The Rogue's Proposal (18 page)

“All this in an attempt to force the Duke of Trent to marry his daughter.”

“Yes,” Luke said simply. “The man is a conniving bastard.”

And this was the man he’d just learned was his true father. Emma leaned her head back
against the wall and closed her eyes.

He inhaled shakily. “So you see, I’ve been lying to you about who I truly am. My entire
existence is a lie. My identity as the son and legitimate brother of the Duke of Trent—as
his heir—is false. I’m nothing but a bastard pretending to be someone he is not.”

Emma squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. For a long moment, they sat in silence.
Not moving, not speaking.

Luke was still Luke. He was still the man Emma admired and desired, who drove her
to distraction in so many ways. Nothing had changed about any of that. All that had
changed was her understanding of him. Now she had further insight into the depths
of him.

Emma dragged her eyes open. “You said this could change what we have between us. But
I don’t understand how.”

Luke’s lips pressed together in a flat line. He gazed at her. “I don’t belong in the
position I was raised to believe I occupied. I’m a charlatan. And I’m inherently evil.
Spawned in sin.”

She blinked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I deserve nothing of what I have. I receive an allowance from the ducal estate, but
do I even deserve that? No, I don’t. I’m a bastard’s bastard. I should have nothing,
but I have lived such a life of leisure I can’t survive without taking the money of
a dead man I have no legitimate ties to.”

“Your brother wouldn’t agree!”

He gave a humorless laugh. “You seem to know so much about Trent.”

“From you. You’ve told me about the duke. I know you and he don’t often agree, but
I can tell you care for him. It is obvious he cares for you, too. I doubt he gives
a damn about this stupid discovery.”

“Oh, he gives a damn,” Luke said softly. Turning away from her, he pushed a rough
hand through his hair.

Emma ground her teeth. Luke had taken this discovery of his paternity as some kind
of proof that he was a lesser man, an undeserving man.

“You
foolish
man.”

Luke blinked at her. She struggled to move toward him, trying not to move her foot
too much. She took his neck and pulled him to her. She kissed his lips, then pressed
her cheek to his stubble-roughened one. He hadn’t yet shaved this morning.

“Don’t let this destroy you, Luke. It doesn’t change who you are.”

“Doesn’t it?” His voice was rough with emotion.

“No.” She kissed his lips again, hard. “No.” Her lips pushed against his. “This changes
nothing of how I feel for you. Nothing of what I think about you. It changes nothing
of what’s inside you. Here.” She pressed her palm against his heart.

He gripped her shoulders. His blue eyes shone at her, two bright sapphires. “Every
time someone calls me ‘my lord,’ it is a lie. I’m not who you thought I was.”

“Yes. You are. You’re exactly who I thought you are. You’re the man I want. The man
I need. Right now.”

She fumbled with the hem of her nightgown, pulling it up, feeling the twinge in her
ankle but not giving a damn.

“I need you,” she whispered, peppering kisses over his face. She pulled away for a
second to jerk her nightgown over her head. Then it was off and she was naked, and
Luke’s hands were fumbling over her, touching her waist, her stomach, her breasts.

She lay back, pulling him over her. She reached down to his falls. His arousal grew
as she touched him there, and a whimper of anticipation escaped her throat.

“Emma,” he groaned. “God, Emma.” And then he took command, strong and powerful, like
he always did. A deep shudder began at her core and traveled outward through her limbs.
She wiggled against him, yearning, wanting. She’d wanted him last night—she’d pined
for him—but now her need had grown. Her need eclipsed rational thought. She yanked
his trousers over his hips, and he kicked them away. She wrapped her arms around him,
over his shirt.

“Need you,” she whispered. “I need you. Please. Please.”

With one heavy push, he was deep, deep inside her. She gasped as her body took him
in. And she looked up at him. His wild blue eyes gazed down at her.

“More, Luke. Give me more of you.”

With a low groan, he began to move in powerful, heavy thrusts. He bent down and took
her mouth, sweeping his tongue in with each plunge of his body into hers. One hand
went to her breast, squeezing.

And that quickly, her body tightened. His kiss, his touch, his presence inside her,
all of it combined to make the pleasure nearly unbearable. Her body tautened from
head to toe. She felt like a violin string, with Luke the virtuoso playing her until
she vibrated with pleasure.

He tasted like salt and man, with a hint of coffee from their breakfast. He was hard
and warm. Each thrust that entered her body seemed to go impossibly deep, and he pushed
so far inside her, she was certain he touched her very soul.

She came so hard black spots crowded her vision. Her body pulsed and shuddered. Her
eyes rolled back in her head. She grabbed his shirt for dear life.

But Luke was over her, protecting her. As pleasure rolled in thundering waves through
her, she knew he’d keep her safe.

Slowly, she emerged back into the world, panting, her heart galloping. He was breathing
hard, too, each exhalation a harsh rasp that blew strands of hair from her face. His
thumb moved over her too-sensitive nipple, and she squirmed. The wetness from her
orgasm made her slick and hot between her legs, and he glided into her now, still
so deep and so hard she felt him to her core.

He didn’t stop. He was relentless, his body moving through hers like this was where
he belonged and he had no intention of ever leaving. In minutes, Emma’s body began
that sweet rise to her peak once again. The orgasm came sharp and hard, and as she
came down from it, she whimpered, boneless and replete beneath his onslaught. Seconds
later, he pulled out. Reaching down, he circled his fingers around himself, and she
felt the warm splash of his seed as he released onto her stomach with a low groan.

He dropped onto her, heavy but not too heavy, because he kept much of his weight on
his arms and knees, and she wrapped her arms tight around him, reveling in the feel
of his masculine, powerful body on top of hers. Her face was in line with the curve
of his shoulder to his neck, and she kissed him tenderly there as he panted into her
hair.

Minutes later, when both their breathing had calmed somewhat, he raised his head slowly,
as if it weighed a ton.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, and the expression on his face was so young and so vulnerable,
a lump rose in her throat. “Am I the man you thought I was? The man you want?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice husky and firm. “I swear to God and on the lives of everyone
I hold dear, I meant it. I meant every word.”

His eyes closed and he lowered his head again. But his lips pressed to her hair and
his arm tucked itself between the bed and her body, hugging her to him.

“You’re an angel,” he said softly.

“No, Luke, I’m not. I’m just a woman who cares for you.”

And…who just might be falling in love with you, too
.

T
hey drove at a brutal pace for four days, changing horses often, hiring a new pair
of postilions to drive the horses every day. The weather wasn’t ideal, but Emma and
Luke were in a closed carriage now, and rain didn’t have as great of an effect on
their travel.

From Belford to Darlington that first day, then Doncaster the second. On the third
day, they became more intimately acquainted with the interior of their post chaise.
Emma was leaning on Luke’s shoulder, half asleep, and his hand was on her thigh. Slowly,
it began creeping upward. With every inch, Emma’s awareness rose. She reciprocated
by touching his thigh, too. When they reached each other’s upper thigh, Emma looked
up, and their lips met in a long, languorous kiss.

Luke lifted her from the carriage seat, then settled her to a position on her knees
in front of him.

“Loosen my falls,” he commanded, his voice husky and laced with erotic promise.

She glanced toward one of the windows. The curtains on both sides of the carriage
were open, letting the sunlight cast golden rays inside.

He quirked a brow. “Do you want me to close the curtains?”

She almost said yes, but then she caught herself. There was something wickedly intoxicating
about the idea that someone might see whatever it was they were about to do. A farmer
at the side of the road might chance to look up at the passing post chaise and see
Emma and Luke in the throes of passion.

Her heart quickened at the thought. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why
the idea was so arousing, but it was.

On her knees in front of Luke, the movement of the carriage rumbling under her shins,
she looked up at him and slowly shook her head no.

His lips curved. “Good,” he said. “Now loosen my falls.”

She did as she was told, her body trembling in anticipation.

He was hard already, and she wondered if it was the kiss or the open windows that
had aroused him. Perhaps both.

With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned his falls, allowing her fingertips to skim
over his length whenever they came near it. Then she opened his trousers.

The largeness of his arousal never failed to astound her.

She stroked a finger down his length. He shuddered, and she looked up at him. She
wanted—needed—his instruction.

“Tell me what to do.”

“Grip me in your hands,” he murmured. “Gently at first, then tighter.”

She touched him in a loose grip, lightly circling her fingers around him. His skin
was so soft here, over the steely hardness of his length.

“Good,” he murmured. “Tighter now, and slide your fingers over it like this.”

He moved his hands over hers, showing her how to stroke him in an up-and-down movement.
His eyes fluttered closed. “Oh, yes. That’s so good. Just like that.”

She wanted to kiss him. So she did, running her lips over his blunt head and stroking
back and forth. His salty taste was more pronounced here.

They’d done so many wicked things together, but this was so deliciously naughty, her
breaths quickened and her pulse galloped.

He released a low growl as her lips pushed over the fleshy tip of him, and the sound
encouraged her. She licked him, following the path of her hands with her tongue as
she moved up and down over his long, thick length.

His fingers dove into her hair. Vaguely, she heard her pins clattering to the floor
of the carriage, and she smiled. Luke loved her hair, loved digging his hands into
it.

The coil of her braid came loose, and he anchored his fingers tight against her scalp.
“That’s so good, Em. Now wrap that pretty little mouth around me.”

She opened and took him inside her mouth, going down as far as she could before pulling
up, licking his shaft as she moved over it, using her lips for pressure. Now, her
lips followed the path of her fisted fingers over him, up and down, her tongue swirling
around him, paying special attention to the blunt head of him, because whenever she
licked him there, his fingers tightened in her hair.

Arousal flushed through her. She pressed her thighs together to combat the building
need at their apex. Her body wanted this, wanted him to press this steely, hot organ
deep inside her. Hard and fast, like he always did. It wanted that deep, intense friction
only Luke could provide.

She began to whimper over him, feeling like she was going to squirm out of her very
skin.

“Yes. That’s so damn good. Keep making those noises. They feel so good.”

He had begun to move into her mouth, thrusting deep, using the fingers wrapped in
her hair to push her over him. She wanted to take him all, swallow him down. He was
so hard and hot and delicious. Whenever she took him in especially deep, he groaned
in appreciation.

“Yes. God, yes,” he murmured, thrusting into her mouth. As she worked her mouth and
hand over him, he grew impossibly harder, impossibly longer. She could almost feel
the pulse of blood and heat through his shaft. Her body was on fire—hot, needy, and
wanting, so open and ready for his invasion.

His fingers grew so tight in her hair it almost hurt. His hips moved, and all she
needed to do was give over to his direction. She relaxed, letting him thrust into
her mouth, letting him direct her with his hands cupping her head and tangled in her
hair.

She loved this—being locked against him like this, him controlling her every movement.

She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. The look of ecstasy on his face made
her own body clench.

“Em…going to come…”

She released a long, shuddering whimper. He thrust into her mouth. And then he stilled,
locking her there against him, his shaft pulsing under her lips and tongue and fingers.
And the salty fluid of his release spilled onto the back of her tongue. She swallowed,
took more, and swallowed again.

Every muscle in his body seemed to go limp, and so did she. She slowly pulled her
mouth off him, then spread small, wet kisses over his relaxing shaft.

She lay against him until she felt his hands on her, pulling her back up to the carriage
seat. Sitting beside him once more, she wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled
him to her in a wet, erotic kiss. She knew he tasted himself on her, and she squirmed—teased
and pleasured by that fact.

That third night of travel in the post chaise, after she’d given him pleasure and
straddled him on the carriage seat and found her own release, they stopped in Stilton.
As the sun began its descent behind a heavy layer of clouds on the fourth day, they
reached the tollgate at Hyde Park Corner.

London
. They had finally arrived.

It was a cool evening, the dull gray skies heavy with the promise of more rain as
the post chaise stopped at the front of Luke’s town house in Cavendish Square. Emma
knew this area to some extent—before last year, her father had owned a house near
Bedford Square, less than a mile away.

She gazed up at the narrow façade of Luke’s house, a three-story structure of whitewashed
brick. They hadn’t discussed her staying here. It was the only obvious choice, she
supposed, since they both knew there was nowhere else for her to go. Yet it seemed
a huge step, to sleep with Luke in his home.

His hand closed over hers, warm and large. “What do you think?” he murmured.

“It’s lovely.”

It was. Stately but not overly opulent. It suited a single gentleman of Luke’s pedigree—or,
she supposed, of his false pedigree.

They alighted from the carriage, and Luke gave instructions to the postilions while
Emma leaned on her cane and studied her surroundings. The gardens lay on one side
of the street, a large, round splash of green in the midst of the city. Tight rows
of buildings—mostly houses—lined the square. Luke’s house was in the center of one
row, with nothing significant about it to set it apart from the others.

The front door of Luke’s house opened, and a man appeared at the threshold. He wore
black pantaloons and a coat with a black stock at his neck. He wasn’t tall or short,
old or young. His hair wasn’t quite black but not brown either. Receding at the top,
it hung straight over his ears, and he had no trace of the sideburns that had recently
come into fashion.

His gaze flicked impassively over Emma, then landed on Luke. He stood silently, keeping
his gaze on Luke, until Luke was finished speaking to the postilions. The two uncommonly
small-statured men went to the rear of the carriage to unload the luggage while Luke
joined Emma.

He took her hand. Such a public display of affection, in such a public place. He probably
knew half the people who resided in the square. She was certain more than half of
them knew him. Luke wasn’t only the Duke of Trent’s brother, but he also had a reputation
about Town, and this—his home—was certainly where that reputation was rooted.

So him holding her hand…it was surprising. But she was glad for it. It reassured her
to be touching him right now.

He tugged her toward the door, and they mounted the few steps that led to it, Emma
limping slightly although her ankle was improving daily. The man standing there bowed.
“My lord,” he said without inflection.

“Baldwin,” Luke said in return. He turned to Emma. “Em, this is Baldwin, my one and
only servant. Baldwin, this is Mrs. Curtis. You shall treat her as you would me, as
your employer and your superior in all things.”

Emma blinked at Luke.
Goodness!
But Baldwin’s face remained completely expressionless. “Yes, my lord. Good afternoon,
Mrs. Curtis.”

She nodded and smiled at him. He stepped aside as Luke led her inside. They entered
a small receiving room tiled in black and white marble with a flight of stairs directly
in front of them. Luke pulled her through the entryway and to the right of the stairs,
speaking over his shoulder to the servant. “Hire a cook tomorrow, will you? I’ll be
taking most of my meals here indefinitely, and I wouldn’t want you overcome by the
work.”

“Yes, sir,” came Baldwin’s dry voice from behind them.

“And a maid, too. One who will assist you with maintaining the house but who is also
familiar with waiting upon ladies.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d prefer to be the one to help you dress,” he murmured to Emma with a wicked glint
in his eyes, “but a maid might be able to assist you in other things.”

Emma had had her own maid ever since she’d entered adolescence, but over the past
year, she’d become quite accustomed to doing things on her own. “That’s not necessary,”
she told him.

“Of course it is.” And the subject was closed.

Luke gestured through an open door as he pulled her along. “Dining room. I think I’ve
been in there once, when I bought the place. This is my study. I spend more time in
there.” He grinned. “Sometimes.”

He waved to an arched doorway at the far end of the corridor. Beyond the arch, Emma
could see a small table and a square-paned window beyond. “That’s the breakfast room,
and the kitchen is down there.” He gestured to a set of stairs at the end of a short
corridor to the right.

He swiveled around and they returned to the stairway. On the first floor he showed
her the drawing room, which looked out over Cavendish Square. Then he took her into
his bedroom. “We’ll be sleeping here. But now, what do you think about harassing Baldwin
for something to eat?”

She smiled. “That sounds excellent. But what’s up there?” She pointed to another set
of stairs.

“There are three additional bedrooms on the second floor—rooms I haven’t ever used—and
servants’ quarters in the attic.”

They went downstairs and sat in the breakfast room while Baldwin served them an extremely
simple dinner of beef stew with apples and a bottle of wine.

For some reason, it was the most excellent dinner Emma had eaten in ages. Perhaps
because it was the first time in weeks she wasn’t eating inn food.

As they ate, they discussed their plan for locating Roger Morton.

Tomorrow, they would head to Soho to see if they could find anyone who knew his whereabouts.
If that didn’t work, they’d go to church on Sunday and look for the sister and her
Irish husband—today was Tuesday, so they’d have to wait a few days for that.

“What if we don’t find him?” she whispered. “London is so enormous, it’s quite possible
we won’t—”

“We’ll find him, Emma.” Luke said it like a promise. She hoped he was right.

The next day they went to Soho. They questioned just about everyone they saw—all the
people who seemed to be fixtures in Soho, from the boy selling the
Times
on the corner of Oxford and Dean Streets to the orange lady on Frith Street to the
bookseller in Soho Square.

It was true that their account of Roger Morton wasn’t very helpful—the man had brown
hair, brown eyes, and was of average height with no marks or scars or other distinguishing
characteristics. That description could have described anyone from Henry Curtis to
one of Luke’s younger brothers.

They asked about the sister and her husband, too, but with no more than the fact that
the husband was a redheaded Irishman with an O’ name, they only received blank stares
and reminders that every tenth person who resided in Soho was red-haired and Irish.

With the vague information they had, Emma worried they’d never find the man.

Luke, however, was optimistic. “There’s still Sunday,” he told her. “We’ll find the
sister and her husband at church.”

Emma wasn’t so sure, but she gritted her teeth and nodded. There was nothing to do
but wait until Sunday.

They spent the better part of Thursday in bed. In the afternoon, they met the new
cook and went to Bond Street for a little shopping Luke insisted on, because Emma’s
dresses had grown wretchedly shabby during the journey to Edinburgh. Both of them
were a dull shade of gray rather than white now, and both had ugly dark stains near
their hems. The velvet ribbons on the half-mourning dress had begun to fray, and the
muslin had already looked well used when she’d packed it. Now it was hardly wearable.