agreement they’d made. “You’re not ready for ‘relations’
yet?”

“No, I am not.”

“But you will be soon?” he asked hopefully.

“No.”

He sighed dramatically. “Well. Blast,” he mumbled.

He fumbled with his coat buttons, finally managed to free them. He stripped down to
his shirt, dropping his clothes on the floor, and fell onto the bed.

The bed was comfortable, but damned cold.

Where was Emma?

“Emma?” he called.

No answer.

He struggled to a seated position, panic swarming over him. Where the hell had she
gone? “Emma, where are you?”

Her head popped into his vision, and he blinked. Then he realized where she’d appeared
from. She’d been lying on the floor and had sat up.

“I’m right here,” she told him softly.

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I told you—”

“I need you here, Emma. No relations.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m too
damned drunk for relations, anyhow. Just sleep. Sleep with me, Emma. It’s so cold.”

She stared at him for a long moment with one of those unfathomable expressions she
seemed to enjoy wearing. Then, with a sigh, she rose, her lovely white nightgown falling
to her ankles. Moonlight crept through the thin gauze curtain covering the window
behind her, haloing her curvaceous body. She looked like an angel.

She
was
an angel. At that moment, he was sure of it.

She bent down to retrieve the blanket she’d been using and laid it over him. He shivered
again.

She fetched her pillow and walked around to the other side of the bed. She stared
down at him. “No relations?”

“None,” he said in the most reassuring tone he could muster. He’d forgotten what “relations”
were, but hell, he just wanted to sleep next to her warm, luscious body.

She hesitated a moment longer, then slipped into bed beside him. Not touching him,
she turned her back to him. She hovered on the very edge of the bed. All he had to
do was nudge her shoulder and she’d go tumbling off.

He reached out and pulled her against him, feeling her body stiffen in his arms. “Shhh,”
he said against her warm, soft neck. He breathed in, then shuddered. She smelled so
good. Like lavender and flesh and woman. “Shhh,” he told her again, stroking her hip
as if she were a skittish horse. “Just go to sleep, angel. Go to sleep.”

Moments later, he drifted into oblivion, his arms wrapped around the warm, soft, delectable
body of Emma Curtis.

Emma awoke alone in the bed. Luke was nowhere to be seen. Where had that man gone
now?

She rose and looked out the window to see that it was a fair day again, with milky
blue skies, but when she pressed her palm to the pane, it was ice cold. She checked
the door to find herself locked in—this time he’d taken the key. Grumbling to herself,
she washed and dressed in her white muslin, casting furtive glances at the door. Thankfully,
Luke didn’t saunter in to find her half naked.

Fully dressed, she lowered herself into the simple wooden chair at the small armoire
tucked into the corner of the room, undid her braid, and pulled a comb through her
hair. Memories of last night washed through her.

His behavior…She swallowed hard. He’d called her “angel.” In her entire life, no one
had ever called her angel. She’d been called devil, though, and often. Mostly by Mama
and the various governesses who had passed through their home. Words like
willful hoyden
and
stubborn hellion
had oft been used to describe Emma. She remembered one of them speaking in low tones
to her mother:
It is hopeless, ma’am. No one will ever make a lady out of that one.

But that woman had been wrong. Emma had gone to boarding school with Jane, and they’d
both grown into ladies—though Jane definitely made a more admirable example of a lady
than Emma ever had.

Now she’d given up all hope or pretense of ever being a lady again. Further, she no
longer felt that burning desire to be a true lady—her days of wanting to please society
had vanished along with her father’s fortune. All she wanted now was to take care
of her family and redeem herself in Papa’s and Jane’s eyes.

Still, last night, Lord Lukas Hawkins had called her an angel.

Well, one thing was certain, she thought ruefully: the man had been three sheets to
the wind.

But she had liked falling asleep in his arms.

No,
liked
wasn’t the right word. She’d loved it and hated it and been tortured by it. She had
lain there long after his breaths had deepened, signaling that he slept. Her body
had felt rigid and pulsing with energy—wide awake and tense and…aroused. Even in sleep,
his arms remained clasped firm and strong and masculine around her. He smelled of
soap and smooth malt.

The arousal had spread through her like a slow-burning fire. A part of her had wished
desperately that he’d forgotten all about their bargain and had tried to take liberties
with her. Would she have fought him off?

Her mind—that proud, wary thing inside her—screamed yes, but her body’s answer was
a definitive no.

She didn’t understand him, and she didn’t really know him. And there was no question
that he bore some of Henry’s less savory traits. But she wanted him.

It had taken nearly an hour for her body to cool and for her to relax in the circle
of his heavy arms. But finally she did, and when she slept, she’d dreamed of his blue
eyes and his kiss, and in her dream, his arms around her had turned into shackles.
Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have moved. He’d smiled at her with a wicked
gleam in those eyes, and he’d said in a gruff voice, “Do you like this, Emma? Do you
like to be bound?”

And then he’d lain over her, his body heavy and warm and strong, and in the middle
of the night, she’d awakened with a soft moan, trembling through the tail end of a
body-clenching orgasm.

She’d lain awake for some time afterward, stiff and terrified that he had awakened,
too, but he didn’t budge. Finally she let go, forcibly releasing the tension that
had built in her muscles. She nuzzled her body against his and, finally warm and relaxed
and comfortable, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It seemed she was a bigger fool than she’d originally believed herself to be. She
might be able to forgive herself for being seduced by an immoral rake once. But twice?
No. Only a complete ninny would make that mistake twice.

He’d obviously risen long before her and had left the room without waking her. Odd,
since she was an early riser to begin with, and he’d probably drunk an entire barrel
of ale last night.

Nevertheless, she had to admit, her sleep had been more restful than it had been in
a very long time. It was no wonder she’d slept late.

She had twined her hair on her head and was pinning it when she heard the key in the
lock, and Luke opened the door and entered, carrying a large parcel.

Holding her hair in place with one hand, she turned to him. “What’s that?”

“Good morning to you, too,” he said mildly.

“Good morning,” she said agreeably. Then, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

He glanced at her with humor in his eyes as he laid the parcel on the bed. “When was
I feeling poorly?”

“Last night.”

“Ah. That.” Straightening, he met her gaze evenly. “I wasn’t feeling poorly. I was
just cold. You did an excellent job of warming me.”

She jammed a pin into her hair, not knowing how to respond. So he remembered. She
was glad he hadn’t been so drunk he’d forgotten what had happened last night.
You did a fine job of warming me, too, my lord. I was burning. On fire. An inferno…In
fact, you had me so hot and wanting you that I came in my sleep.

Turning back toward the mirror, she gave a self-deprecating laugh into the glass.

He came to her, laid a hand on her shoulder. His touch burned into her, and she froze,
staring at him in the little mirror. “Did I scare you last night?”

She pondered the question, then answered him as truthfully as she could. “Yes. But…perhaps
not in the way you imagine.”

He took a deep breath, then his fingers tightened over her shoulder. “Know that whatever
happens, whatever I say, I would never physically harm you, Emma. Well”—he gave her
one of those reckless grins—“unless you asked me to, that is.”

What would he do if she asked him to…? Oh, Lord. Something deep inside her clamped
down, desire rekindling from last night.

He met her gaze in the mirror, held it for a long moment, his blue eyes simmering
with heat, then he turned away. He went to the bed and began to untie the strings
of the brown-paper-wrapped package. “Here. I want you to try this on.”

Pressing the final pin into her hair, she turned, intrigued. “What is it?”

He pushed the strings aside, tore the paper, and miles of black silk and fur seemed
to fall out of it.

Luke held it up for her to see.

It was a hooded cloak of black silk, lined with wool and trimmed with the softest-looking
fur she’d ever seen. Ermine, she thought—white fur speckled with black dots. And a
matching fur-lined muff.

She gazed at the cloak and the muff for a long moment, unexpected tears prickling
at her eyes. “Oh, Luke.” She swallowed hard. “I…you…No. They are too much.”

“Not at all. I promised I’d try to keep you safe. Yesterday you were chilled to the
bone—you could have caught your death out there. These will help.”

“I shouldn’t accept such a gift.”

“Not a gift—a necessity. I can’t allow you to freeze to death.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Luke stepped forward. “Stand.”

She stood, and he laid the cloak over her shoulders. It was exquisitely made, heavy
and soft and warm. He tucked the muff over one of her hands, and she obligingly pressed
her hand into its other side.

“I’ve never felt anything so soft,” she said.

“Warm enough, do you think?”

“Oh, yes.”

He studied her for a long moment, satisfaction in his gaze. Then he removed the cloak
from her shoulders and laid it back on the bed. “Breakfast? We have a long drive ahead
of us today.”