The Rogue's Proposal (7 page)

A big part of her wanted to fling her arms around him and kiss him and thank him for
such a lovely, thoughtful gesture. But instead she simply said, “Yes. Breakfast.”

It was late morning by the time they left the Cambridge Inn, and it proved to be a
long day of driving. They changed horses twice, and now they rode behind two well-matched
bay mares, both with star patterns on their noses. Luke and Emma had agreed the two
must be sisters, perhaps even twins.

They’d passed the day conversing companionably, stopping for a late luncheon on the
banks of the Severn, with a lovely prospect of the Malvern Hills. Having spent his
childhood at nearby Ironwood Park, Luke knew this area, and he pointed out its geological
features as they ate.

Despite the ease of their companionship, Luke was feeling more and more ill at ease.
What would happen tonight? Would he ask her to lie with him again? He wanted to. But
he also wanted more…something he’d agreed not to pursue.

The truth was, the more he sat beside Emma, the more he conversed with her and grew
to know her, the more he admired her. Her curvaceous and seductive body put wicked
images into his head, but her quick, intelligent mind enhanced them. And there was
something else, too, something he couldn’t define. Something about the two of them
just fit. Like they were two pieces of a broken egg whose jagged edges matched perfectly.

Which was a mad thought, really. He’d only known her for two days. But when else did
he have a chance to sit beside someone for hours on end with nothing to do but stare
at the passing scenery? And talk.

And despite the fact that he wanted her…badly…as he grew to know her better, it became
more and more clear that she really was a lady, and although she’d been married for
a short time, an extremely innocent one, at that. She hadn’t led an easy or uncomplicated
existence for the past year, but she remained rather naïve.

As much as his body craved Emma, guilt began to eat at him for being as suggestive
as he already had. He shouldn’t have kissed her that first night. He’d completely
misinterpreted her experience, and her intentions.

He wanted Emma to remain innocent. As much as that devil inside demanded he drag her
into the darkness, to utterly and completely debauch and ruin her, he began to realize
that he needed to fight it.

It was late afternoon now, and as they made their way toward the town of Worcester,
he mused on how well he felt he understood Emma. Certainly better than he’d understood
any other woman. Usually, he didn’t sit on a bench and talk to a woman. Usually when
he was with women, he had pressing matters to attend to, and those didn’t involve
talking.

To his surprise, he enjoyed talking to Emma. He liked hearing her interpretations
about where they were going and what they were doing. He liked hearing about her past—her
antics with her governesses and her mother, and later during her boarding school years;
her sister Jane, whom she admired greatly; and her father, who was bedridden with
some debilitating ailment of the heart.

He steered well clear of conversations relating to her husband and Roger Morton—because
he’d learned yesterday that those subjects did neither of them any good. They deflated
her and made him indescribably angry. They were still far from Edinburgh, and they
had plenty of time before those topics would need to be broached.

She attempted to draw information from him, too. She seemed especially interested
in Trent.

Of course she was interested in Trent, he thought dryly. Wasn’t everyone?

“Tell me about your brother,” she said as they topped a rise, and the city of Worcester
appeared in the distance, the spires of its cathedral peeking over the trees.

“I have four brothers,” he told her. “Which one are you referring to?”

She had the grace to blush. “Well, I suppose we could start with the duke.”

He sighed. “What do you wish to know?”

“What’s he like? Is he similar to you?”

“He’s nothing like me.” He stared at the road and attempted to contain his sneer.

She looked at him askance. “Well, then. You are close in age, at least, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Less than two years apart.”

“Describe him to me.”

He was accustomed to people asking about Trent, but for some reason, her particular
interest in the man suddenly annoyed him. “You do know he’s married.”

Hell, that had sounded snappish. He was turning into a goddamned shrew.

“Of course,” she said mildly. “His marriage has been the talk of England for the past
two months.”

“Right,” he said on a near growl.

Her expression melted into a frown, and she studied him, her bronze-tinted eyes assessing.
“Do you dislike him?”

Did he dislike Trent? Hell. That question was far more complicated than she could
possibly understand, and, really, there was no answer.

He formulated his response carefully before he spoke. “Trent is my brother. But we
usually don’t agree. On any topic.”

“I see,” she said softly. She seemed to mull this over for a while. Then she asked,
“Do you know the duchess?”

His first thought was that she was talking about his mother, and he was about to tell
her that of course he knew her. But, no. She was talking about Sarah.

This was a query he’d need to answer often in the future. Nevertheless, it was an
odd question, because how did one explain how he’d known a woman for much of his life
and thought of her fondly as a member of his family—in a servant’s capacity? And how
to explain the change now that she’d been catapulted into the role of his sister-in-law?

“Yes,” he told Emma. “I’ve known her since I was a boy. Her father is the gardener
at Ironwood Park.”

“What do you think of her?”

He raised a brow. “She’s not a ruthless social climber, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No,” she said softly, “I never believed that, despite what the scandal sheets have
to say about it. If she were such an ambitious sort, I’m sure the duke would have
seen through the act.”

Something bitter and painful shot through him, but it didn’t take long for him to
recognize what it was.
Jealousy.
Everyone would always grant Trent the benefit of the doubt. Even Emma.

He blew out a breath through his teeth. They were in Worcester now, turning into High
Street and passing the cathedral on their left, an impressive Norman stone structure
with a tall central tower and spires.

“I like Sarah,” he told Emma. “I have always liked her. She is a good match for Trent,
despite what the world may say.” Sarah might be the only person in the world who could
pull the stick out of Trent’s arse, in any case.

She nodded, seemingly content with his answer. “Tell me about your other brothers.
And you have a sister, too, correct?”

He glanced at her. She thought she was asking him simple questions, but hell if he
knew how to answer them anymore.

He began carefully. With a sibling who was a blood sibling, someone he’d been raised
with and who shared his surname. “Samson—Sam is the oldest. He’s my half brother on
my mother’s side.”

“I didn’t know you had another older brother.”

“Yes. He’s the product of my mother’s liaison with…
someone
before her marriage to the Duke of Trent. She has never said who.”

“What’s he like?”

“Sam is…” He frowned. How to describe Sam? He was a quiet beast of a man, and it was
almost unnerving the way his dark eyes took everything in but how rarely he bothered
to voice his opinion. “Taciturn. He has had endured quite a lot. I doubt if he enjoyed
growing up in a house in which everyone knew him as the bastard child. The duke ignored
him.”

The duke had ignored Sam, but had he hated Sam as much as he’d hated Luke? Luke didn’t
think so.

She flinched. “That sounds difficult indeed. Awful, actually.”

“I’m sure it was,” Luke said. “As an adult, he hasn’t had it any easier. He was a
lieutenant in the army, and a few years ago, he was shot in battle and almost died.
He’s been married twice, but he lost both of his wives—the first in childbed along
with their newborn son, and the second on the field with him on the Continent.”

Emma wrapped her cloak tighter around her and looked at him with glassy eyes. “Oh,
that is awful. The poor man.”

Luke nodded. Sam never asked for his pity and Luke never gave it, but still, something
inside him burned whenever he thought of all Sam had been through.

They rode in silence for a moment. Then she said, “And the others? Your sister?”

“Esme.”

“How old is she?”

“Nineteen.”

“What is she like?”

“Quiet.”

Luke realized his answers had begun to degenerate to one word. Discussing his family
was enough to clench his heart into stone. Even the one-word answers were becoming
difficult to spit out. Still, Emma deserved more than this. He took a breath and tried
again.

“Esme is quiet. She doesn’t do very well in large groups, though my mother and Trent
seem to enjoy pushing her into awkward social situations. She’s always scribbling
away in her journal. My guess is that those pages are the only things in the world
that know her true thoughts.”

“I imagine it would be difficult, growing up with five older brothers.”

Luke smirked. “No doubt. And having a wild mother didn’t help her much, either.”

They had turned into Broad Street, and he finally reined the horses to a stop in front
of the Crown and Unicorn Inn, grateful to be saved from answering any more questions.

He secured a room for them and led Emma upstairs, two servants following behind them
with their luggage.

“Well if it ain’t my good friend Hawkins,” a voice called out from the top of the
stairs.

Luke glanced up to see Rupert Smallshaw, one of his carousing partners from London.

Bloody hell.

He plastered a smile on his face. “Small. What a surprise.”

Small rolled his eyes heavenward. “I know. Godforsaken place, ain’t it, out here in
the middle of nowhere?”

Small was a true man of Town. He despised leaving London, where it was easy to find
all those decadent pleasures he sought on a daily basis.

Luke reached the top of the stairs, well aware of Emma standing just behind him.

His brain felt scrambled as he attempted to come up with a decent reason to be here
with her, heading up to the same room. There was no way for her to escape this with
her reputation intact.

“What are you doing so far from Town?” he asked Small as his brain continued to work
furiously. Coming up with no decent explanation, panic began to rise in him, a hot,
boiling flood.

Calm the hell down, man. She knew this might happen. So did you.

Small shrugged and gave him a look of utmost boredom. “Riding out to Bromyard to check
in on the ancestral pile.”

Luke raised his brows. “How unlike you.”

“I know. Perhaps I’m becoming responsible at last, eh?”

And then Small’s gaze lit on Emma. His brown eyes perused her from top to bottom,
hovering obviously on her well-endowed bosom.

Luke ground his teeth and stepped in front of her the best he could on the small landing.

“Perhaps I will see you later,” he said to Small.

Small’s lips curled. “Of course.” His gaze, very deliberately, returned to Emma. “I
was wondering why you would come to Worcester instead of Ironwood Park. And now I
see…” He hesitated, obviously waiting for introductions.

“Small, this is Mrs. Curtis.” Immediately, Luke flinched. Why had he given the man
her real name?

“Mrs. Curtis, how lovely.” Small gave her a gallant bow. “You are the reason Lord
Luke felt compelled to visit Worcester. I cannot say I blame him. You’re the prettiest
bit o’ muslin I’ve seen in some time.” His smile turned lascivious. “Do let me know
if you’d be willing to accommodate another, love.” He winked broadly at Emma. “Perhaps
after you’re finished with his lordship?”

Luke lunged, his fists clenched. Before he knew it, pain shot up his right arm, and
Small crumpled to his knees on the wood floor.

“Luke!” Emma shouted. “Oh, God.”

Her hand was on his shoulder, dragging him back as he went for Small again.

“Luke!”

He stopped short. He glanced at Emma, who seemed unscathed, but her eyes were round
golden pools. “Stop!” she gasped.

He looked down at Small, who had risen on one elbow and was rubbing his jaw, gazing
at Luke with astonishment. “What the devil, Hawkins?”

“I…you…never…don’t ever…” His voice emerged as a warbled growl. He couldn’t talk.
Couldn’t think.

“Come,” Emma said in his ear. “Let’s go to the room.”

She led him down the corridor. He stumbled after her, but he barely paid attention
to where they were going, instead looking back at Small and hating him. Wanting to
wrap his hands around the man’s neck and squeeze the life out of his worthless body.

But why? The man was his equal in debauchery. No more, no less. They had shared women
before. Small’s statement was nothing out of the ordinary.

But it had been directed at Emma.

They stopped at the door. The servants were still back with Small, helping him up,
so they waited, since one of them had the key to the door.

Luke took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. Emma gave him a sideways look.
“Are you all right?”

“Are you?” he asked gruffly.

She gave him a tight smile. “Just fine,” she said, “but I’d not be fine at all if
you were convicted of assault.”

One of the servants approached and opened the door. Emma pushed Luke gently into the
room, then followed behind the second servant carrying his trunk. When their luggage
had been placed inside and the two servants had left, Luke sank into a chair, bending
forward with his elbows on his knees and pushing his fingers over his forehead and
into his hair.

She came to him, kneeling before him and taking his right hand in her own, studying
it and then rubbing it gently in her hands. “You hit him hard.”