The Rogue's Proposal (21 page)

“For God’s sake. You know.”

“No, I don’t. Please explain.”

“Haven’t you gone to church? Haven’t you read the doctrines? It is common knowledge
that bastards are evil because they inherit the evil nature of their sinful parents.”

“That’s rubbish,” she snapped. “All children are born innocent.”

“No. I was born of evil and I became evil. Just like the old duke predicted.”

“Rubbish!” she repeated, her voice shaking with certainty.

He was silent for a minute. Then he said, “You are a very opinionated woman.”

“Only when I know I’m right.”

“Are you right, Em?”

“Yes.” She was so angry red tinged the edges of her vision. She would find her gun
and shoot the old Duke of Trent if he weren’t already dead. How dare that man try
to beat the evil out of an innocent child? And she had no doubt that he was also the
one who’d made those marks on Luke’s back.

Luke had spent his whole life believing he could never be good, could never be saved.
How was a person supposed to survive that? How could a person who believed such a
thing ever be happy?

“He should never, ever have done that, Luke. You were a
child
.”

“I was never a very good child. I never followed orders. I couldn’t sit still like
my brothers could. I picked fights. It only grew worse as I went into adolescence.
I stole kisses from girls behind barns. I gambled away my allowance. I was hateful
to my brothers and sister.”

“Some of that was certainly a result of your father’s cruelty. I know you well enough
to know that they are not inherent traits within you.”

“Are you sure?” He sounded so hesitant. Uncertain.
Hopeful
.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” she said in a near whisper.

He was quiet for a while, perhaps mulling it over. Then, “Emma, can I come in?”

She closed her eyes tight so the tears wouldn’t leak out. Because it was physically
painful to say it this time. “No.”

T
he next morning, Emma woke early. She hadn’t had enough sleep—it had been almost dawn
by the time Luke had convinced her to go to bed.

The first thing she did was slip out of bed and hurry to the door. Her ankle felt
better this morning. Almost as good as new.

She unlocked and opened the door to find Luke curled on the floor fully dressed. She
dropped to her knees beside him. “Luke?”

He blinked groggily at her, disoriented. She touched her fingers to his cheek. “Come
to bed for a while?”

He gazed at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he said, in a scratchy
voice, “Yes.”

He rose to his feet on unsteady legs, reminding her of a newborn colt.

She took his arm and led him to the bed. She helped him undress down to his shirt
and tucked him into bed. Then she leaned down and kissed him on the forehead as if
she were kissing a child.

“Sleep,” she murmured.

He grasped her wrist. “You’re not coming back to bed?”

“No.”

He frowned, but she gazed steadily at him, and he released her wrist. She grabbed
her robe and, wrapping it over her shoulders, left the room, closing the door quietly
behind her.

She went downstairs to the drawing room and sat in one of the chairs with her legs
drawn up under her chin. She sat there for a very long time, thinking about Luke,
about what they’d discussed last night. About her new understanding of him.

Had she been too harsh? He’d opened up and told her everything—well, everything except
the details about the scars on his back—and she’d brutally refused him.

Yet, a part of her knew that if she coddled him, he’d have no reason to stop his current
behaviors. She hoped that part was right. At one point last night, when he’d continued
to beg her to let him in and she’d refused, she’d wondered if she was hurting him
irrevocably. If she was being as bad as the man he’d thought was his father.

No…never that bad, she thought bitterly. After last night, she knew she’d never hated
anyone—not even Roger Morton—like she hated the late Duke of Trent.

She sat there for a good hour, mulling over things, and then with a sigh, she went
into Luke’s bedchamber and dressed. She called on Delaney to help her with her hair.
Luke still wasn’t awake after that, so she fetched her sewing basket and went back
into the drawing room to work on her chemise.

It was almost noon when Luke appeared, fully dressed, in the door of the drawing room.
Emma had been sitting in silence for hours, lost in her thoughts as she stitched away,
and the sound of him at the door made her gasp.

“Did I startle you?”

“Yes. It has been so quiet.”

He gazed at her for a long moment. Then he came over to the sofa where she sat. He
tilted her chin up, then bent down to kiss her on the lips. “Are you ready to return
to Wapping?”

So that was how it was to be. They weren’t going to discuss last night. A part of
her was relieved. Another part was confused. She studied him carefully, wondering
if he even remembered all that had been said. If so, he showed no sign of it.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

A shadow crossed over his expression. Then it cleared and he said, “I’m not hungry.”
His voice was quiet and emotionless.

She released a slow breath as she set her sewing aside. Perhaps he did remember, after
all.

“I’m ready. I’ll just fetch my cloak.”

Morton’s office and residence in Wapping was about five miles away from Luke’s house
in Cavendish Square. As Luke sat beside Emma in the carriage—a hired hackney—he considered
investing in a carriage. He’d never owned a carriage of his own. He’d never needed
to. He always kept a horse or two, and he’d simply ridden everywhere.

But now Emma was with him. She shouldn’t be traipsing about in London in dirty hired
conveyances. She should have her own coach with a driver.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

Caught.

She saw him glance at her and turned to him fully, giving him a soft smile.

Something clenched in his stomach. Was that sympathy in her eyes? He didn’t want her
sympathy.

Why had he said so much last night? He’d been so desperate to hold her, to have her
open that damned door. He’d tried everything save fury—how could he be furious with
Emma? She had every right to lock him out. He’d behaved like a weakling and an idiot.

But he’d told her some of his deepest secrets—all those things that showed him in
the worst possible light. He didn’t want her thinking of him as some weak, browbeaten
simpleton.

He much preferred the looks of innocent awe that she gave him when he made love to
her. Or the look on her face when she cried out in pleasure. Or that sleepy, sated,
trusting look she gave him after they’d both reached orgasm.

He adjusted himself in his seat. Probably not a wise idea to think of how she looked
at him after she came. He’d want to take her right here on the carriage seat, and
given that Wapping was only a mile or so away, that probably wasn’t the wisest idea.

Instead, he’d think of last night. That was about as effective as a bucket of cold
water thrown directly over his cock.

He was a bloody fool.

Emma put her hand over his and squeezed. He took a breath, then squeezed back.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the warehouse in Wapping. The area was far busier
during the noon hour on Monday. The streets were crowded with Londoners going about
their business. Sailors, merchants, traders, men of business, messengers, servants—they
all mingled on the street, intent on going wherever it was they needed to be.

Luke helped Emma out of the carriage. She didn’t have her cane, but she was hardly
limping today. “How is your ankle?” he asked her as they headed toward the warehouse.

“Very nearly healed, I think,” she told him. “I hardly feel it anymore.”

Men glanced at Emma as she walked by. He knew why, of course. She was beautiful. Her
lovely curves would make any man think carnal thoughts. And her face—that heart shape
with those big golden-brown eyes and a mouth shaped for sin…

He wanted to lock her away from all those admiring eyes. All those lascivious thoughts.

But what was he doing having proprietary feelings for Emma Curtis? What the devil
was he thinking?

Where was this going?

It had already gone so far. Too damn far. And yet he couldn’t stop it. He didn’t want
to. He wanted to see whatever this was played out to its ultimate conclusion. And
he hoped to hell it wouldn’t be to see her return to Bristol to be with her father
and sister.

They entered the warehouse, passing all the workers carrying crates and heading to
the utilitarian stairs on one side. They ascended the two flights and exited on the
second-floor gallery.

Halfway down the gallery, they hesitated at Morton’s door. It was as dark and still
as it had been yesterday. Luke knocked. No answer. He ground his teeth.

Hell…if Morton was planning another scheme like he had with Emma, it was possible
he wouldn’t return to London for months.

Emma released a frustrated breath. “Let’s talk to the landlord.”

He nodded tightly. They descended the stairs and were told the man in question’s name
was Merrow and he could be found on the ground floor in one of the larger offices.

This was one occasion in which Luke knew it would be better for him to do the talking.
Emma seemed to realize that, because she hung back as he approached the man, a plump,
balding fellow who looked to be in his late forties.

Merrow was taciturn until Luke told him his name, and then the floodgates opened.

“Oh, yes, Roger Morton lets number six upstairs,” he told them.

“Does he live there all the time?”

“No, he isn’t always in residence; however, he does appear to spend two or three nights
a week in residence. And he oft conducts business from his office.”

“Has he been here recently?” Luke asked him.

“He was here last week sometime—I’m sure I saw him about.”

“Will you let us see his rooms?”

At that, Merrow grew squeamish. “Sorry, sir. I can’t let you in. Not unless you are
in possession of a warrant to search the premises.”

Luke blew out a breath. “Very well. We should like to hire a boy to notify us when
Morton returns to the building.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Merrow said.

They arranged for Merrow to take care of hiring the boy, as he informed them that
he had several boys he used as messengers and one of them would surely suit.

“Good,” Luke said. “We will await your message.”

As they left Merrow’s office, Luke saw a man lounging against the wall in the corridor.
He stopped dead, studying the man, who’d turned away from him, but not before he caught
a glimpse of the scar that ran down his cheek.

And he knew exactly who this man was. He thought he’d seen him in Bristol from afar,
the morning of the day he’d met Emma. He’d definitely seen him at Ironwood Park, entering
his brother’s study last summer.

“Trent,” Luke growled, fury rising so fast he could hardly breathe through it.

Emma glanced at him in surprise. “Stay here,” he snapped at her, then he stalked over
to the man. He grabbed his collar and pushed him, hard, against the wall. Emma gasped
behind him.

The man’s face broke into a scowl, and he tried to shove Luke off him.

“My brother sent you,” Luke said. It wasn’t a question.

“Unhand me, if you please, my lord.”

Of course, the bastard knew exactly who Luke was. He let go of his collar but kept
his face close to the man’s. “What’s your name?”

“Grindlow,” the man said, red-faced. His hands went to his collar, straightening his
stock.

“Why are you following me?” Luke asked, even though he knew the answer.

“On the orders of the duke, sir.”

Luke cursed under his breath. He’d asked Trent not to become involved, and still he’d
sent his man to watch Luke’s every move. His brother didn’t trust him to do anything
correctly.

For a moment, Luke was too furious to speak. Then he clenched his teeth and said,
“Stay away from me, Grindlow. Tell my brother I know what he’s about. Tell him I caught
you red-handed. Tell him to stay out of my life.”

Grindlow frowned. “Er, very well, sir. I will tell him.”

Luke gave him a tight nod and backed up a step. Then he turned and went back to Emma.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said under his breath, taking her hand in his.

Holding her hand was immediately comforting. The tight knot of rage in his chest loosened.
And though he directed the hackney driver to take him to Trent House so he could storm
in and rail at his brother, halfway there, he changed his mind, deciding that it would
be much more fulfilling to go home and take Emma to bed instead.

That night, Luke felt that pull trying to take him out of the house. It was so damn
powerful. Like a steel cord yanking at his chest and toward his club. Or any damned
place that would serve him a drink.

After dinner, he looked up at Emma.

Seeing the expression on his face, she murmured, “Stay with me, Luke.”

How could he? He knew what would happen.

“Em,” he said softly, “the drunken version of me is so much better than the nightmare
version.”

“The best part of you is the real you. Not the you that has been dulled and subdued
by drink.”

He closed his eyes, resigning himself to whatever might happen. Then he looked back
up at her. “I’ll try.”

She gave him that warm, wide smile he adored, and he felt a little better.

Later that night, he awoke with a jolt. He heard the hiss of burning skin. The stench
of charring flesh was thick in his nose. It was a smell he’d never forget. A smell
he hated. He twisted, trying to escape, moaning with fear and pain.

“Luke. Luke!”

No, no, not again. Not two in one night. The first one still burned like a hot poker
was jabbing into his back.

Something brushed against his back. His body jerked away violently, his arm reaching
up in pure instinctual self-defense, smacking into flesh.

He heard a feminine gasp and realized someone else was in the room with them. Someone
was seeing what was happening to him. Shame coursed through him. He curled up in a
ball, wanting to hide, not wanting anyone to see him like this.

“Luke, shhh. It’s all right.”

He vaguely recognized the voice. He knew it. But he didn’t want to listen, because,
no, it wasn’t all right. Nothing was all right. “Go away,” he muttered, sounding petulant.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly.

And it hit him.
Emma.

What was she doing here?

And then he realized he was in his own room at his house in Cavendish Square. He was
a grown man, and Emma was lying beside him.

But he still smelled the charred flesh. He still heard the sizzling noise. He still
felt
it, and damn it, it hurt.

“Luke! Wake up!”

He blinked, and Emma came into focus as she leaned over to turn up the lamp. Her beautiful
hair framed her face in loose, tousled curls. He’d taken her braid out last night
when he’d made love to her.

But why was she here?

And…oh, God. Her cheek was turning pink in stripes—the shapes of fingers. His fingers.
He’d hit her, thinking she was his father and that she was after him with the cigar.
God, no. His airway constricted. His chest felt like a horse stood upon it. His heart
was beating too fast. He had to go.

Choking, shaking, he tumbled out of bed. He found his trousers and jerked them on.
She was talking, saying something, but he couldn’t hear over the roar in his ears.
He’d hurt her. He’d struck Emma. His angel.

He’d known he wouldn’t be able to do this. What had he been thinking?
God. God. God.
It was half prayer, half curse.