The Rogue's Proposal (9 page)

“Ah. Our friend Henry Curtis taught you that lesson, I wager.”

“You wager correctly,” she said dryly.

He stared down at his half-eaten egg, a frown pulling his brows together. “Truth of
it is, I haven’t gambled since I was in London last summer.” He sighed. “My last wager
was a particularly stupid one.”

“Care to tell me what it was?”

“It was a foolish bet between gentlemen. Didn’t even get a decent card game out of
it.”

She picked up a bit of beef. “Tell me.”

He glanced down, and when he looked up at her again, he appeared very young, almost
like he did in sleep. But now, his face held a sheepish expression. “I bet Lord Rutger
that it would take between seven and ten days for him to lure Mrs. Wickerly into his
bed.”

She shook her head. Stupid, indeed. “How long did it actually take him?”

“Five days.” He raised his hand, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “So
close.”

“And you made this wager sober?”

He released a burst of laughter. “Of course not. I don’t even remember making it.
All I know is that I was dragged to my club a week later to verify that I had signed
my name in the betting book. And, alas, I had.”

“Drunken bets are the worst kind.”

He immediately sobered. “How would you know that?”

“I was married only three months, but it was a busy three months. Henry made a drunken
bet one night and lost five hundred guineas.”

Luke’s brows rose. “What was the bet?”

She gazed down at her plate, rolling an egg under her finger. “That I’d be with child
by the following month.”

Luke sucked in a breath.

“Of course, they could not verify whether he had won or lost until several weeks after
his death. A man came to me with the wager, written on a piece of paper and signed
by Henry, and he demanded either his winnings or proof that I was in a family way.”
She raised the egg to her mouth and took a bite of it.

“And by then,” Luke said softly, “you weren’t in possession of the funds to pay him.”

“No.”

A muscle jerked in Luke’s jaw, and he turned away. “I can see why you despise gambling,
after that.”

“I do despise it.” Emma’s stomach seemed to close in on itself. He watched the motion
of her hand as she laid her boiled egg down, then met her gaze. “So you haven’t been
gambling,” she murmured. “Then what is it you do, Luke? Where do you go?”

“I go down to the taverns. I drink ale.”

She couldn’t look at him. Instead, she gazed down at her half-eaten food. “Do you…seek
out women?” She had to choke out every single word.

“No.” His answer was swift—a quick pull of release on all those knots twisting within
her, and she couldn’t contain her sharp sigh of relief.

He stayed silent for a moment, then he asked in a slightly mocking tone, “Why?”

“I don’t like the thought of you lying next to me after having lain with someone else.”

“Jealous?” he asked softly.

“Not at all.” What a lie. She knew it, and he probably did, too. “I just have no desire
to serve as the leavings for a man. I have…I have already served that role, and I
won’t do it again.”

He stared at her, his blue eyes inscrutable, his expression impenetrable. Then he
said, quite calmly, “If Henry Curtis were alive, I’d tear him limb from limb.”

She frowned at him, then shook her head.

Frustration swelled in his voice. “Emma, as long as you and I lie in the same bed,
whether we are having ‘relations’ or not, I will not touch another woman.” He gave
her a tight smile. “You and I both know my promises hold little worth, but there it
is. As for what I do at night, I drink ale. I sit. That’s all.”

“That sounds like a very lonely way to spend an evening.”

He shrugged.

A part of her believed him, but another part was confused. “Then why do you do it?”
she pressed. “Why do you leave every night?”

“You know why,” he said.

“No. I don’t.”

“I told you. After the nightm—after I woke you in the middle of the night.”

She shook her head in confusion, and she sighed.

“Because I made a promise not to touch you.”

“But you have touched me.”

He gave a low, cynical laugh. “Not like I want to.”

She closed her eyes against the burning-hot thrill that shuddered through her. He
was silent, but she felt the heat of his gaze on her.

“You are a rogue, Luke. I deciphered that within ten seconds of knowing you.”

He gave another short laugh, this one with a hint of scorn.

“I promised myself I would never again be taken in by another rogue. Because…well,
because Henry was a rogue…and…and that didn’t turn out well. At all. And the night
I met you, I knew that I must remember that promise. Because you were obviously just
like him.”

Her heart had started to pound, and her words emerged sounding choppy and breathy.

He tilted his head. “What are you trying to say? Because I know all that, Emma. I
know why you are so adverse to intimacy with a man like me. I don’t blame you. It’s
why I am trying to honor the agreement we made.”

“I don’t like you leaving at night.” The words rushed out of her.

His lips parted. He stared at her. Then he shrugged and looked down at his food. His
voice took on a cynical quality. “You don’t have a choice.
I
don’t have a choice.”

“Luke,” she groaned.

His gaze snapped to hers again, and she couldn’t have broken the eye contact even
if she’d wanted to. His lips curled in that oh-so-wicked smile he’d used on her that
first night. “Remember, I said the only thing that could break our agreement was if
you begged for it. Is that what you’re going to do? Beg for it?”

A part of her wanted to beg. A very big part of her wanted him to take her to bed
and keep her there, and never go down to another pub or tavern again, never drink
again, never look at another woman again, never gamble again.

He moved closer, shoving the food out of the way as he advanced. He cupped her cheek
in his hand, stroking his thumb over her cheekbone as he spoke. “I want you, Emma.
I have since that first night. Every single night, my body is an inferno burning just
for you. And every night I deny it. Every night I suffer. Will you beg? Will you relieve
my suffering?”

Her throat was dry. She squeezed her eyes shut because she couldn’t bear to gaze into
the blue fire of his. Soon, that fire would consume her. “I…I don’t know.”

“Don’t do it,” he whispered, his breath whispering over her lips. He brushed her lips
with his gently as he continued. “I’m not good enough for you. Angels aren’t meant
for devils.”

“I’m no angel,” she whispered, “and you’re no devil.” The declaration surprised her
even as it emerged from her lips, but in her heart of hearts, she knew it was true.
And in her heart of hearts, she knew with the purest clarity that she wanted him.

He pulled back, his expression growing distant. “I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.”

L
uke had never been to Edinburgh, but it was a beautiful, burgeoning city. He grinned
at Emma’s exuberance as she pointed out the sights to him—Edinburgh Castle and St.
Mary’s Cathedral and Holyrood Palace.

She navigated him through the streets to Cameron’s Hotel—an elegant building with
a colonnaded entry and a marble hall adorned with gilded furnishings and crystal chandeliers.

He was weary of country inns. The spoiled-duke’s-son part of him longed for a full,
linen-lined bath and a five-course meal. A velvet-cushioned sofa and an enormous,
comfortable bed with silk curtains.

The hotelier had given Emma a letter, and she clutched the missive in her hand as
they entered their room. Neither of them spoke until the servants left them alone.

Emma, of course, was no stranger to opulence. Her father had been rich enough to quit
his involvement in trade and spend his golden years enjoying the leisurely life of
a gentleman. He’d given his daughters the best educations and Seasons in London.

Luke unbuttoned his coat and laid it over one of the chair backs. She untied her bonnet
and hung it, then sank down into one of the gilded armchairs to open the letter.

Alone with Emma. Again. Was there a sweeter torture in the world?

Definitely not, he thought wryly, watching her avid expression as she read her letter.
Within a few moments, she glanced up at him.

“From Jane?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How is your father?”

She sighed. “The same. But he seems to lose more interest in the world at large daily.”

“I’m sorry.” He paused. Then, “Do you think that would change if his fortune was returned
to him?”

“I hope so. He did so love his fortune. I think…” She took a deep breath, then continued.
“I think it was the only thing he truly loved in this world after my mother died.
He was so proud of it, of what doors it had opened for us. And when he lost it, it
seemed he also lost every last ounce of joy he’d ever possessed.”

He offered her one of the apples from the bowl left on the small sideboard. She folded
the letter and laid it on the table, then took the apple with a smile and bit into
it with a crisp crunch.

No, there was definitely no sweeter torture than being alone with Emma, Luke decided,
watching her lick apple juice from her lips.

He gazed at her, watching her eat, feeling his cock stir—something he’d grown accustomed
to these past several days in her company. He was accustomed to it, but it didn’t
make it any less painful.

She didn’t want him downstairs drowning himself in drink, but what the hell choice
did he have? Staying with her was far more dangerous.

She looked up at him, oblivious and innocent. He’d never thought a married woman could
be so innocent, but he was wrong. Outwardly Emma appeared self-composed and calm,
and she was certainly no fool, but she was so naïve.

He shifted his feet, turning away slightly to adjust himself to relieve the pressure
against his falls.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” she asked.

“Of course. Are you?”

She hesitated, then said softly, “In a way, I’ve been ready for it for a year. In
another way I’ll never be ready.”

He took the seat beside her, grabbing one of the apples for himself. It was shiny
and red, and when he bit into it, sweetness burst over his tongue. He looked at the
apple in surprise, turning it over in his hand.

“Good, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

They crunched for a few moments, then he said, “You know, we might find nothing. Macmillan
might not be here. He might not even exist…”

“I know,” she sighed.

“And if he does, he might not have any information for us, even if he’s willing to
talk to us.”

“He is the only clue we have,” she said. “And I truly believe he’ll lead us to Morton.”

“I hope so. For your family’s sake.”

“And for yours.”

He laid his head on the chair back and gazed up at the ceiling, which was decorated
along the edges with fancy plasterwork rosettes. “Most of the time, anymore, I think
she’s dead.”

She was silent. Then a soft, “Oh, Luke.”

“She’s been missing since April, Em.
April
. How many months is that?”

“Six,” she said softly.

“Six months,” he said, his voice dull. “Six months without a word from her. How could
she not be dead?”

“You can’t be sure that she is, though. Not until you have proof.”

He released a low groan. He’d been searching for months, following every bit of evidence
he could find. Ultimately, he’d achieved nothing. He had no better idea now of where
his mother was than he had when she first went missing. As much as he wanted answers,
he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that C. Macmillan would be the man to provide
them.

She reached out and took his hand, her slender fingers wrapping around his. Words
weren’t necessary. The squeeze of her hand offered him all the comfort he needed.

They were silent for several minutes, their hands clasped together. Luke finished
his apple and set it on the table beside him. Finally she asked in a soft voice, “Was
she a good mother?”

“Yes.” He gazed at the whorls in the plasterwork, remembering. Once upon a time, before
the duke had died and when his life had seemed to consist of one hellish event after
another, she had been the only person in the world who’d seemed to understand him.
The only one who’d convinced him he was worth anything.

“Though,” he continued, “I have hardly seen her in the last several years. First there
was Eton”—he’d told her about his antics at Eton during their conversations on the
way here—“and then my short-lived education at Cambridge, and then London. I saw her
a week here, a week there, but infrequently.”

“She is still your mother. She was a good mother, and you miss her.”

“Yes. Do you miss your mother, too?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Was she like you?”

She gave him a wry look. “I wouldn’t say so. My mother was very stern and upright.
She insisted Jane and I strive for perfection at every waking moment.” She sighed.
“I could never please her. The day she died, she reprimanded me for a small tear in
the lace of my sleeve. I was so busy being afraid, terrified, mourning her imminent
death, I hadn’t even noticed.”

“How did she die?”

“Consumption.”

He released a heavy breath. “I am sorry.”

“I tried very hard to please her,” Emma continued, “but she always required more.
There was a point at which I could only turn to myself to feel pride in my small accomplishments.”

“What about your sister?”

Her smile softened. “Yes. Thank God for Jane.”

“What of your father? Was he demanding as well?”

“No, not so much.” She took a last bite of apple and turned away to discard it. “He
was less involved, I suppose you would say. He wanted sons, but he ended up with a
pair of daughters. He was mostly indifferent to Jane and me.”

“And now that your mother is gone? Have things changed?”

“A little for the worse, a little for the better. He’s less indifferent, in any case.
But he hates me a little now.”

Luke stiffened, sitting up straighter. “Why?”

“Because I am the reason for his poverty. I can’t blame him, can I? I
am
the reason.”

“For God’s sake, Em. You were innocent. You had no idea your husband could have been
part of a scheme to ruin your family.”

“Yes. I know. But I shouldn’t have been so trusting.” She gave a heavy sigh, then
her eyes slid toward him, their golden flecks glowing in the lamplight. It was already
nearly dark outside. The days were growing shorter.

“Will you stay tonight?” she murmured.

He looked at her with hooded eyes. Then, still holding her hand, he rose, pulling
her up with him. Slowly, savoring every touch, every slide of the muslin of her dress
against the wool of his coat, he pulled her against him.

He held her trapped against his body, his arms wrapped around her, his right palm
pressed to the indentation at the small of her back, just above the curve of her buttocks.

She looked up at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted.

He stared down at her. She stared up at him. Then, tentatively, her arms stroked his
sides in an up-and-down motion.

Just a little taste. He’d take a small taste, then he’d go.

He dragged his fingertips up her spine, feeling the bumps of her cloth-covered buttons.
He cupped the back of her head in his hand, then lowered his lips to hers.

Her taste erupted through him, a thousand times sweeter, more compelling, more delicious
than he remembered. His cock swelled again. Desire swirled in his gut and circled
his spine.

He pulled her tighter against him. His fingers twined in her thick, glorious hair,
working the pins and dropping them to the floor one at a time.

Her lips were soft and wet, and this time, they responded to him. Her mouth opened,
her mouth tentatively skimming his own. Lust surged through him.

He coaxed her lips to open, wanting to go deeper, wanting to taste her, wanting to
claim her, to breathe her in.

She gasped lightly, fueling his desire more. The way her lips moved, the way they
stroked him made him mad with wanting.

And then her tongue touched his lower lip, the most tentative of tastes.

His arms tightened. Her hair fell over his hand, a heavy, soft curtain. He grazed
her lips with his teeth, swiped his tongue over them. He couldn’t get enough. He’d
never get enough.

For him, lust was a greedy, demanding thing, but it was something he could usually
control. With Emma, though, it was more greedy and more demanding than it had ever
been before. And right now, it was demanding he push her to her knees, open his trousers,
and feed her his cock.

Guilt at the coarse thought washed over him, as effective as a barrel of ice-cold
water. He groaned as he dropped his hands and took a step back. Forcing himself away
from her felt like he was tearing the skin from his flesh. It burned. It ached. It
bloody
hurt
.

He was breathing hard. So was she—more beautiful than ever with that hair in waves
around her heart-shaped face and gazing at him in glazed-eyed confusion.

“No,” he whispered harshly. “No.” As if he’d convince himself.

He couldn’t look at her anymore. He tore his gaze away.

“Bloody hell. Damn it,” he cursed. “Bugger it. To the devil—”

“Stop, Luke.” Her low, husky voice was surprisingly strong. At odds with the bewildered
look that had resided on her face seconds ago. “It’s all right.”

He whipped around to face her again. Now she was calm, composed, but her eyes still
glimmered with some emotion he couldn’t define.

All right?
What about this was all right? What about any of this was all right?

Jesus Christ.

“I’m going,” he croaked out. “I have to go.”

He turned and left the room, grabbing his coat from the chair on his way out.

He stumbled downstairs and into the opulent dining room. They wouldn’t call the damned
thing a pub or a tavern here.

The place was too snobbish. It reminded him of Ironwood Park, its patrons just like
his brother looking down their noses at him.

He left that place and stepped out into the street. A blast of cold shot through his
coat and arrowed straight into the marrow of his bones.

He strode along the street, the evening air burning his lungs.

He had made a fine hell of a mess of things today, first over their luncheon in the
field and then just now. If she never forgave him, he wouldn’t blame her.

He pushed his hand through his hair and realized he’d forgotten his hat.

In Bristol, he’d been determined to seduce her, to bring her to the point of begging
so that he could have his wicked way with her. A big part of him still wanted that,
and wanted it with a thousand times more urgency than at the beginning.

But now…hell. He respected her too much. He admired her. Damn it, he actually
liked
her. She was the first human being he had genuinely admired in a very long time.

He’d taken advantage of women before. He’d played with them like pleasure toys and
then discarded them when he was done. But he couldn’t do that with Emma.

There were so many reasons for her to stay away from him. But what it boiled down
to was that he was no good for her—or for anyone for that matter—and he was too damned
cowardly to show her the truth.

His steps slowed, and he paused, staring at one of the gaslights that glowed onto
the street in a circular pool of gold, a color that would always remind him of Emma’s
eyes.

Perhaps that was the answer. He wouldn’t have to tell her everything, but just somehow
find the strength to tell her one thing. One thing that would certainly scare her
away.

He didn’t return. Not until an early morning hour when Emma was so deep asleep that
when she woke, she couldn’t recall whether the feel of him drawing her into his arms
was a dream. But he slept beside her, smelling of whisky.

It had been whisky the previous night, too. She shouldn’t be surprised it would be
his drink of choice now that they were in Scotland.

She slipped from under the covers, trying not to wake him. She sat on the edge of
the bed, her legs dangling over the side, her back to him.

“Good morning, Emma.” His voice was deliciously rough with sleep.

She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Good morning.”

His arm slipped out from under the covers and his hand closed over hers. She stared
down at it.

“Are you angry with me?”

Yes. No.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. His kiss yesterday had left her weak-kneed and light-headed.
But then he’d left her alone in that state, and in the hours that passed after he’d
walked out the door, she’d come to her senses.