The Rogue's Proposal Page 8

  She continued on to the Star and Garter and delivered the letter to the post, feeling like a heavy cloud had gathered just above her shoulders and was threatening a downpour.

  She knew Luke was a rogue. And she knew—at least a part of her did—that he’d engaged in activities and dark pleasures that she could never even conceive of.

  But all those women—and those men—who’d seen him drunk and carousing and seemingly with no care in the world…had those people seen him waking from nightmares shaking and covered in sweat? Did they see the anguish in his gaze whenever he talked about his family? Did he call them angel? Did he hold on to them at night like he’d never let them go?

  It was possible, she conceded. The thought made her sick.

  But realistically, she thought not. She remembered that first night in Bristol—his cavalier attitude, his flippant, blatantly carnal behavior. All those were part of who Luke was. But there was more. He was surprisingly easy to talk to. He was tender, compassionate, and thoughtful. Protective, too. And he possessed a sense of honor he’d never admit to having.

  And she still didn’t know him. She was certain he kept secrets, secrets that tore him apart but that he felt he could never reveal.

  Still, he was a rogue. Her husband had been a rogue, too—but Luke was a different kind of rogue altogether. In spite of his changeable nature, his moods and his secrets, he had proved himself to be different from Henry.

  But she couldn’t take those little differences he’d showed her as proof that he was any less dangerous to her than Henry had been.

  She remembered how he’d said he’d been responsible for the ruination of a girl once, how it had been devastating for her but had hardly affected him.

  That girl could be Emma next. Despite what her heart and body were telling her, she couldn’t allow herself to forget it.

  * * *

  It took them five days to reach Edinburgh. Five days of hard driving that sapped the energy straight out of Emma’s body. By the time they reached the inns every night, she could do little more than eat a quick dinner, drop into bed, and allow the exhaustion to claim her.

  Luke had returned from his mystery “business” in Worcester smiling and flirtatious. He’d sent her fiery looks that evening until, with a sigh, he’d announced he was going downstairs. Each night since then, he’d left her and didn’t return until she was fast asleep. He always tucked himself beside her, and at some point in the night she’d wake with his arms around her, and she’d burrow into his shirt and sleep easier.

  She wondered if he was seeking out that female companionship he’d told her he might require. She was doing her best to turn a blind eye as she’d promised that first night in Bristol, but it was difficult. When he left her, she felt an odd sort of emptiness inside. A part of her—a part that grew more insistent every day—commanded her to grab him and hold on to him. To refuse to allow him to leave her. To touch any other woman but her.

  She didn’t want him touching other women. The thought twisted her insides into knots that grew tighter and tighter with every day that passed until she couldn’t bear it anymore.

  On the final day of their journey to Edinburgh, they stopped for luncheon alongside the Pentland Hills in the southern part of Scotland on the road that would take them into the city that evening. The ground was carpeted by the greenest grass and dotted with darker brush and trees, and the hills rolled into the horizon, smooth and rounded. A brook bubbled nearby, giving the horses a watering place and providing Emma and Luke an opportunity to wash the grime of travel from their hands and faces.

  While the horses grazed docilely nearby, they spread the blanket and retrieved their meal from the curricle. She sat across from him, and they ate boiled eggs, salted beef, day-old bread, and hard cheese in companionable silence for a while.

  She glanced at him surreptitiously through her lashes, but he seemed intent on his food. Still, those knots were twisted so tight within her, she couldn’t stand it a second longer.

  “Luke?”

  He glanced at her, his blue eyes clear in the light of the day. Not dark and bloodshot like they were after an evening of imbibing. She sighed.

  “Mmm?” he said around a mouthful of food.

  “Why do you do it?”

  His expression went blank. After he swallowed, he said, “Do what?”

  “Leave our rooms at night. Drink…and…and whatever else it is that you do.” She swallowed hard.

  “Gamble?” he supplied helpfully.

  She wrapped her arms across her chest, suppressing a shiver. She was still cold from the road, and thinking about the similarity between her husband’s habits and Luke’s did nothing to warm her. “Is that what you do? Gamble?”

  “I do have a penchant for the pastime,” he said in a musing voice. He took a bite of egg.

  “Oh, I know how it is.” Bitterness limned her tone. “I have learned how quickly a man can bleed money at the gaming tables.”

  “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.”

  Chapter Six

  Luke 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.”