The Rogue's Proposal Read online

  Silence. Then, “Ah.”

  Ah? That was all he had to say? She opened her eyes, fury rising. But then he shifted and his hand came to her face, cupping her cheek in his hand, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. It had been so long since a man had touched her…kissed her. And the touches and kisses of her past had been nothing like the ones Lukas Hawkins, a man she’d known for less than an hour, had bestowed upon her. And certainly no one had ever asked her if she liked to be bound.

  Heavens. She didn’t want to think about any of this right now. She needed to remain focused.

  “When?” he asked her softly.

  “It’s been…a long time.” A lifetime. “A year ago.”

  “How long were you married?” he asked. “You’re very young.”

  “We were married for only three months before Henry died. But I’m not so young. I’m twenty-three.”

  He looked at her with those smoldering, blue-fire eyes, and something within her melted, even as she admitted to herself that Lord Lukas was dangerous. Rogue, rake, scoundrel—however one wished to label this kind of man, he was its epitome.

  And she knew about rogues, rakes, and scoundrels. Henry had been of that category as well, with his approachable visage and penchant for drink and gambling…and women. When he died, she’d promised herself that she’d steer clear of those kinds of men in the future.

  And now, here was Lord Lukas Hawkins, handsome and dangerous and radiating something so raw and so appealing that a part of her wanted to fall straight into the nearest bed with him.

  She’d allowed him to kiss her.

  So very, very dangerous.

  She steeled her resolve. Danger or not, he was looking for Roger Morton. And, danger or not, she wanted nothing more than to find that man.

  “Pretty Mrs. Curtis,” Lord Lukas said in that silky voice that seemed to slide down her spine in a wash of smooth heat, “what’s your Christian name?”

  “Emma,” she told him. There was no reason he shouldn’t know it, after all.

  “May I call you Emma?”

  She hesitated. Only her father, sister, and one or two close acquaintances called her Emma these days.

  Still, she couldn’t seem to bring herself to tell him no, so she responded with her own challenge. “May I call you Lukas, then?”

  “Never.” His lips curled into a heart-stopping smile. “But you may call me by the name my mother uses: Luke.”

  “Luke, then.” She realized he’d stepped back and was no longer trapping her against the door. A part of her—that stupid part that had fallen for Henry Curtis—felt bereft.

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “I heard the Dowager Duchess of Trent had gone missing. I am sorry.”

  He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, but the lightness in his eyes vanished. Clearly, his mother’s disappearance, though it had occurred months ago, ate at him.

  “Do you believe Roger Morton had something to do with her disappearance?”

  Luke sighed. Turning away, he ran a hand through his dark blond hair, making it stick up at odd—and somehow endearing—angles. She tamped down the urge to push her hands through his hair to tame those spikes. Instead she kept very still, her back pressed against the door.

  “Morton was definitely involved in my mother’s disappearance. She was with him the night she left home. He remained with her for at least a month after that.”

  She nodded. “Roger Morton is evil,” she said in a low voice. He’d killed Henry and stolen her father’s fortune; she didn’t doubt he had done something horrible to the Dowager Duchess of Trent.

  Luke slouched against the window frame. Crossing his arms over his chest, he gazed at her across the tiny room. She stared steadily at him, ignoring the little kick in her chest that the sight of his relaxed masculine form gave her. Tall black leather boots clasped his calves like a second skin. He wore dark breeches that hugged strong thighs, a gray-and-black striped waistcoat with the top cloth button open to reveal a simple white cravat and a high-collared black cutaway coat with gray silk lining that emphasized his broad shoulders.

  “If Roger Morton is evil, then it wouldn’t be very chivalrous of me to allow a lady to join me in my search for him, now, would it?”

  She shrugged.

  “You’ll be happy to hear I’ve never been accused of chivalry.”

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  He didn’t smile. “Still, why should I allow you to join me?”

  “Because, as I said earlier, I can help you find him.”

  “How?”

  “I am in possession of certain clues that I am positive will lead us straight to him.”

  “What kinds of clues?”

  “Documents.”

  “Documents of what nature?”

  “Receipts and letters.”

  His lips twisted. “And how did you come to be in possession of those?”

  “You ask too many questions. Until we finalize our agreement, I shan’t tell you another thing.”

  “The agreement in which you reveal the location of Morton, then I take you with me to find him. And when we succeed in locating him, you intend to kill him.”

  “Yes,” she said flatly. “But not before you discover everything you can about what happened to the duchess.” And not before she discovered what he’d done with her father’s money.

  “How generous of you, to give me a few moments to question the villain before he suffers a violent death.”

  “I think so,” she said.

  Luke laughed. She liked the sound of his laugh—it was low and soft. It made her want to smile and laugh with him. But she didn’t. No, the stakes were too high.

  She’d known Luke was dangerous from the moment he’d opened those piercing blue eyes and looked at her over his ale glass. But while he spoke to something intensely carnal within her, Emma had learned her lesson. She wouldn’t be dragged into iniquity by the wicked seduction of another man who never saw her beyond her face and the curves of her body. Never again, no matter how she reacted to him on a visceral level.

  “So, then,” she asked, “are we agreed?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, assessing her with those fire-and-ice eyes. She felt exposed. Like he systematically removed every stitch of her clothing, burning each seam away so it fell around her in tatters, leaving her stripped bare.

  Then his lips curled into that sensual, knowing smile, and a deep flutter spread from her core and through her limbs in response.

  His lips had felt so wickedly good against hers. She’d wanted—badly—to kiss him back. She ought to have pushed him away. But the angel and devil inside her were engaged in such a furious battle that she hadn’t been able to move at all.

  “Yes,” he said. “We’re agreed.”

  Her muscles suddenly went limp, and she had to battle to keep from sagging to the floor. Only now did she realize how worried she’d been that he’d deny her.

  Thank you. Thank you. We’ll find him. We’ll find Papa’s money…and maybe, just maybe, she could save her family.

  Slowly, the strength returned to her limbs. She gazed steadily at Luke. “There’s just one thing, my lord.”

  He cocked a brow. “What’s that, Emma?”

  She swallowed against her suddenly dry mouth. She’d never spoken so freely to a gentleman before, not even to Henry. But certain things needed to be said.

  “If you want my help, I cannot…” She took a deep breath and continued. “I cannot engage in relations—of any kind—with you.”

  His brow remained firmly nocked upward. “Why not?”

  “I’m not the kind of woman who…bestows her favors easily.”

  He leveled his gaze at her. “You came up here with me. That is evidence contrary to your words. How do you think following me up to my room should be interpreted? By me, and by the people in that tavern downstairs?”

  The obvious interpretation of her actions was that she was a loose woman. That she fully intended
to offer him any and every favor he chose to ask of her.

  It was stupid to have come up here…yet perhaps not so stupid. She didn’t care what anyone thought about her anymore. She had nothing to prove to anyone. He hadn’t hurt her—something inside her had told her he wasn’t a danger, at least not in the most overt sense of the word. She’d been determined to get him to agree to her plan, no matter what it took. And speaking privately with him had seemed like it would offer her an advantage that speaking with him in the noisy tavern wouldn’t.

  And a part of her, a tiny portion of her mind, had wondered what it would be like to throw away every sense of propriety and responsibility, go upstairs with a man she didn’t know, and lose herself to the sensual pleasures that his heated gaze had promised her from across that undersized table.

  She spoke carefully. “I don’t care what everyone thought, my lord. But I want you to know that wasn’t my intention. I wished to offer you a business proposition. Truly, I cannot help the fact that I am a woman.”

  His gaze raked her body up and down, leaving trembling gooseflesh in its wake. She was glad her half-mourning dress covered so much of her skin and that he couldn’t see how his gaze affected her.

  “No,” he murmured. “You certainly can’t help the fact that you’re a beautiful woman.”

  She swallowed hard. “This is a business proposition. Nothing more. You and I are searching for the same man, and we’re assisting each other in that endeavor.”

  “I don’t know,” he mused. “What if I require the need for female companionship during the term of this business partnership?”

  “Then I shall turn a blind eye,” she said automatically. Still, something in her chest clenched at the thought of him seeking out a woman.

  His eyes narrowed into slits. “Oh? What if I decide that female ought to be you?”

  “I imagine you’re capable of controlling yourself.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But what if you’re not?”

  She laughed, but something about it sounded high and false. “I’m entirely capable of controlling myself, too. Not that there shall be anything to control.”

  His lips twisted, and she didn’t blame his disbelief. She made a poor liar.

  “You want me, Emma.” He studied his fingernails as if something fascinating lurked in the nail beds. “Mark my words, it’s only a matter of time before you beg me to take you.”

  “Oh, I think not, my lord.”

  He looked back up at her, giving her a wicked smile as he dropped his hands to his sides. “We’ll see.”

  She took a breath, not answering. But her cheeks felt like they were ablaze. Please, she thought, don’t let him see that I am blushing.

  But his gaze brushed over her face, and his smile deepened.

  “Yes,” he continued, “I’ll agree to your business proposition. You help me find Roger Morton and you may join me in my search. I will refrain from engaging in…what did you call it? Oh, yes…relations with you.”

  She gave a very businesslike nod, as if they truly were men of trade agreeing on the terms of a deal.

  He raised a hand as if to stop her. “But I have a condition of my own.”

  Her heart sank. “What’s that?”

  “I can offer you the heights of pleasure, Mrs. Emma Curtis. If, at some point during the term of our agreement, you were to beg…I promise, I’ll not deny you.”

  Chapter Two

  Emma woke at the break of dawn the following morning. She’d been up late at the inn with Luke last night, but her nerves were so raw she’d hardly been able to sleep, and when the first gray shadows of light began to creep into her room, she popped out of her bed like a jack-in-the-box and began to pack.

  She chose carefully, knowing it would be impractical, and probably annoying to Luke, if she brought too much. So she brought two sets of undergarments, a nightgown, and one other dress, an old but once-beautiful day dress of white muslin sprinkled with pink and green rosebuds and festooned with matching ribbons whose corners were now frayed. After she finished packing her valise, she donned the black-and-white half-mourning dress she’d worn the evening before.

  After her husband died, Papa, refusing to blame Henry for any part of the loss of his fortune, had insisted on spending some of the few remaining funds they had to purchase her two stylish mourning dresses. She’d worn them all year long, alternating between the two of them, both black and somber and altogether depressing. They had become frayed and stained, not to mention out of fashion—and since they’d been purchased in autumn, she’d sweltered in them all through summer.

  Just last month, Papa and her sister Jane had gifted her with the half-mourning dress. Jane had scrimped and saved so they could afford it. But it was a fashionable dress, and wearing a light color—even with black trim—had made Emma feel alive again. She’d once possessed a closetful of fashionable clothes; now this was the only dress she owned that was presentable in the company of a duke’s brother.

  A duke’s brother. Lord Lukas was the famous Duke of Trent’s brother. Even now, that fact stunned her. The duke was well known for being a paragon, an absolutely upright gentleman of perfect scruples, respected by everyone in England. But he’d recently caused an enormous scandal by marrying one of his housemaids. The wave of excitement had yet to die down—everyone was still gossiping about the duke and the housemaid.

  Even Jane and Emma had huddled together over the newssheets and decided it must have been a love match. Instead of thinking him scandalous, the act only raised their compassion and respect for the man. In the sisters’ eyes, the Duke of Trent was a prime example of a powerful man who was honest in his love.

  Jane and Emma had been exposed to the ton, to some degree. They had been raised as wealthy young ladies, and they had associated with daughters of marquises and earls and viscounts in school every day. But their father was in trade, and he wasn’t of the aristocracy. They were nouveau riche, and the aristocratic girls resented their admittance into the prestigious Derbyford School For Girls. They never let Emma and Jane forget their place, which was firmly entrenched in the very lowest rung of the school’s social ladder.

  So when the highly respected and widely admired Duke of Trent married a commoner, it felt like a victory of sorts to Emma and Jane. A victory for the common folk. To Emma and Jane, not only was he a paragon, but also he was clearly an intrinsically good man.

  She’d learned tonight that the Duke of Trent’s brother was something else altogether. Good would not be the first word to come to mind when she thought of Lord Luke. Wicked and arrogant and kissable and handsome and dashing were five words that came in well ahead.

  Taking a deep breath, wiping her memory clear of the way his dark blond hair curled over his ears, Emma snapped her valise shut. It was packed to the brim with her extra dress and underclothes, and, because the days were growing colder, her shabby pelisse, which had once been sky blue but had faded after many washings to a dull slate color.

  Straightening, she gazed around her bedchamber for the last time.

  Two years ago, a soft Persian carpet had covered the floor. The bed had been of an elaborately feminine design, with whitewashed carved wood and lavender silk bed curtains that matched the curtains on her windows. She’d had a walnut armoire and matching desk and chair, where she used to sit and write letters.

  Now it was all gone. Sold to the highest bidder, down to the yellow silk counterpane that had once lain on the bed.

  Maybe someday they’d have it all back. But only if she was successful in her search for Roger Morton…and in finding what that awful man had done with her father’s money.

  Grabbing her valise, she left the room and traversed the long, empty corridor. Papa had moved them to this enormous modern house on the outskirts of Bristol when she was just three years old and Jane was a babe. Before that, they had lived by the harbor, where her father had owned a ship manufactory. He’d overseen the building of many of the great English sailing ships tha
t dominated the world’s oceans.

  Downstairs, Emma slipped into his study, which was now, for the most part, used only by her. Papa could hardly leave his bedchamber these days—he was afflicted with the dropsy, but it was more than that. No one could determine exactly what was sapping the strength from his body, though Emma had a firm suspicion that it was a broken heart. When Mama had died, Papa had hardly been able to hold on. Then Henry had been murdered, Roger Morton had stolen everything, and Papa had sunk deep into this miserable sickness that no one seemed able to cure.

  Emma couldn’t bring Mama back—that was impossible—but her father’s money was still out there somewhere. She would do whatever was in her power to return it to him.

  Maybe then Papa would at least try. They would have the money to find him the best doctors. They’d have the money to refurnish and heat the house for his maximum comfort, to buy the best medicines.

  Lowering her valise near the study door, she fetched the key from where it was hidden on the bookshelf between the covers of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Richard III, two of the books on the single shelf they’d retained. Once, these wall shelves had been brimming with books. Now the shelves were bare, except for this one small row of books.

  She went to the desk and used the key to unlock the tiny drawer hidden within a larger one. She removed her father’s pistol. The small, deadly weapon lay in its velvet-lined case innocently, as if it weren’t capable of cold-blooded murder. She checked its parts carefully before relocking the drawer, then going to the door and locking that as well.

  Kneeling on the floor, she removed everything from the valise and repacked it with the gun case at the very bottom. She followed that with the two papers she’d studied ad nauseam for the past year—those that implicated Roger Morton in Henry’s death and the crimes against her father—and finally placed her clothes on top.

  Then she went to the desk, retrieved the inkpot, a pen, and a used sheet of parchment, which she turned over to write on the blank side, and proceeded to write out detailed instructions to Jane.