The Rogue's Proposal (8 page)

“Hurt like hell,” he mumbled.

“It probably hurt him more than it hurt you.”

“Hope so.”

Suddenly, she brought his hand to her mouth, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips
to his knuckles. She gazed up at him, her eyes bright. “You defended my honor. No
one has ever done that for me before. Thank you.”

He scowled at her. Why had no one defended her before?

“Are you angry with me?” she whispered.

“No.” He wiped the scowl from his face, forcibly relaxing his features. She was still
grasping his right hand, so with his left he tenderly tucked a stray curl behind her
ear. “No, Emma. I’m not angry.”

She looked up at him, her lips spreading into a wide smile.

Luke stared at her, his gut clenching hard. This woman, on her knees before him, smiling
up at him with shining eyes, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Good Lord, thought Emma. Why had she written that? She sighed and stared at the letter
for long moments. She couldn’t scratch it out—she’d have to start the letter over,
and she didn’t have another sheet of paper. Chewing on her lip, she continued.

She chuckled a little at that. Interesting pursuits, indeed. Pursuits of the most
rakish variety, for certain. But hopefully that would pacify Jane, who surely wouldn’t
think of
those
kinds of pursuits. She continued.

She hesitated, wondering whether she should tell Jane about the curricle. No, she
decided, definitely not. Emma had no intention of adding to her sister’s worries.

He’d refrained from sharing any further information about his “business.” She’d tried
to pry it out of him once more this morning, but he resisted her attempts, just telling
her that it had nothing to do with Ironwood Park or Trent or his other family members
who resided there.

Her curiosity threatened to run away with her, however. Why would a nobleman rake
like Luke feel the need to take care of any kind of business in a place like Worcester—and
he said the business would take place outside the city. All sorts of scenarios had
run through her mind, but she kept returning to one: It must have something to do
with a woman. And perhaps an illegitimate child.

It would make sense, in a place a distance away but still within a few hours’ travel
from his onetime home, where he could make infrequent visits whenever he was in the
area. It would make sense, given his roguish reputation.

The thought of him seeing a woman depressed Emma. Even though she knew she had no
right to feel any proprietary feelings over him, she had spent three nights with him
now. Two of those nights enclosed in his arms.

Last night had been different from the first. He’d been sober, as she’d asked him—well,
if she was honest with herself, she’d
begged
him—not to go down to the tavern for his dinner. Not only did she not want him to
get drunk again, but she also didn’t want him to risk encountering that awful Mr.
Small again.

So they’d slept, but he’d been restless, and she knew he hadn’t slept well. In the
early morning hours, he’d gasped and sat up straight in the bed, waking her. She’d
opened her eyes dazedly and blinked at the sheen of sweat on his brow. It struck her
as very odd—it wasn’t a warm night.

“What is it?” she’d murmured. “Did you have a nightmare?”

He’d turned to her, clearly shaken and upset. “It’s nothing,” he’d said in a rasping
voice. “Go back to sleep.”

He left the bed and sat at the table with his head in his hands while she’d lain there,
wondering what to do. Wanting to go to him and comfort him but not knowing how. She’d
finally slipped out of bed and gone to him. He looked up, startled, when she put her
hand on his shoulder.

“Come back to bed?”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

He looked away from her, closing his eyes. “Because I made you a promise. And if I
return to that bed right now, that promise will be broken.” His bleak gaze met hers.
He reached up and stroked her cheek with one knuckle. Then her chin. Then, ever so
slowly, he trailed his fingertip over her bottom lip, and a deep shudder resonated
through her. “I’ve broken so many promises, Emma. I don’t want to break this one.”

Confused, aroused, still clawing through the shroud of sleep that he’d dragged her
from with his nightmare, she nodded. “All right,” she’d murmured. “Please…come back
to bed when you can.”

“I will.”

She’d stumbled back to the bed and had fallen asleep faster than she’d thought possible,
with him still sitting at the table, his head in his hands.

With a sigh, Emma looked back down at her letter to her sister. She dipped her pen
into the ink and began to write again.

Emma folded the letter, then donned her pelisse and buttoned the worn Chinese buttons
down the front. She glanced at the silk cloak hanging on a peg by the door, and a
smile tugged at her lips as it did every time she laid eyes on Luke’s gift, but she
would probably be too warm if she wore it.

She tucked the letter into her reticule along with a few coins, then went out of the
room, locking the door behind her.

She hurried downstairs and encountered an employee of the inn, a fresh-faced girl
whom she asked about the mail to Bristol.

“It goes out at half-eight from the Star and Garter, ma’am.”

Good, then her letter to Jane would be on its way tonight. “Where’s the Star and Garter?”

“Not far at all.” The girl gave her a bright smile. “I’ll be happy to deliver it for
you, if you’d like.”

“No thank you. If it’s not far, I’d like to walk. I could use a bit of fresh air.”
That was the truth. She’d been cooped up inside the room all day.

“Of course, ma’am.” The girl directed her to the Star and Garter, and Emma stepped
out into the busy street.

“Mrs. Curtis!”

That voice was familiar. Dread curling in her stomach, she turned to see that Small
had followed her out of the inn. He was quite the fop, with his black hair shiny with
oil and an exact match to his gleaming black shoes and snug buff pantaloons, his dark
purple velvet coat and carved walking stick.

She stood tall, trying to look down her nose at him, though he was taller than her.

“Mr. Small.”

He chuckled. “It’s Mr. Small
shaw
, love. Small’s just a nickname.”

“My apologies,” she said icily. She noticed, with no small measure of satisfaction,
that the right side of his jaw had turned quite an ugly shade of green.

“May I accompany you to your destination?”

“No thank you.”

She turned and commenced to walk, but the blasted man kept pace beside her. She walked
faster, and he sped up, too.

“So, tell me how you became acquainted with Lord Lukas.”

She made a scoffing noise and stared straight ahead, as though it took all her focus
to negotiate the treacherous terrain of the street. “Not likely.”

“No, really, I am ever so curious. You see, Hawkins and I are close friends.
Very
close.”

She pretended to ignore him.

“He’s never been so protective of a woman before. In fact, he’s always been most generous
when I’ve asked him to share. And now he’s punching me in the face at the mere suggestion.
As I am certain you can imagine, this is a mystery I am
most
eager to solve.”

Emma’s steps ground to a halt. She gazed up at this man—at his round face with angelic
features under all that curly, oily hair—and narrowed her eyes at him.

“Please, Mr. Smallshaw,
please
leave me alone.”

“Aw, come now. I’m just trying to be friendly, Mrs. Curtis. I’m quite harmless, really.”

She did not like his wheedling tone or his attempting-to-be-disarming grin. In fact,
she liked nothing about him.

“Be that as it may,” she said, “I’d prefer you to go away.”

His brows rose and his lips firmed, his attempt to be friendly evaporating. She’d
known it had been false anyhow. “A set-down from a lightskirt. Now that’s a rare thing
for a man such as myself.”

“A man such as yourself?” she asked. “Meaning a man with neither scruples nor morality?”

“Ah, right,” he said, matching her sarcasm tone for tone, “and pray, what sort of
man do you believe you’re sleeping with? Please refrain from standing there with that
high-handed manner, madam, saying that
I
lack scruples and morality.”

With a huff, he turned on his heel and strode down the street toward the Crown and
Unicorn, his walking stick tapping on the cobbles, not deigning to look back at her.

She continued on to the Star and Garter and delivered the letter to the post, feeling
like a heavy cloud had gathered just above her shoulders and was threatening a downpour.

She knew Luke was a rogue. And she knew—at least a part of her did—that he’d engaged
in activities and dark pleasures that she could never even conceive of.

But all those women—and those men—who’d seen him drunk and carousing and seemingly
with no care in the world…had those people seen him waking from nightmares shaking
and covered in sweat? Did they see the anguish in his gaze whenever he talked about
his family? Did he call
them
angel? Did he hold on to them at night like he’d never let them go?

It was possible, she conceded. The thought made her sick.

But realistically, she thought not. She remembered that first night in Bristol—his
cavalier attitude, his flippant, blatantly carnal behavior. All those were part of
who Luke was. But there was more. He was surprisingly easy to talk to. He was tender,
compassionate, and thoughtful. Protective, too. And he possessed a sense of honor
he’d never admit to having.

And she still didn’t know him. She was certain he kept secrets, secrets that tore
him apart but that he felt he could never reveal.

Still, he was a rogue. Her husband had been a rogue, too—but Luke was a different
kind of rogue altogether. In spite of his changeable nature, his moods and his secrets,
he had proved himself to be different from Henry.

But she couldn’t take those little differences he’d showed her as proof that he was
any less dangerous to her than Henry had been.

She remembered how he’d said he’d been responsible for the ruination of a girl once,
how it had been devastating for her but had hardly affected him.

That girl could be Emma next. Despite what her heart and body were telling her, she
couldn’t allow herself to forget it.

It took them five days to reach Edinburgh. Five days of hard driving that sapped the
energy straight out of Emma’s body. By the time they reached the inns every night,
she could do little more than eat a quick dinner, drop into bed, and allow the exhaustion
to claim her.

Luke had returned from his mystery “business” in Worcester smiling and flirtatious.
He’d sent her fiery looks that evening until, with a sigh, he’d announced he was going
downstairs. Each night since then, he’d left her and didn’t return until she was fast
asleep. He always tucked himself beside her, and at some point in the night she’d
wake with his arms around her, and she’d burrow into his shirt and sleep easier.

She wondered if he was seeking out that female companionship he’d told her he might
require. She was doing her best to turn a blind eye as she’d promised that first night
in Bristol, but it was difficult. When he left her, she felt an odd sort of emptiness
inside. A part of her—a part that grew more insistent every day—commanded her to grab
him and hold on to him. To refuse to allow him to leave her. To touch any other woman
but her.

She didn’t want him touching other women. The thought twisted her insides into knots
that grew tighter and tighter with every day that passed until she couldn’t bear it
anymore.

On the final day of their journey to Edinburgh, they stopped for luncheon alongside
the Pentland Hills in the southern part of Scotland on the road that would take them
into the city that evening. The ground was carpeted by the greenest grass and dotted
with darker brush and trees, and the hills rolled into the horizon, smooth and rounded.
A brook bubbled nearby, giving the horses a watering place and providing Emma and
Luke an opportunity to wash the grime of travel from their hands and faces.

While the horses grazed docilely nearby, they spread the blanket and retrieved their
meal from the curricle. She sat across from him, and they ate boiled eggs, salted
beef, day-old bread, and hard cheese in companionable silence for a while.

She glanced at him surreptitiously through her lashes, but he seemed intent on his
food. Still, those knots were twisted so tight within her, she couldn’t stand it a
second longer.

“Luke?”

He glanced at her, his blue eyes clear in the light of the day. Not dark and bloodshot
like they were after an evening of imbibing. She sighed.

“Mmm?” he said around a mouthful of food.

“Why do you do it?”

His expression went blank. After he swallowed, he said, “Do what?”

“Leave our rooms at night. Drink…and…and whatever else it is that you do.” She swallowed
hard.

“Gamble?” he supplied helpfully.

She wrapped her arms across her chest, suppressing a shiver. She was still cold from
the road, and thinking about the similarity between her husband’s habits and Luke’s
did nothing to warm her. “Is that what you do? Gamble?”

“I do have a penchant for the pastime,” he said in a musing voice. He took a bite
of egg.

“Oh, I know how it is.” Bitterness limned her tone. “I have learned how quickly a
man can bleed money at the gaming tables.”