The Rogue's Proposal (17 page)

“I’m all right,” she reassured him. Her wits were returning, and trying to think beyond
the frigid cold, she assessed herself. Her head felt fine. Her body, too. Well, except
for her foot.

“Are you…were you hurt?” she asked him, running a hand over his cheek.

“No. I leapt after you. Landed on my feet. There’s not a damn scratch on me.” His
lips twisted bitterly. “Of course.”

She made a
tsk
ing noise. “Stop that. Are you wishing you’d been hurt?”

“If it meant you weren’t, then yes,” he said without hesitation.

“I’m not hurt.”

He released a slow, audible breath. “Are you really all right?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, then added, “But I think something happened to my foot.”

He moved to her feet. “Which one?”

“The right.”

Slowly, he removed her sodden shoe. Every touch near her ankle was excruciating. His
fingers ran gently over the surface of where it hurt the most. “Here?”

“Yes.”

“That damn wheel fell on you. I had to get it off before I could pull you from the
water. It must have crushed your foot.”

His gaze moved from her ankle to her face, his expression hard. “You’re chilled to
the bone. You need dry clothes. Then we need to find you a doctor.”

“Out here? I think our first dilemma is what to do about the carriage.”

Luke ground his teeth. Then he reached down and scooped her into his arms as if she
were a child. “Luke! I’m too heavy. I can walk.”

“No.” He tugged her tighter against him and rose to his feet with surprisingly little
effort. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he climbed the embankment and stepped
onto the road. He turned slowly, keeping her snug against him. “There’s nowhere for
you to sit. Can you stand on one foot for a few moments?”

“Of course,” she told him.

Ever so gently, he set her down, and even though her heart was still beating with
fear and shock, and even though pain wound through the bottom of her leg, she felt
a quickening in her womb.

He felt it, too. When her feet touched the ground, he looked down at her with a heated
gaze. “I want you so damn much right now.”

Then take me
, she wanted to say.
Right here in the middle of the road
. But she shivered instead. Even though it was a shiver of need, he took it as a chill,
and after ensuring she was steady, he stepped away.

She looked down at the rocky, wet ground, acknowledging that it would have probably
been highly uncomfortable to make love to Luke right here. Sometimes, practicality
ruled.

She watched Luke rummage around in the boot, drawing dry clothes out. He returned
with her extra chemise and a petticoat. “We’ll start with these. Stand still.”

She stood as he removed her dripping, heavy silk cloak. She nearly cried when he drew
it off and she saw that it was caked with mud and leaves. “Do you think it’s ruined?”

“No,” he said softly. He went behind her, not allowing her to move, and worked on
the buttons of her dress—she’d been wearing the white muslin. It, too, was dirty,
wet, and mud-splashed.

The dress came off, followed by her petticoat. And, half naked in the middle of a
thoroughfare in Northumberland, she began to shiver uncontrollably. She’d never been
so cold.

Luke saw—she couldn’t have hid it from him—and his jaw tightened. “I’m sorry,” she
whispered. “It’s just…chilly.”

“It all needs to come off,” he said darkly. “You’re soaked. If anyone drives by in
the next five minutes—” He glanced up and down the road as if willing all nearby vehicles
to halt where they were until Emma was decent again.

And then he went to work. Balancing on her one good foot, she helped him unlace her
stays, then lift the chemise over her body.

His eyes flickered over her when she was naked, but then he saw her shivering, her
hands wrapped around her chest. A muscle jerked in his jaw again, and he tugged the
dry chemise on over her.

“No stays,” he snapped. “They’re too wet.” She didn’t have an extra set of stays anyhow.

“All right.”

He helped her into her petticoat in silence, his movements efficient but gentle. Then
he buttoned her into her black-and-white half-mourning dress.

No vehicles passed by. Which was rare, since the road had been relatively crowded
earlier—all the farmers and travelers making their way north or south after the days
of rainy weather.

Now that she was fully dressed, she’d expected to warm up. But the cold had settled
into her bones, and she couldn’t stop shaking.

He removed his coat and laid it over her shoulders, murmuring, “It’s only damp on
the outside.”

He was right. The inside was warm and smelled of him. She wrapped it tight about her
as he went to the carriage—what was left of it—and fetched the blanket they’d had
since Bristol.

He laid that on her shoulders over his coat and then pulled her close. He rubbed her
back briskly, trying to infuse warmth, but his gaze went to the curricle.

“Someone should be by soon. We’ll have him take us to the closest doctor.”

“Really,” she told him, “I don’t think it’s so bad. Just a bruise.”

He scowled at her. “A bruise you cannot stand on? I don’t think so.”

They went to the carriage, Luke supporting most of her weight as she hobbled over
the muddy ground. Emma leaned against the one still-standing wheel while Luke unhitched
the horses.

Before he finished, they heard the clomping of hooves coming from ahead. Emma watched
as a coach and four with a driver on the front seat and another man seated at the
rear came into view. They’d been moving at a very fast pace—compared, at least, to
the speed Luke and Emma had been traveling at earlier—but the driver slowed the horses
as soon as he saw the wreckage scattered across the road.

Luke stopped his work on the horses and went to meet the vehicle as it came to a halt
just ahead of the ditch where the curricle had lost its wheel.

Men poured out of the coach to view the wreck, their curious gazes roaming over the
curricle, then over the intimate wet and muddy clothing spread over the lopsided seat.
Then their attention moved to Emma. Luke, who was speaking to the coachman, broke
off, his gaze going to the men, then to her.

He was beside her in a few long strides. He scooped her up, as he had before. Ignoring
the five men who’d emerged from the carriage, he approached one of the coachmen, who
was dismounting.

“I’m sorry—I used my real name,” he murmured to her. Then to the coachman, “My companion
was injured in the accident.”

“I hope it isn’t serious,” the driver said in a compassionate tone, but Emma could
see the glint in his dark eyes as his gaze perused her. He thought she was Luke’s
mistress.

Which, she supposed, she was.

“Really, it’s not so bad—just a bruised ankle.” And to Luke, “Please put me down,
my lord.”

Luke ignored her and said to the coachman, “You will drive us to the nearest physician.”

The man raised a brow. “Sorry, my lord. I’m from London—not even sure physicians exist
this far from civilization.”

The second driver had descended from his perch and stood beside the first. “We’re
an hour from Belford. There is a coaching inn there. They’re likely to know where
to locate a doctor.”

Emma nearly groaned. They’d passed through Belford a while ago. They’d be going backward.

“Good. We’ll join you, then,” Luke said.

The men helped to move the wreckage of their curricle to the side of the road. They
secured the horses behind the mail coach and fetched Emma’s and Luke’s luggage. Luke
assured her he’d also gathered her wet clothing and had returned it to her valise.
Then, three of the men sat on the top of the mail coach, leaving plenty of room for
Luke and Emma inside. Luke carried her in, setting her gently beside the window, then
sitting beside her.

The hour was long. Luke glared whenever either of the two men glanced at her. So Emma
sat quietly, her skin numb with cold, but the outside of her foot throbbed with pain.

Belford was only fifteen miles south of Berwick-upon-Tweed. After all they’d been
through today, they would have only fifteen miles of progress to show. And no carriage.
Emma wanted to discuss what they were going to do from here with Luke, but she didn’t
want to talk in front of strangers.

So it was with deep relief that she alighted from the mail coach in Belford. Practically
before she could blink, the driver had grabbed a bundle of mail from the open window
at the inn, and the coach was on its way again, kicking up mud onto the luggage that
had been deposited at Emma’s and Luke’s feet as they stood there, Emma balancing on
one leg with Luke’s supporting arm around her, the reins of the two horses gripped
in his free hand.

Luke stared after the mail coach, supreme annoyance in his expression, then he looked
at his feet. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, deep breath.

He looked up again. “Sorry about that.”

She raised a brow. “About what?”

“The way they were looking at you.”

Ah. That.

“God help me, I wanted to wipe those smirks off their faces. It was all I could do
not to.”

She laughed softly. “I admire your self-control, but truly they were not that bad.”

“I don’t approve of anyone looking at you like that.” His eyes narrowed. “Except me,
of course.”

Two servants wandered out from the inn and took their luggage. Another took the horses
and promised to give them a good rubdown and a clean stall for the night.

“I require a pint of red paint, I believe,” Luke muttered.

Emma turned to him, wide-eyed. “What on earth for?”

“So I can write ‘Property of Lord Lukas Hawkins. Anyone caught staring will be immediately
throttled’ on your forehead.”

She laughed. “I doubt all that would fit on my forehead.” At the same time, a part
of her secretly thrilled at the idea of being his “property.” Which was unsettling,
because ever since her disaster of a marriage, she didn’t like to think of herself
as anyone’s property but her own.

And she wasn’t Luke’s property. She hadn’t promised anything to him, nor had he promised
anything to her. Even if they had made promises, she didn’t know if she could ever
again accept the concept of belonging to any man. She’d spent her life first as her
father’s property, then Henry’s. Now she was her own woman, making her own decisions.
And she liked it that way.

But she couldn’t dwell too much on such thoughts right now. They had more pressing
matters to deal with.

“What are we going to do?” she murmured, gazing at the bend in the road where the
mail coach had disappeared.

“First, let’s get you inside. You’re still cold. Then a doctor for that foot. After
that I’ll find us a new carriage.” He gave her a cocky grin that warmed her from the
inside out. “If all goes well, we’ll be on our way again tomorrow.”

T
he doctor prodded Emma’s foot. She gritted her teeth but didn’t complain. Finally,
he pronounced a badly sprained ankle—the wheel landing on her lower leg had only produced
tenderness and bruising, but the true injury must have been upon her impact with the
ground, when she twisted the ankle. Truly, she couldn’t quite remember exactly how
it had happened. It had all been such a blur.

The doctor reassured Luke that it was a relatively minor sprain and should heal in
a few weeks, as long as she kept off it as much as possible. He wrapped it tightly
in a linen cloth, directed her to keep her leg on level with her body, ordered hot
towels to be brought at regular intervals, and gave her a cane.

When the man left the room they’d procured at the Blue Bell Inn, Luke stood still,
glaring down at where she was seated on the bed with her back propped against the
wall. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

He was furious. At himself. For allowing her to get hurt.

Yet another reminder of his inadequacy.

Not to mention the fact that he’d lied to her from the beginning…

He took a measured breath. He needed to see about a carriage. He tried to smile at
her but was certain it emerged as more of a grimace. “A post chaise.”

“What?”

“We’ll hire a post chaise to take us to London.”

She seemed to consider this, then gave him a wry smile. “I would have loved that idea
back in Bristol.”

He frowned. “But not now?”

“I grew fond of our little curricle, I suppose. I was sorry to see it in pieces like
that.”

He went to the edge of the bed and sat, gathering her delicate, feminine hand in his
own larger one.

“I shouldn’t have bought it. I should have known better.”

“I saw all of England, from the south to the north. I breathed fresh, clean air every
day. The experience was incomparable. I’d no idea back in Bristol how much I’d end
up appreciating all that.”

“But you were hurt,” he said gruffly.

“Not badly.”

“It could have been worse.” So much worse. He remembered her body lurching through
the air like a rag doll, then slamming into the water. The wheel spinning through
the air after her—God, the most sickening images had run through his mind all afternoon.
His stomach was still a twisted mess.

“But it wasn’t worse,” she told him. “I’m all right, thanks to your careful driving.”

He brought her knuckles up to his mouth and kissed the top of her hand gently. “Rest.
I need to go down and find us a new carriage.”

She sighed. “All right. I’ll write to Jane while you’re gone.”

He brought her her writing supplies and arranged them so that she wouldn’t have to
get out of bed in order to write the letter. Then he took his coat and left her.

Half an hour later, he’d arranged for a post chaise to depart from the Blue Bell promptly
at nine o’clock the following morning.

As he was heading back up to Emma, his eye caught on the pub across the street from
the inn, which was growing busy for the dinner hour.

He’d have a drink before heading up for the evening. Just one, and then he’d join
Emma for dinner, perhaps carry her down so they could eat together.

The sun went down, and a servant came in to light the lamps. Emma didn’t ask for dinner
to be brought up, because Luke had mentioned something about eating downstairs.

Another hour passed. And another. Another servant brought her a batch of hot towels
for her ankle. She took them with thanks and sent the servant away.

By now, Emma knew where he’d gone. She set the towels aside, hobbled to the window,
and pressed her forehead against it.

The man brought out such conflicting feelings in her. From unadulterated happiness
to deep despair and just about everything in between. She’d never even known she was
capable of feeling so much.

Right now, the prevalent feeling was despair. She hated that compulsion he had to
leave her. He would have done it every night, she knew. The only reason she’d had
a reprieve in Berwick-upon-Tweed was that she’d kept him so completely occupied in
bed.

Tonight she would have been happy to keep him occupied in bed as well. That surge
of desire at the scene of the carriage accident hadn’t dissipated as the day had slipped
by. It still resided somewhere deep and dark and delicious inside her.

But those desires surely wouldn’t be satisfied tonight. Luke wasn’t here. He was gone.
In the pub across the street she’d seen him glancing at as they’d gone into the inn
earlier.

As she stood there gazing out into the black of night, the despair transformed to
anger. She briefly contemplated limping down there to fetch him. No. She wouldn’t
make a scene, and she was too furious with him not to. She felt like railing at him.
She felt like punching him.

The pane of glass pressed against her forehead, cold as a block of ice. Their room
was at the back of the inn, and the lane, as well as the mews and stables beyond,
were dark. It was cold, and everyone had gone home for the evening. Everyone except
Luke, evidently.

She pressed her palm against the windowpane, realizing she was feeling possessive
about Lord Lukas Hawkins. She was feeling entitled to have a say in what he chose
to do in the evenings. But, in truth, that wasn’t at all the case. Technically, he
owed her nothing. He’d made her no promises. He could do whatever he pleased. Even
find a woman downstairs, if that was what he chose.

Still, her heart told her otherwise. Her heart told her that they had shared too much
intimacy to be indifferent toward each other.

Which was a dangerous thing. She was becoming too involved. She knew Luke well enough
now to understand that he was unlike anyone she’d ever met—charming and dark, teasing
and sensual, demanding and generous, content yet aching for something mysterious she
wished she could give him. He was a maddening, intriguing combination of lightness
and darkness, but he kept so much of himself hidden from her, even now.

How could a woman tell her heart what to feel?

She waited for hours. A maid came in with her laundered damp clothing and hung it.
Hopefully it would dry overnight, because it would need to be packed early in the
morning if Luke did indeed intend to leave tomorrow, and she didn’t want it to sour.

And then she sat on the bed, keeping her foot level with her body as the doctor had
ordered.

She waited. And waited. Growing more angry. More sorry for herself. Tears gathered
behind her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

Why, Luke? Why do you do this to yourself? To us?

She donned her nightgown and attempted to sleep. That was a fruitless endeavor. She
was too agitated. Too angry and hurt and confused. Her mind was too consumed by Luke.
For the first time since she’d known him, she wondered how she was possibly going
to survive this man.

Finally, in the early morning hours, he returned. Emma hadn’t slept at all. She turned
away from the door at the first fumble of the key in the lock, then feigned sleep
as he stumbled in, cursing under his breath. She heard him lock the door, strip down
to his shirt. Then he climbed into bed beside her. She could smell the liquor on him,
and again, she felt that heavy pressure of tears behind her eyes.

“Emma?” His voice was thick, and he pronounced her name as if it were a foreign word
he’d yet to master.

She closed her eyes and didn’t answer.

His lips pressed into her hair. “Beautiful angel,” he slurred. “Sleep, my love.”

It was only then that a single tear escaped from her clenched eyes. It slid slowly
down her cheek in a hot, painful trail.

The next morning, Emma awoke to the smells of eggs, ham, toast, and steaming coffee.

She stirred, stretched. Remembering last night, something inside her clenched as she
saw Luke rise from the chair across the room bearing a tray. She schooled her face
to passivity as he approached her.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the tray in his lap, and gazed down at her, an expression
of infinite tenderness on his face. “How is your ankle?”

She moved it experimentally, and pain flashed through her foot. “The same.”

“I have your breakfast.”

“Thank you.” She sat up and scooted back, leaning against the wall but keeping her
bad leg straight, trying not to wince at the pain of the weight of the blankets on
her foot as it slid up the bed.

Her eyes widened at the tray Luke held. It contained two cups of coffee—hers heavily
creamed the way she liked it—and a single plate piled high with ham, eggs, toast,
sweet bread, and butter.

“For your strength,” he said, and there was a hint of hopeful boy in his expression.

She reached for the plate, but he caught her hand and placed it firmly at her side.
“Let me feed you.”

“I am not an invalid. I can feed myself.”

“I know. But…I would very much like to feed you your breakfast this morning.”

She knew exactly what he was doing: trying to make up for leaving her last night.

Sighing, she said, “I’ll never be able to eat that much food.”

“I hope you’ll share.”

With a small, false smile on her face, she nodded.

He buttered the toast, tore off a piece for her and one for himself. Using the same
fork, they shared bites of egg and meat until Emma’s stomach was pleasantly full.

Luke moved the tray to the table and then sat on the bed again. Cradling her coffee
cup in her hands, she gazed at him, all kinds of questions barreling through her mind.
Accusations, too, for the memory of how he’d made her feel last night was a dark,
festering pit inside her.

She’d felt
abandoned
.

That was exactly what he’d told her he’d end up doing to her. Why was she surprised?
Still, she asked in a small voice, “Why didn’t you come back last night?”

He gazed at her, his expression unreadable. Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

Could such a simple, flat apology soothe all the dark feelings inside her? She didn’t
think so.

“I sat in that tavern last night,” he said, “and all I could think about was what
a liar I’ve been. How I’ve been lying to you.”

She gazed at him, her heart suddenly feeling like it was kicking against her ribs.

“I can’t lie to you anymore, Em.”

“What is it?” she asked unsteadily. What now? What on earth was he talking about?
Was he married? Did this have something to do with his secretive outing in Worcester?

His throat moved as he swallowed, and he suddenly looked so unsure. “I discovered
something last summer. Something that has altered my life but also explained a great
deal about my past.”

He swallowed again, looked down at the bedclothes, then back up at her. “My mother
went missing in April, as you know. In the course of searching for her, my brother
became involved with Baron Stanley. Have you heard of him?”

“No.”

“Stanley’s lands are adjacent to Ironwood Park. Stanley wanted his daughter, Georgina,
to marry Trent, and he attempted to extort marriage from my brother.”

“How?” she breathed.

“He had information—potentially devastating information. About my two brothers Mark
and Theo. And about me.”

She shook her head, confused. “What kind of information?”

He jerked his gaze away from her, looking toward the window she’d leaned against for
so long last night.

“I am not the Duke of Trent’s full brother,” he said dully. “I am his half brother,
on my mother’s side. I am the illegitimate son of the Dowager Duchess of Trent and
Lord Stanley.”

She gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

“When Trent was a baby, my mother became embroiled in a short-lived affair with Lord
Stanley. The old duke knew about it and was furious, of course, but he agreed to raise
me as his own if the truth about my mother and Stanley’s liaison was never revealed.”

“Good Lord,” she murmured. “And…and you never knew?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. For almost twenty-eight years, I thought the Duke of
Trent was my father.”

“Oh, Luke. I’m so sorry.”

“None of us knew. Not Trent, not me, not my other brothers or my sister. We were kept
in the dark until Stanley revealed the truth last summer in his attempt to force Trent
to marry his daughter.”

“But the duke didn’t marry her,” Emma mused. “He married the housemaid.”

“Sarah…yes.” Luke’s lips quirked at one edge. “Trent managed to avoid that potential
disaster. Georgina Stanley is quite the brat. She and my brother never would have
suited.”

“Miss Stanley…she is your half sister, then?”

“Yes.” Slowly, his head turned until he was looking at her. The depth of sadness in
his gaze undid her. Unraveled her completely.

Oh, Luke.

To spend one’s life thinking you were the son of a duke, only to discover at twenty-seven
that not only are you not, but that you’re illegitimate as well. Your father is a
stranger. You have siblings who are strangers. The siblings you thought you had are
only half the relations you believed they were. The name you believed was yours for
your whole life no longer applies.

She couldn’t imagine what that felt like.

“Are…are you sure?” she stammered.

He closed his eyes in a long blink. His jaw firmed. “Yes. The proof is incontrovertible.”

“And your brothers, Mark and Theo? Are they Lord Stanley’s as well?”

“No.” His voice sounded thick, as if he were speaking through syrup. “They are the
illegitimate sons of the old duke and one of his mistresses. Stanley possessed proof
of that as well. So…my two younger brothers? We have no blood in common. They’re not
really my brothers at all. Trent and Sam, my two older brothers, are both half brothers
on my mother’s side, and my sister—no one knows for certain what her origins are.
Stanley raised some questions regarding her legitimacy as well.”