The Rogue's Proposal (19 page)

Of course, Emma didn’t possess the funds to purchase new dresses. A part of her didn’t
want to accept Luke’s charity. Another, more practical, part of her knew she couldn’t
saunter about London in nothing but her chemise, so she gritted her teeth and allowed
Luke to buy her two ready-to-wear dresses, both of finer quality than she would have
chosen for herself.

On Friday, the Duke and Duchess of Trent came for a visit. Emma and Luke were still
in bed when Baldwin knocked on the door. As usual, his voice was completely flat and
devoid of emotion. “Sir? The duke and duchess are here. Are you at home?”

Luke pulled back from Emma. He’d been lying over her, making a sensual perusal of
her body with his lips. She stared at him with wide eyes. Oh, God. The Duke of Trent
was in Luke’s house and she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on her body.

Luke rolled his eyes. “Very well, Baldwin,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Put them
in the drawing room. Offer them refreshment and all that nonsense.”

“Yes, sir,” Baldwin said, and they heard his retreating footsteps.

To Emma, Luke growled, “How like my brother to show up at such an ungodly hour.”

“It is ten o’clock,” Emma pointed out.

“Too early for visiting.” With a grumpy sigh, he rolled off her and went into the
dressing room. Emma rose more slowly, acutely aware that the drawing room was on the
other side of the wall. Here she was, naked, and the Duke and Duchess of Trent were
hardly more than ten feet away from her.

With the new maid’s help, Emma dressed as quickly as she could in one of her new plain
white muslins. Luke left the room to greet his brother while Delaney went to work
on Emma’s tangled hair, taming it into submission and then twisting it into a tight
chignon just above her neck.

She took a deep breath, looking into the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed—whether it
was from the attentions Luke had been bestowing upon her moments ago or from nerves
about meeting the Duke of Trent, she didn’t know.

She was about to meet the Duke of Trent, in the flesh. Jane—and the rest of Britain’s
female population—would be so jealous.

She rose, smoothed her skirts, straightened her shoulders, and left the bedroom, leaning
on her cane as she hobbled next door.

“Here she is,” Luke said warmly as she opened the drawing room door. He went to her
side, grasped her hand, and slid his other arm around her, supporting much of her
weight. Again, she was surprised at his flagrant show of affection. What kind of message
did this send to the duke and duchess?

The duke had risen as she’d entered. His hair was a few shades darker than Luke’s,
but they were of a similar height and build. His eyes were green, though, while Luke’s
were blue.

His wife stood beside him, a demure woman an inch or two shorter than Emma, with a
slender build, black hair, and pale skin. Her stomach showed the first signs of increasing
with pregnancy. Her gray-blue eyes immediately struck Emma as kind, and even before
she said a word, Emma knew she’d like the duchess.

“Emma, this is my brother, Trent, and his wife, Sarah.” He held up her hand. “This…is
Emma.”

Well, that wasn’t a particularly standard introduction. And to a duke, no less. Emma
swallowed hard.

But both of them smiled at her. “Lovely to meet you,” the duchess said. “But do you
mind if I call you Emma?” She flashed a gently quelling look at Luke. “Lord Luke does
enjoy being informal, but would you prefer a different name?”

“Oh, no,” Emma said. “Emma is fine. Wonderful, in fact. So few people call me Emma,
but I’d be honored if you would, Your Grace.”

The duchess made a noise low in her throat. “Then you must call me Sarah.”

“Thank you,” Emma said, pleased. She glanced at the duke. Amusement danced in his
green eyes.

Amusement was far, far better than disapproval. Which she might have expected, given
the way Luke still firmly held her hand and the way the duke kept glancing down at
their entwined fingers. This was…completely improper.

According to some people, anyhow. Evidently the Hawkins family was rather relaxed
when it came to matters of propriety.

“We heard you were back in Town,” Sarah told Luke, “so we came right away.”

Luke smiled at Sarah, then gave his brother a wary look. “Any luck in finding our
mother’s whereabouts?”

The duke shook his head. “No. What about you? I heard you had traveled north.”

Luke raised one brow. “Now where did you hear that?”

The duke just shrugged. “I have my sources.”

“Are you having me followed?” A slight edge of fury resonated in Luke’s otherwise
mild voice, and every muscle in Emma’s body went tight.

The duke shrugged. “Not anymore. I called him off when you were in Bristol.”

Emma could virtually feel the righteous anger rise in Luke. The temperature of the
room seemed to rise by ten degrees in that instant. She squeezed his hand, hard.

“Why?” Luke pushed out.

Sarah stepped forward. “We wanted to be sure you were all right, my lord.”

“Sarah, how many times have I asked you to stop calling me that?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. Once? Forgive me, I forgot.”

Luke took a deep breath. “You’re my sister now. Did you forget that?”

“Sometimes…” She flushed a little. “Well, sometimes, yes, I do.”

“Luke,” he growled. “Just call me Luke.”

“I’ll try to remember.” Sarah directed a soft, defusing smile at Luke, and Emma liked
her even more.

The duke cleared his throat. “In any case, after he was in Bristol, I brought my investigator
back to London. Where he found nothing. I’d hoped you were more successful.”

“That scarred man. That was him, wasn’t it?” Luke ground his teeth.

The duke just gave him a noncommittal shrug in response.

Luke slid Emma a frustrated glance. She gave him a nod of encouragement, and he blew
out a slow breath, seeming to release all his tension. He gestured to the brown-and-white
striped chairs arranged around a low table near the hearth.

“Sit down, Trent. This will require a few minutes.”

The four of them sat on the scattered chairs, Luke helping Emma into hers like a true
gentleman, then laying her cane aside. When they were all settled and Baldwin had
entered with refreshments, Luke glanced at Emma. He raised a brow. “The story begins
with you, Em, so perhaps you should tell it.”

Emma bit her lip, then nodded.

And she told them everything. From her ill-fated courting by Henry Curtis, to her
short-lived marriage and Henry’s subsequent death. Her father’s missing fortune, and
her discovery of the connection between Colin Macmillan, Roger Morton, and her late
husband.

She told them about how she’d heard Lord Lukas Hawkins had come to Bristol asking
after a man named Roger Morton. Finally, she told them how she’d accosted Luke in
a hotel in Bristol and had proposed to join him in his search for Morton in exchange
for information that might lead to his whereabouts.

Luke took over the story from there. “We found Macmillan in Edinburgh.”

Both the duke and duchess were poised on the edges of their seats, the tea that Baldwin
had brought them forgotten on the table. “And?” the duke asked. “What did he tell
you?”

“His arrangement with Morton appeared to be one of an entirely legal nature. He’d
loaned Morton money to go into a brewery venture with Emma’s husband, but when Morton
failed to pay the loan, Macmillan grew impatient. He threatened to seek legal reparations,
at which point Morton—” Luke broke off and looked at Emma.

“Killed my husband,” she finished softly. “He stole my father’s fortune and used part
of it to pay off Macmillan.”

“We don’t yet know what he did with the rest of the money,” Luke added.

“But where is he now?” the duchess asked.

“Mr. Macmillan believes he’s in London,” Emma told her.

“His sister and her husband live in or near Soho,” Luke told them. “So we thought
Morton might live there as well. We went yesterday but didn’t get very far. The problem
is that he seems to possess no distinguishing characteristics.”

“We’re planning to attend holy services on Sunday. We’re hoping his sister will attend,”
Emma added.

Sarah clasped her hands in her lap. “It sounds to me like you have made great strides
toward finding the duchess.” She gave an optimistic smile. “I think we’ll know everything
soon.”

“I hope so,” the duke said.

“So do I,” Luke said. The two men’s gazes locked for the briefest of seconds, then
they both looked away. For the first time, Emma wondered how brothers showed affection.
She and Jane were quite affectionate, but men were so different. From the subtle messages
they gave with their expressions and words, it was clear to her that these two men
cared for each other, but they were also uncomfortable with each other.

“Do you require my help on Sunday?” the duke asked.

“No!” Luke nearly roared it. Then he added in a softer voice, “No, Trent. Allow me
to do this, will you?”

“Of course,” the duke conceded. “But if you need any help—”

“I don’t,” Luke bit out.

The duke’s lips firmed, and Emma saw a hint of Luke in that expression. They might
only be half brothers, but they certainly
were
brothers.

The duke glanced at Sarah. “I’m required at parliament in an hour. I’ll take you home
to Esme—I know the two of you have plans for this afternoon.” He turned his attention
back to Luke. “Contact me if you learn anything.”

Luke ground his teeth. “Yes, sir.”

The duke rolled his eyes heavenward. “Stop being ridiculous. Come, love.” He held
out a hand to his wife and helped her rise from her chair.

She smiled sweetly at Emma, and Emma was struck by the oddness of it. Strangers in
a carriage in the middle of Northumberland had gazed upon her as if she were the Whore
of Babylon. This woman was a duchess, and she surely realized Emma was sleeping with
her brother-in-law, but she offered her a genuine, heartfelt smile.

“I do hope we will have the occasion to see each other again soon,” she said to Emma.

“So do I,” Emma said softly. She meant it.

The duke was more reserved. “Luke,” he said. Then he inclined his head toward Emma.
“Mrs. Curtis.”

He’d evidently gleaned her family name from her story. She wasn’t surprised; he’d
listened in rapt attention.

She curtsied. “Your Grace.”

He wrapped his arm around his duchess, and, side by side, they left.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Emma released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d
been holding.

So that was the Duke of Trent and his duchess. She didn’t know exactly what to think.

She’d liked them, she supposed. Mostly because they hadn’t seemed to pass immediate
judgment on her.

She glanced at Luke to find him studying her intently. “Well?” he asked.

She wasn’t sure what he wanted from her, so she simply shrugged. “They seemed…nice.”

His brows jumped toward his hairline. “Nice? Really? Is that all you have to say about
them?”

She nodded, and he laughed. He took her hand, then pulled her off the sofa and gathered
her into a tight hug. “
Nice?
Now why do you think you using that word to describe my brother makes me so happy?”

She burrowed her body against him, reveling in his warmth. “Mmm…I don’t know, Luke.
Why does it make you happy?”

He nuzzled his nose into her tightly bound hair. “Half the women who meet Trent are
besotted at first sight. I was worried you might be one of them.”

“What? First of all, he’s married—”

Luke pressed his hand over her mouth. “But there are certain things about you that
I understand now, Emma. And one of them is this:
nice
is never a word you’d use to describe a man you’re besotted with.”

She mock-pushed him away. “What words
would
I use, then?”

“Hmm…” His blue eyes danced with mirth, then he bent down and licked the shell of
her ear. “Demanding bastard, perhaps?”

A shudder ran through her—because that was just what she wanted. From Luke. This very
instant. She gazed at him. “Back to bed?” she whispered.

“Oh, no.” Luke’s voice was so silky it made her nerve endings tingle under her skin.
“We’re going to finish what we started. And we’re going to do it right here.”

And after he’d stripped her, Luke made sweet, rough love to Emma on his drawing room
floor.

T
hat night, Emma was dragged out of sleep by Luke coming out of a nightmare. She’d
been so deep asleep, she lay there, half conscious, only partially aware of him leaving
the bed.

Time passed. She might have fallen asleep again. Then she jerked awake, suddenly aware
that he had not returned.

Her eyes opened, and she saw him on the other side of the room. Moonlight filtered
in through the curtains, bathing his body in a silvery light.

She lay very still, but her eyes widened. He was shirtless, wearing only his drawers,
which rested low on his hips. It was the first time she’d seen his torso. He always
wore a shirt to bed, and when he’d changed his clothes on their travels, he’d always
done so behind a screen or when she wasn’t in the room.

His torso was a magnificent thing to behold. Pale and hairless save for the thin trail
leading from his navel down into his drawers. Rippling with lean muscle. She’d asked
him how he was so strong, given that he lived such a leisurely life, and he’d laughed
and told her it was because he rode every day, oftentimes for several hours. Then
he’d kissed her and said their bed sport didn’t hurt matters, either.

He was washing himself. Water trickled as he squeezed a towel in the basin, then lifted
it to wash his shoulder and underarm. He turned a little, and moonlight bathed his
back.

Emma’s breath caught in her throat.

His back was covered in sores. Some circular, some more oblong, like teardrops. There
were more than ten, all about the size of Emma’s thumbnail. A straight line of them
marred the top of his back, starting below his left shoulder blade and continuing
almost all the way across. There was another line of them down his spine.

No. Not sores.
Scars
, she realized as he turned more fully into the light. They were flat, darker in color
than the pale tone of his skin, with a darker red rim around their circumferences.

What on earth had happened to him?

Now she knew why he never removed his shirt. His torso was beautiful, but the scars
were blemishes that spoke of violence and pain.

After he finished bathing himself, Luke put his shirt back on and sat in one of the
upholstered armchairs. He sat for a long time, perfectly still, his elbow on one of
the arms of the chair and his forehead resting in his hand.

After a while, she couldn’t bear it anymore. She slipped out of bed and pulled her
light robe over her shoulders and limped over to him.

He looked up at her, his face darkening. “I woke you.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “Come back to bed?” she asked in a husky voice.

“Not sure I can sleep.”

“Try?”

He looked unsure.

“I’m cold,” she murmured. It wasn’t a lie. She was starting to shiver. “Come warm
me?”

It was manipulative, because she knew he wouldn’t deny her this. But she wanted so
badly to lie with him, to wrap him up in her embrace.

“Just for a little while?” she begged.

“Of course,” he said softly.

They went back to the bed, and she twined her arms around Luke and peppered kisses
to his chest over his shirt. He pressed his lips to her hair. “Sleep, Em,” he said
gruffly.

But she wouldn’t sleep until he did. It took a long time, but finally, when she heard
his breaths grow even and deep, she allowed herself to slip away into her own dreamless
slumber.

On Friday, after they’d eaten a late supper, Luke told Emma he was going to his club.
He hadn’t been there in months and wanted to make an appearance. At least, that was
what he told Emma. The truth was, he couldn’t face sleeping with her, waking from
one of the nightmares, then seeing the look of pity on her face.

He knew she didn’t approve from the way her lips pursed and her gaze faltered before
she smiled and said, “I’ll see you later, then.”

He was treating her despicably. He knew this. He hated himself for it.

But the next night—Saturday—he did it again. At Boodles he played vingt-et-un with
a group of exceedingly dull men while he drank copious amounts of brandy.

He ended up losing ten guineas. It seemed a pittance compared to the risk of another
nightmare.

He arrived home staggering drunk and fumbled his way into his bedchamber. She was
asleep, her beautiful, thick hair fanned over her pillow. He lay beside her as carefully
as he could since the world kept tilting under him. And then he gazed down at her.

Emma.
He fingered one of her soft curls. She’d accepted him in a way that no one in his
life ever had. In bed and out. She was so strong, but also sweetly submissive.

He dropped his heavy body on his own pillow, still gazing at her smooth skin, at the
thick russet brows that swept in arcs over her eyes.

Something in his chest squeezed hard. He wanted to gather her close and hold her against
him and never let her go.

On Sunday, Luke and Emma rose early to attend church services at St. Anne’s church
in Soho. They’d learned there was more than one church in Soho, and Emma had fretted
over whether they should go to St. Patrick’s, the Catholic church—after all, Macmillan
had said the husband of Morton’s sister was Irish.

But Luke thought that surely Macmillan would have mentioned that Morton was Catholic
if it were the case. So it was to St. Anne’s they went for early divine services at
eight o’clock in the morning—an ungodly hour, as far as Luke was concerned.

St. Anne’s was a plain rectangular brick building with tall, narrow windows. Its only
distinguishing feature was the bell tower—a square structure that rose above the church
and whose bell pealed as Emma and Luke entered the church.

They sat quietly in the back so they could have a better prospect of the congregation,
which numbered about two hundred persons packed into the pews. The sermon was on the
seventh commandment, and while the preacher droned on, Luke took careful stock of
the parishioners.

There were two possibilities—two red-haired men accompanied by dark-haired women.
One of the men sat in the third row, and it appeared as though the entire row was
made up of his family—him, his dark-haired wife, and at least eight children. The
other couple looked like just a man and his wife, sitting in the middle of the congregation
across the aisle from Luke and Emma. The man was very large in stature and girth,
and the woman was thin and of an average height.

“The body was not created for fornication; rather, it was made for the Lord,” the
preacher said. “Further, according to the words of St. Paul, ‘To avoid fornication,
every man should have his own wife and every woman her own husband, for it is better
to marry than to burn.’”

Luke fidgeted. Obviously the reverend had decided to take this sermon a step further
than the seventh commandment and the sin of adultery. Luke slid a glance at Emma.
She was sitting with her hands folded in her lap over her prayer book, looking utterly
serene.

Just looking at her calmed him.

The reverend preached about casting away filthiness of the soul, and Luke cast his
own eyes heavenward. Before he met Emma, he might have agreed with all this talk about
filthiness and impurity and uncleanness, and how it was related to all the sins he’d
committed.

But somehow, sitting beside her, in spite of all the debauched, lustful things they’d
done, Luke felt purer than he ever had. He wondered what the reverend would think
of how tying a woman to the bed and having his wicked way with her over and over again
had somehow helped to cleanse Luke’s soul.

With a last admonition to all the men in the congregation to find themselves a prudent
wife who would prevent them from looking at other women with lust in their gazes—which
was, evidently, just as sinful as the act of fornication itself—the preacher finally
ended the sermon.

Luke let out a relieved breath. He glanced at Emma. She still sat there placidly,
except now the corner of her lips wobbled as she fought a smile.

She looked down at her prayer book, turning it to a marked page. Then she glanced
at him and gave in to the smile, and all was well in Luke’s world.

When the service ended, Luke subtly indicated the couple he’d pinpointed earlier.

“Mmm, yes,” Emma murmured. “I saw them, too.”

They made their way to the front of the church—being in the last row they were among
the first out—and waited for a few minutes. Finally, the redheaded man exited, his
wife at his side.

Emma blew out a breath. “Ready?”

“Always.” Luke narrowed his eyes on the couple. He wondered if they knew anything
about their brother’s nefarious deeds.

Soon enough, they’d find out.

They fell into step behind the man and woman as they wove through traffic to traverse
Dean Street. Emma leaned on her cane, and he wanted badly to put his arm around her
and support her weight, but if anyone who knew him saw them—well, it wouldn’t end
well, because he wouldn’t tolerate talk about Emma around Town. So he kept a respectful
distance from her and ground his teeth. God, he hoped she didn’t reinjure her ankle.

When they were close to the couple, Emma called to them. “Excuse me.”

They stopped and turned, curious expressions on their faces. Emma limped up to them,
Luke on her heels. He was content to let her do most of the talking. She managed very
well in these kinds of situations, he’d learned.

“I’m so sorry to bother you.” Emma gave the woman a dazzling smile. “But are you Roger
Morton’s sister?”

The woman glanced at her husband, who shrugged. She turned back to Emma and said in
a low, soft voice, “Yes, I am Veronica O’Bailey. This is my husband, Colm.”

Emma clasped her prayer book to her chest, looking delighted. “Oh, that’s wonderful.
I saw you in church and had hoped to make your acquaintance, but I wasn’t sure I’d
catch up”—she gestured toward her foot—“due to this blasted twisted ankle.”

The woman’s brow furrowed. “Are you…acquainted with Roger?”

“Oh, yes. You see, he was a business associate of my husband’s. I’m Emma Curtis. It
is lovely to finally make your acquaintance.”

Both the woman and the man gazed at Emma with utterly blank expressions upon their
faces.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She turned to Luke, motioned him forward. “This is Lord Lukas
Hawkins.”

Mrs. O’Bailey gave him an owlish blink, then curtsied. “It is an honor to meet you,
my lord.”

O’Bailey bowed over his excessive girth and echoed his wife. “Milord.” His voice was
deep, with a pronounced Irish flavor.

“Lord Lukas is also acquainted with Mr. Morton—through his mother, the Duchess of
Trent.”

Mrs. O’Bailey looked aghast. “Is that so?” she asked, her voice so breathy he could
hardly understand her words. “You are a relation of the Duke of Trent, then, my lord?”

Luke fought not to roll his eyes. “Yes, madam,” he said, proud of his patience. “He
is my brother.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked from Luke to Emma in awe. “Oh, my goodness,” she
murmured. “I’d no idea Roger possessed such esteemed acquaintances.”

“We had heard he might be in London,” Emma said. “We’d so like to see him. Would it
be possible for you to direct us to his place of residence?”

Again, Mrs. O’Bailey glanced at her husband. Again, he shrugged. “He keeps an office
and rooms in Wapping,” Mrs. O’Bailey said. “We haven’t seen him in a few months, though.”

“Can you tell us where? We’d love to surprise him!”

“Of course.” And she rattled off a location in Wapping High Street.

“Thank you so much,” Emma gushed.

Luke bowed to Mrs. O’Bailey and her husband. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“And you, my lord,” Mrs. O’Bailey said, her brown eyes still a little wide with awe.
“Such a pleasure.” Her more reticent husband just bobbed his head.

Emma and Luke stood on the curb and watched them turn and walk a ways down Dean Street.

“They know nothing of their brother’s illicit activities,” Emma whispered.

“You’re right. They’re innocents, I believe. Nonetheless, I should follow them. Remain
here and rest your ankle. I’ll return as soon as I see where they’ve gone.”

She nodded. Luke kept himself a good distance behind the couple, watched them turn
down another street, then another. They finally disappeared into a very small brown-brick
residence tucked between two far larger ones.

“All right,” Luke murmured when he’d returned to Emma’s side. “That should be easy
to find again, should we need to.”

As they walked back to where they could find a hackney, Emma asked, “Why would he
keep rooms in Wapping? That’s near the docks, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps they’re the same lodgings Macmillan told us about, and even though his fortunes
have changed, he has chosen to continue residing there.”

“But he can certainly afford much finer lodgings now.”

Luke shrugged. “Perhaps he’s hiding the money. Perhaps he prefers the thievery to
the spending of his ill-gotten gains. Come, let’s go.”

The hackney they hired took them directly to Wapping High Street. There, above one
of the open warehouses, they found Roger Morton’s office.

They only knew they were at the right location because the number 6 was painted in
heavy black above the door just as Mrs. O’Bailey had described. They stood in a dim
first-floor gallery, gazing at the door. Windows flanked the door, but they had been
painted black as well.

Emma shuddered. “I wonder what kind of business he conducts in there.”

Luke was sorely tempted to break in. After his knock was met with silence, he tried
the door and the windows, but all of them were locked. Since it was Sunday morning,
the warehouse was essentially abandoned. It would be so simple to punch a hole in
one of the windowpanes and climb in.

Emma clearly read his thoughts in his expression, because she narrowed her eyes at
him. “No. We’ll wait.”