The Rogue's Proposal (30 page)

Congratulations and laughter, hugs and backslapping reigned for several minutes. Through
it all, Emma and Luke were acutely aware of each other, of the powerful new bond they’d
forged between them—a bond that neither would ever break.

L
uke’s intuition had led him back to the rambling mansion Morton had bought in Chiswick.
He brought workers with him who tore down the walls in those two rooms with new paint.

As soon as the first hunk of plaster crumbled away, money began to pour out of the
walls. All in all, they found eight thousand pounds hidden within that old house’s
plaster.

It only accounted for about a third of the money Morton had stolen from Emma’s father.
But Mark had taken it upon himself to look into Morton’s affairs, and he’d assured
them that they would probably double that amount once they’d sold off Morton’s “assets”—many
of which they found in the house’s ballroom.

They’d never have all the money the man had stolen—no doubt he’d spent much on personal
extravagances—but it was enough. Enough for Emma’s father to rebuild his family’s
life in Bristol.

Two days after they found the money, Emma and Luke married by special license in London.
It was the most beautiful day of Emma’s life. Watching Luke express his love to her
in a church, before God and his family, was intensely emotional for Emma. Tears leaked
from the corners of her eyes as they spoke their vows.

They were married. They were one.

The very next day, they headed for Bristol in a private carriage. A second carriage
containing the most renowned heart doctor in London, as well as three servants, followed.
They arrived at the house on a snowy winter’s day.

The days since Luke’s proposal had been the happiest of Emma’s life, but the dismal
sight of her father’s house through the falling snow sobered both her and Luke.

Emma left the carriage, huddled against Luke under the umbrella the coachman held
for them. They ascended the steps and went to the tall, black door and knocked.

Emma glanced at Luke. “It’s so odd to be knocking on the door of the house I considered
home for so long.”

“You should walk right in, then.”

“No,” she said softly. “My home is with you now.”

It was Jane who answered the door. Emma’s sister looked tired and thin, with dark
circles of worry smudged beneath her eyes and her lips turned down in a frown. But
when she saw who was at the door, she threw herself into Emma’s arms with a low exclamation
of joy.

“Oh, Emma! You’re home! I missed you so very much!”

Emma held her sister fiercely. “I missed you, too.”

It took several seconds before Jane gathered herself and pulled away, then she flushed
as she glanced at Luke and the servants who had gathered behind them.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “You mustn’t stand here in the rain. Please, come inside.”

They all gathered in the entry hall, where Emma made the introductions. She hadn’t
sent a letter home since Luke was recovering from the gunshot wound. At that time,
Luke had insisted she send a hundred pounds to cover any immediate expenses and debts.
But that had been before the proposal. Before the marriage. Before they’d found the
money Roger Morton had stolen.

“Jane,” she said now, “I’d like to present Lord Lukas Hawkins. My husband.”

Jane’s mouth fell open. Her gaze darted between Luke and Emma. Smiling, Luke slipped
his hand over Emma’s and threaded his fingers with hers. She grinned at her sister.

“Close your mouth or you will trap a fly,” she teased. Their mother used to tell them
that.

Jane’s mouth snapped shut. “It’s winter,” she said, using the retort that had once
earned Emma a swat on her bottom. “There are no flies in winter.”

Emma just smiled, and Jane’s expression softened. “I…suppose I should say congratulations,”
she murmured. “I am surprised…but”—she glanced at Emma—“your letters. I could tell
you possessed strong feelings…”

“As I do for her,” Luke said softly, squeezing Emma’s hand.

“I am so glad to hear that,” Jane told him.

“Is Papa in his bedchamber?” Emma asked. “We want to tell him the news.”

Jane smiled and nodded. “He’ll be so happy to see you.”

They went upstairs to Emma’s father’s room. Her heart constricted as she entered the
room, Luke staying near the door while she went forward to greet her father. He was
as she’d left him, small and fragile, his hair now completely white, his features
swollen from the dropsy.

He looked at her, his eyes not seeming to recognize her for a long moment. Then his
expression softened. “Emma,” he said in a cracking voice that had once boomed across
the Bristol docks, “you’ve come home to me.”

She bent down and hugged him the best she could. “I’ve brought something for you.”

“Will I like it?” he huffed out.

“I think so.”

She introduced Luke first. Her father was wary but accepting, and Luke—oh Lord. Her
heart surged at the way he behaved toward her father—with such polite deference she’d
never thought possible from him. But she knew why—because the man in the bed was her
father, and Luke had told her he’d wanted so much for her father to like him.

Second, she introduced the doctor, a man who was known for his excellent work with
ailments of the heart.

Third, she had the servants carry in the large satchel into which her father’s money
had been carefully packed.

“Twelve thousand pounds, Papa. I know it’s not everything, but we’re promised more.”

“I’d heard…you’d found Morton,” her father said, breathless and wide-eyed, “but the
money…I didn’t know…God Almighty, Emma.” He looked at her as if seeing her for the
first time, his brown eyes showing a rare clarity. “You have become a magnificent
woman.”

By the way Luke smiled, she knew he agreed.

Later, they ate a meal with Jane prepared by the cook they’d brought with them from
London. It was clearly the first excellent meal Jane had partaken of in some time,
for she ate with rare enthusiasm. Afterward, they went into the drawing room, where
the doctor joined them.

He told them their father suffered not only from dropsy but from melancholy. The dropsy
he could treat with a very exact prescription of digitalis along with certain other
remedies, and he was confident that that aspect of their father’s illness would improve.

The melancholy had begun after the death of their mother, and it had grown worse with
the theft of their money along with the encroaching illness and the feelings of helplessness
resulting from both. After hours speaking to Emma’s father, the doctor developed a
plan for a cure. It consisted of prescribed interaction with people outside the house,
daily walks, social events, adding furniture back to the house to infuse some sense
that the living actually inhabited it.

After listening to what the doctor had to say, Luke, Emma, and Jane all agreed to
join to work on curing this aspect of their father’s illness together.

They began that very evening, helping him down into the drawing room. He lay on the
sofa covered in blankets, and for the first time in a very long while, he played a
game of chess with his eldest daughter.

Emma and Luke remained in Bristol until the spring, when the snow melted away, the
sun shone brighter and warmer, and the daffodils began to reveal their cheery yellow
faces.

Emma, with Luke and Jane’s help, had restored the house to its former glory. Emma’s
father was on the long path to recovery, though he’d never be the powerful man with
the booming voice she remembered from her childhood.

Bertram had come for a visit every month. They’d begun with an overnight visit, which
in the subsequent months had stretched to a week. And now he was going with them to
London, along with Jane, who was to have her second Season this year, and their father.

They’d received word a few days ago that Sarah, the Duchess of Trent, had given birth
to a healthy baby boy, who was to be named Lukas Samson Hawkins after the duke’s two
eldest brothers. Trent and Sarah had asked them to be the child’s godparents, so Emma
and Luke’s first order of business in London would be to attend the christening.

After the christening, Luke planned to talk to Trent about locating their mother once
and for all. In his letter, Trent had alluded to some kind of clue relating to the
whereabouts of Steven Lowell. It seemed like the brothers were finally close to a
long-overdue reunion with the dowager.

Emma’s family all seemed excited about traveling to London, especially her new brother-in-law,
Bertram, who’d taken to painting Jane wearing different-colored dresses and suggesting
what colors she should ultimately wear in Town.

“Janie,” he’d say, “sky blue it is. Blue is so so pretty.” But the next day he’d change
his mind to lavender. Then buttercup. Then lilac. Then primrose. Bertram loved colors.

Luke and Emma had lived and loved hard over the past months, their bond growing ever
stronger, their relationship ever closer, as the days flew by. There had been nightmares.
There had been arguments. But Luke and Emma’s fierce love and loyalty for each other
never wavered.

Now they stood outside the house on a fine spring day, hand in hand. Servants bustled
about, preparing for their departure by loading their luggage into the carriages.
Emma raised her face to the sun and inhaled a deep breath of warm air. Then she glanced
at Luke, who smiled at her.

“London,” she murmured.

“London,” he agreed.

“Home,” she said, and she heard the lilt of surprise in her voice. His hand squeezed
hers tighter.

“Is London home to you?”

“It is. I’ve missed being there with you.”

He bent down and kissed her softly on the lips. “Me too. I’ve been thinking of my
bed. All the things I did to you there. All the things I wish to do to you in the
future.”

She shuddered and said in a voice lower than a whisper, “Will you tie me to the bedposts
again?”

“Most definitely. I’ll tie you in intricate knots of silk, Em, your legs and arms
bound for my pleasure. Then I’ll have my wicked way with you all night long.”

“Oh…” she breathed as a warm flush of arousal bloomed within her.

A cocky glint entered his eyes. “You want me, don’t you?”

“Luke…”

“Right here, right now. You want me to take you. Possess you. Make you come.”

Her eyes widened as she glanced furtively about. “There are people
everywhere
.”

He gave a negligent flick of his wrist. “They’re not paying any attention to us, angel.
Come with me. We’re going for a walk.”

With a firm grip on her hand, he tugged her behind the house, to the garden. Some
of the bulb flowers her mother had planted years ago still bloomed tenaciously, providing
lovely splashes of color against the manicured bushes and grass.

He pressed her against the back wall of the house. And then he went down onto his
knees, flipped up her skirts, and worshiped her sex with his mouth until she forgot
about the people on the other side of the house. Until she forgot about everything
but Luke and the pleasure he gave her.

Holding her firmly against the wall, he pushed his fingers inside her, stroking, as
his tongue swirled over her most sensitive spot.

Her hips began to jerk against him, and little cries escaped from her throat. When
she came, it was with a slamming intensity that racked her body from her toes to the
top of her head. Such pleasure. Such peace.

When it was over, her knees began to buckle, but Luke caught her in his arms. Once
more pressing her back against the wall, he commanded, “Wrap your legs around me.”

She complied, and he settled his cock at her entrance and pushed into her with a single
hard thrust. She bit his shoulder to prevent the scream.

Holding her pinned against the wall, he moved inside her in heavy, rough strokes,
staring at her with piercing blue eyes, his hands tight over the backs of her thighs,
the material of her dress bunched between them.

“Luke,” she moaned. “Luke.”

He grew impossibly harder, his thrusts impossibly stronger. His body was so solid,
so perfectly strong against her.

“I love you, angel,” he gritted out. And then he held her pinned, still, as he emptied
into her. She wrapped her arms around him, opening herself, taking every bit of him
she possibly could. She wanted nothing less than all of this man—and he’d given it
to her.

Finally he relaxed, lowering her gently to the ground and slipping out of her body.

Her skirts fell back around her ankles, and as he pressed his forehead to hers, she
fixed the falls of his trousers.

She cupped his face in her hands and brought him to her lips for a soft kiss. When
she pulled away, she said with a smile, “To London?”

“To London,” he agreed.

Hand in hand, they walked back around to the other side of the house, where Bertram
bounded up to them holding the pair of his shoes that he’d thought he’d lost, Jane
hurried over to discuss some aspect of closing up the house, and their father, leaning
heavily on his cane, asked Luke about the horses he’d selected for this part of the
journey.

Luke and Emma shared a secret, private smile, and then they turned to their motley
band of a family with twin grins, happiness and fulfillment surging through them both.

E
verything in place?” Samson Hawkins eyed the chamber of his pistol, then lowered it
to his lap. He glanced over at Laurent, who studied him with a troubled expression
on his face.

“Aye, sir.”

Sam’s lips firmed, and he looked away, ignoring the impulse to mutter something comforting
to the lad. Laurent had chosen this life for himself. It wasn’t a life for the weak
but for the hard and pitiless. Sam never forgot that, and neither should Laurent,
if he wished to live.

He glanced out the carriage window and scanned the dark back wall of the opulent Mayfair
town house until his gaze paused at a second-story window. The window appeared innocuous
enough, with the glow of the lamps inside the room casting golden light through the
indigo silk curtains.

Dunthorpe was in that room right now, by himself. Perhaps reading, perhaps drinking.
Perhaps involved in more nefarious pursuits, such as treachery and treason. Waiting
for Sam—or, more correctly, for Sam’s alias.

Waiting for death, though he didn’t know it yet.

Sam drew in a long breath, and his fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol.

“Watch for my signal. It should come after the first shot. I’ll be down thirty seconds
after I give it. As soon as I am inside, double-check the streets and ensure everything’s
ready to go.” He tucked his pistol into an inner pocket of his coat.

Laurent nodded.

He met Laurent’s gaze evenly. “Good. When all’s said and done, it shouldn’t take more
than five minutes. If a quarter of an hour passes and I haven’t returned, you and
Carter know what to do.”

“Aye.”

Sam’s fingers curled over the door handle, but Laurent grabbed his forearm, holding
him back. “Hawk?”

He glanced back at the boy, arching his brows expectantly.

“Good luck. I know…I know how much you despise this—”

Sam’s teeth clenched hard. The boy had no idea…

“But it’s the right thing to do. We must keep the Regent safe.”

“I know, lad,” Sam said quietly. Nevertheless, no matter how dastardly his target,
killing would never be something Sam enjoyed. There was something about snuffing out
a human life that made him feel unclean. As low of a creature as the scum he eliminated
from the world.

And he knew better than anyone that Dunthorpe required elimination. The man had brought
about too much death and misery already, and if he remained living, he would be the
cause of much, much more.

Sam slipped out of the carriage. In measured, unhurried strides, he walked around
the corner to the front of the town house. It was late, and the streets weren’t as
busy as at midday, but this was London—a city that never completely slept. He took
thorough stock of the people who passed him—a woman flanked by her two small children,
the three of them huddled against the chill. A man hurrying down the street. A rubbish
wagon, a closed carriage, and three men on horseback. None of them paid him any heed.

He walked up the four steps and stopped on the town house’s landing. Then, as if he
were here on civilized business, he knocked on the door.

A manservant answered. The butler, Sam knew. Name was Richards.

“May I help you?”

“Denis Martin,” Sam said, layering on a thick French accent. He’d learned French as
a child and had spent so many years in France he could speak the language fluently
and as flawlessly as a native. His Frenchman-speaking-English accent was also perfect.
No one perceived his Englishness when he used it. “His lordship is expecting me.”

“Of course, sir.” Richards’s expression didn’t change, but there was a slight flicker
of something in his eyes. The French weren’t the most popular of people in England
right now, and evidently this man didn’t approve of a French frog visiting his master.

The butler stepped aside to allow Sam into the entry hall. Sam kept his hat low over
his brow and his face turned away and in shadows.

In the end, the problem of Richards was the most difficult element of this mission.
After completing his investigation into Dunthorpe’s household, Sam was convinced the
servant was innocent as to the dealings of his master. Sam’s superiors had requested
he “take care of” Richards as well, to eliminate the possibility of the butler identifying
him as the man who’d assassinated his master. But his superiors knew that Sam had
drawn solid lines between those acts he would and would not commit. He would steal,
lie, torture, and assassinate in the interests of king and country. But he would not
commit cold-blooded murder of an innocent British citizen, even to save his own hide.

So his superiors had eventually given in, but everyone was clear that if there were
to be any repercussions of Richards’s survival tonight, all Sam’s colleagues and support
would fade into the shadows, and Sam would be on his own.

Which was all well and good. Sam had managed situations like this before, and he would
do so again.

“May I take your hat and coat, sir?” the butler questioned.

“Non. It is not necessary. My message is a quick one. I shall be in and out in a matter
of moments.”

“Very well. Right this way.”

Sam followed the servant up a narrow set of stairs, then down a corridor lit sparsely
with two gilded wall sconces set widely apart. They stopped at the elegant door at
its end, and Richards knocked before opening the door to the gruff, “Yes?” from its
other side.

Sam waited in a shadow between two of the sconces, his gaze lowered.

“Mr. Martin is here to see you, sir.”

There was a pause, long enough to make the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck crawl.

“Very well. Show him in.”

Richards opened the door wider, moving aside to allow Sam to pass. Sam stepped into
the drawing room.

Once inside, he raised his head. As always, he scanned his surroundings. He’d been
in this room before, to conduct preliminary information gathering. Nothing had changed—the
furniture crowding the place was ornate, with much carved oak and silk and velvet
upholstering. The many-paned window hung on the opposite wall, large and square and
covered by that indigo curtain. He pictured Laurent down there, waiting for him. Worrying
about him.

Laurent wouldn’t need to wait long. In minutes, Sam would be back in the carriage
and they’d be fading into the night.

His gaze focused on his target. Viscount Dunthorpe was an older man, in his late forties,
with a full head of gray hair and dark, penetrating eyes that let nothing slip past.
He was well known for his biting cynicism and cold wit, and also as one of the most
brilliant debaters in parliament.

He was also a traitor.

“Lord Dunthorpe.” Keeping his French accent firmly in place, Sam held out his hand.
“It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance.”

His face impassive, the viscount took Sam’s hand. The handshake was terse and businesslike.
Dunthorpe turned to his servant. “That will be all, Richards. You may retire for the
evening.”

After the servant left, Dunthorpe gazed at Sam, his expression cold and calculating.
Sam schooled his own features to absolute flatness. He needed to delay for approximately
sixty seconds. That would give the servant time to get to his quarters in the attic.

“Do you have the schedule?” Dunthorpe asked.

“
Oui
, I do,” Sam said gruffly.

Dunthorpe held out his hand, palm open. “Give it over,” he commanded. He spoke as
a man accustomed to authority.

Sam glanced meaningfully at the tea service he’d seen placed on a round table in the
corner. “Will you invite me to tea, milord?”

Dunthorpe crossed his arms over his chest and gave Sam an arch look. “Indeed, I hadn’t
intended to do any such thing.”

Sam rubbed his frigid hands together. He hadn’t worn gloves for a reason. “It is very
cold outside, milord. Brandy, then?”

Dunthorpe’s eyes narrowed. “
French
brandy? What do you take me for, a common smuggler?”

No, this man dealt in much more serious crimes. Sam shook his head. “
Mais, non
,” he said gravely. “Of course not, milord.”

Dunthorpe sneered. “You haven’t even removed your hat. You don’t look at all like
a man interested in settling down for a nice cup of tea or a nip of brandy. You look
like a man prepared to do your duty and then flee in the event I should decide you
know too much.”

Well, then. Already hurling threats. Sam supposed that one had been meant to infuse
some kind of fear into him, but it hadn’t worked. He had dealt with men of Dunthorpe’s
ilk too often.

He’d given Richards enough time. By now the man was entering his chamber and in another
few seconds, he would be donning his nightcap and preparing for bed.

“Alas. In that case I shall hand over the plans, monsieur.” Sam reached into his coat.
His fingers slid against the cold metal barrel of his pistol before he clasped the
edge of the folded pages. He drew them out and gave them to Dunthorpe.

The man snatched the pages from Sam and opened them greedily. Sam’s lip would have
curled in disgust if he’d allowed it. The bastard held such enthusiasm for destroying
everything the British held dear.

In truth, these papers contained a plethora of false statements that made Sam grind
his teeth. Deceiving the populace was another thing that ranked rather low on his
list of preferred activities, but it was what his superiors wanted—to show Dunthorpe,
this traitor, as a hero of the people. These papers would serve as the “proof” that
he had died defending the Regent, not embroiled in the midst of a profitable scheme
to murder him.

The powers that be had decided it would be “too traumatic” should the populace hear
the truth about their national hero, who’d served as an officer of the British Navy
for eighteen years. The truth was, the only man Dunthorpe had ever served was himself.
He’d only cared about his own gain. He’d been selling secrets to the French since
he was a youth, and now he had organized this conspiracy, all for personal political
and economic gain.

“What’s this?”

Sam watched Dunthorpe skim the papers, his movements growing more frantic, his eyes
widening at what he was reading—all the sordid details about the plot, with the slight
twist eliminating Dunthorpe from the list of those at fault and instead pointing to
him as the hero.

“You bastard. This isn’t the schedule.” Then he flicked the papers away. They fluttered
to the ground as Dunthorpe lifted dark, furious eyes at him. “Who are you?” he growled.

Sam raised a brow. His heart wasn’t even pounding hard. He might as well have been
sitting in his desk chair at his own house reading the
Times
.

What did this say about him? If nothing else, it said that he was too far gone to
ever feel truly human again.

He shrugged and said softly, using his own, English-accented voice, “I am a concerned
citizen. For God, king, and country, my lord. We cannot let you destroy it.”

He reached into his coat again, this time drawing out his weapon, cocking it at the
same time. But Dunthorpe was faster than his aging appearance made him out to be.
The man scrambled backward, hands fumbling with the drawer on the table behind him.
He jerked it open and yanked out a gun as Sam advanced on him, aiming.

Sam possessed the advantage. He had plenty of time. His heart had still not increased
in its tempo. He was perfectly calm.

He squeezed the trigger while Dunthorpe’s gun was still pointed at the floor.

The resulting
boom
of gunfire echoed through Sam’s skull, loud enough to rouse every Londoner in a half-mile
radius. Dunthorpe lurched backward, and he slammed into the desk, his body flailing
as if he were a rag doll, before crumpling to the carpeted floor.

For the first time all night, Sam’s heart kicked against his ribs.
Now
he needed to hurry. Needed to vanish before the authorities were summoned, before
Richards showed his face in this room. He still had no intention of killing the man.

He glanced at Dunthorpe’s fallen body, saw that the shot had been clean, straight
through the man’s heart. He quickly bent down to check for a pulse. The viscount was
already dead.

Rising, Sam strode to the window and shook the curtains to signal Laurent that he
was on his way down. Then he turned and made for the door.

A noise stopped him in his tracks. A tiny, feminine whimper. One he wouldn’t have
heard had every one of his senses not been attuned.

He homed in on the source of the noise, turning to that little round table tucked
into the corner. It was covered with a silk tablecloth whose edges brushed the carpeted
floor.

In two long strides he was at the table. He ripped the tablecloth away, sending the
china tea service that had lain upon it crashing to the floor. Hot tea splashed against
his boots, steaming when it made contact with the cold leather.

It smelled damn good—strong and brisk. He wished Dunthorpe had offered him some.

A woman cowered beneath the table.

A small, blond, frail-looking woman, dressed in white and curled up into a tight ball,
as if she might be able to make herself so tiny he wouldn’t be able to see her.

Goddammit. A
woman
. The truth of the situation slammed through him, and Sam ground his teeth.

She glanced up at him, her midnight-blue eyes shining with terror.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

Her slight French accent clicked everything into place. He knew who she was, of course.
It was the surprise of seeing her so out of her element—cowering under a table—that
had shocked him into not recognizing her immediately. Two months ago, he’d seen her
on Dunthorpe’s arm as they’d strolled into the Royal Opera House.

It was Lady Dunthorpe, Dunthorpe’s beautiful, elegant, cultured French wife. She’d
emigrated from France during the revolution, after her entire family had suffered
the wrath of the guillotine. She’d been rescued, sent with relatives to England, and
had married Dunthorpe at age seventeen, ten or eleven years ago. It was then that
Dunthorpe’s ties to the French had grown much stronger.