The Rogue's Proposal (20 page)

“What if he doesn’t return?”

She took a deep breath. “Well, he’ll need to, eventually. We’ll come back tomorrow,
and if he hasn’t arrived by then, we can ask the landlord about his habits.”

Finished with their investigations for the day, Emma and Luke returned home in another
hackney, then spent a leisurely afternoon together in the drawing room, Luke reading
while Emma worked on her sewing. It was so
domestic
. Unnervingly so.

Something compelled him to put an end to that.

Luke set aside his newspaper. He went to Emma and took the needle and thread out of
her hands, setting it aside. Then he stripped her bare and made love to her, laying
her out over the drawing room’s velvet sofa and taking her from behind, stroking his
hands up and down her beautiful, flawless back as he pumped deeply and deliciously
inside her.

Emma lay bent over the arm of the sofa, her breasts pressed against the velvet cushions.
Luke’s hands roamed over her back as he moved inside her, caressing the deepest, most
intimate parts of her.

She had learned that her body loved this position—him entering her from behind like
this. There was something utterly and decadently submissive about it. It was wicked
and wonderful, and the angle of his penetration stroked her in a way that made her
squirm and clench.

She moved her face to the side, pressing her cheek into the soft sofa cushion. Her
fingers curled around the edge of the sofa as her body went taut. She came in a warm
rush of pleasure, letting the sensation take over her until she sagged limply over
the sofa. He bent down over her, whispering, “I love to watch you come. I love watching
your body move helplessly beneath me. So beautiful.”

His thrusts had decreased in speed, and now he slid languidly in and out of her hot,
slick, and oh-so-sensitive channel. He set a slow, leisurely pace, rare for Luke,
whose lovemaking was usually so powerful and intense.

He remained bent low over her, his shirt and chest pressed against her back, his lips
grazing the back of her neck. Emma closed her eyes and sank into the sensation. Sweet,
smooth heat. So deep.

She was building to that pinnacle again, but this time it was a slow, meandering journey,
a gentle road toward that ultimate peak.

She lay on velvet with Luke over her, stroking her, teasing, coaxing her ever so expertly.
She could feel all of him—his length and breadth inside her, his texture, his strength.

The orgasm came, starting with a low, rumbling pleasure deep in her womb and rolling
through her entire body until she was overcome with pleasure.

Moments later, he came, too, releasing his seed on her lower back. Eventually, he
lifted off her. She didn’t have the wherewithal to move, so she just lay there draped
over the side of the couch, completely spent. Moments later, she felt a cloth move
gently over her back. When he finished cleaning her, he gathered her in his arms and
took her to the sofa, where he helped her don her chemise. Then he tucked her against
his body as they sat on the sofa.

They sat there for a long while, murmuring to each other about meaningless things.
She cuddled up against his chest and wondered whether it would rain tomorrow when
they went to Wapping. And Luke talked about buying Emma another cloak, since the silk
had been torn on her old one. They spent several minutes guessing what the new cook
would make for dinner.

The dinner, served in the dining room as it had been ever since the cook arrived,
happened to be a white vermicelli soup followed by pork cutlets with red cabbage and
stewed watercress, and a baked pear pudding for dessert.

It was simple but delicious. Baldwin had done an excellent job in hiring the cook.
The maid he’d hired, Delaney, had worked out very well, too. She’d had experience
as both a housemaid and a lady’s maid—just what Luke had requested. The best part
about both Delaney and the cook was that they both appeared to be exceptionally discreet,
treating Emma with the utmost deference and politeness. She wondered what Baldwin
had told them about her.

When Emma rose from the table, her belly pleasantly full, Luke rose with her. She
headed upstairs to the drawing room, planning to continue her work on the new chemise
she was sewing. Luke might have insisted on buying her new dresses, but she could
certainly make her own chemise.

Tension settled over her as they walked up the stairs. Luke had left her for the past
two nights only to return sotted in the early morning hours. Would he do it again?
What would she do if he did?

At the door to the drawing room, he turned her gently to face him. “Emma, I’m going
out.”

She’d expected it. Still, it felt like he’d knocked all the wind out of her.

Of course he was “going out.” That was the pattern, wasn’t it?

She tried to force a smile. She struggled to find at least something decent to say.
But she could do neither, so she just gave a jerky little nod.

“I’ll be back. Later.” He kissed her on the forehead, turned, and retreated back down
the stairs they’d just mounted.

Damn it!

She stood there for long moments, hands clenched at her sides, unsure whether to fall
to her knees and sob or to walk out the front door and never come back.

But she couldn’t leave him. Not completely. The logical part of her told her that
she had nowhere to go, that she still needed his help to find Morton. But to her soul
she knew it was more than that. Luke had become too important, too much a part of
her. She couldn’t walk away.

She couldn’t accept this, either. And that was exactly what she’d been doing so far:
She’d never liked his drinking and his late nights, but she’d accepted them. She’d
allowed Luke to run away because…Well, she didn’t exactly know. Because he had nightmares.
Because he had scars on his back. Because he’d been through something terrible and
had convinced himself he couldn’t face it without drowning himself in ale or whisky
or brandy every night.

Because, at first, she’d felt like it was none of her business, none of her concern.

Now it was both her business and her concern. Perhaps it shouldn’t be, but it was.
She and Luke had shared too much for it not to be.

Emma spun around and went into the drawing room. She rang for Delaney. The two of
them spent the remainder of the evening cleaning and preparing the front-facing bedchamber
on the second floor.

Sometime in the early morning hours, Emma was awakened by a pounding on the door.
“Emma? Em? Are you in there?”

As she came out of sleep, the first thing she recognized was that his words were slurred.
It came as no surprise.

“Go to bed, Luke,” she called groggily.

“Can’t. Door’s locked.”

“Go to your own room. I assure you,
that
door is not locked.”

A long moment passed. Silence. Then, “Em?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing?”

She sighed. “I’m sleeping here tonight. And every night henceforth that you choose
drunkenness over staying at home.”

“No.” His voice was rough.

“Yes,” she told him.

“Why?” he demanded.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“Can’t do what?”

She slipped her legs over the side of the bed, both her hands gripping the edge at
her thighs. She took a deep breath, then looked bleakly at the locked door. She was
fully awake now.

“I can’t lie awake in a cold bed, wondering when you’ll come home. I can’t keep wondering
why you run away from me every night. Wondering why I can’t give you what you need.
Wondering how drunk you’ll be when you finally return.”

“You do give me what I need.”

No, she didn’t. At least she hadn’t so far.

“Let me in.” His voice was soft, cajoling.

She closed her eyes. Didn’t say a word.

“Please.”

She gripped the edge of the bed tighter. It was difficult for her to deny this man
anything. But if she was going to survive, she needed to deny him this. This was too
important. She needed to be strong. If she didn’t do whatever was in her power to
stop this, Luke would continue down this path of self-destruction. She couldn’t bear
to see him destroy himself.

“Emma, let me in.”

“No,” she said, her voice firm.

“Why?”

“I already told you why.”

“I need you.”

“As much as you need to drink?”

“More. A thousand times more.” His voice sounded broken, and she closed her eyes.
“Open the door.”

“No,” she pushed out.

“I need to lie beside you.”

“You survived without me for twenty-eight years, Luke. I’m sure your sleep will be
perfectly adequate alone in your bed tonight.”

“Survived without you? If that’s what you call survival,” he said gruffly. Then, in
a whisper, he repeated, “I need you.”

She closed her eyes, fisting her hands in the blankets. “You’re drunk.”

“Just a little,” he admitted.

“You have to know I won’t sit by and watch you destroy yourself.”

“It might be too late.”

I know.
She blinked hard and looked down at her lap.

He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “So you’ll deprive me of my only comfort?”

“Oh, I am clearly not your only comfort, Luke.” Her tone was far more bitter than
she’d intended it to be.

“But you are…you have become…something…my…” He seemed to be struggling with the words.
Not surprising, given how drunk he was.

“You’re more important to me. Than anything,” he finished clumsily.

If he’d said that to her sober, she might believe it. Now she knew he just wanted
in the room and was trying every tactic he could think of to wheedle her into unlocking
the door. Still, she slipped out of bed and walked to the door and leaned against
it.

“If that’s true, then you need to stop this,” she said through the wood that stood
between them. “You need to stop running away.”

“I will,” he said, too quickly. Then, “May I come in?”

“No.” Her voice was soft.

“I’m not leaving until you let me in.”

“Then you might wish to get comfortable.” Because she knew, now more than ever, that
she
couldn’t
let him in. Just telling him he needed to stop wasn’t enough. Him promising to stop
wasn’t enough. He needed to show that he could—that he would try.

She heard a pained sigh, then fumbling as he sat on the floor on the other side of
the door. “Very well,” he said. “I will remain here all night. A guard posted at his
lady’s door.”

She sank down, too, leaning her back against the door and crossing her legs on the
carpet.

“Why do you do it?” she whispered. When he was silent, she wasn’t sure if he’d heard
her.

Finally, he spoke, his voice gruff. “Drink?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” There was a soft
thunk
, as if the back of his head had banged against the door. “It makes me stronger.”

She bristled at this, but she ground her teeth, refusing to show her frustration at
that nonsense. Instead, she asked, “How?”

After a moment of silence that seemed to ring in Emma’s ears, he said, “Keeps the
nightmares away.”

“How does that make you stronger? You can’t help having nightmares. Nightmares don’t
make you weak.”

“Mine do. Sometimes I think…I think they’re…they’re doing something to me…driving
me mad.”

“How?”

“Em,” he groaned. She imagined the pained frustration on his face. She’d seen it before.

A part of her wanted to soothe him, to reassure him and say he didn’t have to tell
her this. But he did have to tell her. She needed to know. How could she help him
if she didn’t know? How could he help himself?

“How, Luke?” she pressed.

“When I wake up, the…the
panic
. It doesn’t go away like it ought. Sometimes hours pass before I convince myself
that he’s not after me…” His voice was choked. Every word that he said twisted her
heart. “That he’s not going to kill me.”

“Who?” she asked.

“My father. No,” he corrected quickly, voice strained, “not my father. The old Duke
of Trent. The man I thought was my father. And even though I know he’s dead, my mind
convinces me that he isn’t. That he’s coming after me and that this time he’s going
to kill me.”

“And you can’t wake?”

“I am awake, though. But I can’t…I can’t…make him go.”

Good God. Every part of her wanted to open the door to him. To hold him. Tell him
it would be all right, that she was there, that she would be there whenever he woke.
That she’d help him.

She couldn’t do that, though. He needed to understand, no matter what, that he couldn’t
continue down this path.

“Why do you have nightmares about him?” she asked softly.

Silence.

“He was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“He gave me what I deserved.”

“I doubt that.”

“That’s what he said.” Luke sounded so alone. So vulnerable and small. He never sounded
like this. “He said I needed to be punished. He said it was the only hope to cure
me.”

“Cure you of what?”

“My inherently evil nature.”

“And you believed him?”

“I was a boy.”

“But you still believe him, don’t you?”

Luke gave a humorless laugh. “I haven’t exactly been a model of goodness.”

“Yes, you have.”

“You don’t know me very well.”

“You’re wrong about that.” She knew very well the goodness that lay beneath the irreverent
mask of the rogue he showed to the world.

“Maybe,” he said softly.

“The old duke turned his anger at your mother and Lord Stanley upon you.”

Silence for a long moment. Then, “I never thought of it like that.”

“How did you think of it, then?”

“He knew I was a bastard and therefore evil. He also knew that I was second in line
to the dukedom. He truly intended to cure me, in the unwelcome event I held his title
one day.”

But Emma was stuck on the first part of what he’d said. “You were a bastard and therefore
evil? What are you talking about?”