The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  Her list included a catalogue of Papa’s medicines, reminders about the daily exercises one of the doctors had recommended, and the list of foods he was forbidden to eat as well as those the doctor had said would be beneficial to him. It included information on their dwindling funds and detailed instructions on how to manage bill collectors if they came calling.

  She recommended the best and cheapest places for Jane to purchase food and supplies. Then she listed, in detailed precision, the instructions for the keeping and maintaining of the house and the six acres of land it lay upon.

  Finally, she listed her ideas on how to obtain funds should one of the bill collectors lose all patience. It probably wouldn’t happen—she’d managed to placate most of them so far, and she intended to be back in Bristol within a few weeks. But just in case, she wrote them in order from first to last to sell:

  Papa’s bed—he can be relocated to mine.

  The remaining books. She winced at that one. She had kept only her favorite books, and to lose them would be like losing a part of her heart.

  The desk in the study. The very desk she wrote upon now—one of the last remaining original opulent pieces her father had purchased.

  Mama’s pearl earrings and her gold ring. It physically hurt her to write that. Those pieces of jewelry were the only pieces of their mother they’d kept. When they’d gone through their mother’s possessions and sold them, Emma had decided that she and her sister should each keep something to remind them of Mama. Emma had chosen the earrings and Jane had chosen the ring.

  Finally, she listed a few men in Bristol who might be willing to purchase the items in question.

  She removed the earrings from her ears and laid them beside the lists she’d written. The near-perfect pearls gleamed against the black shine of the desk, and she stared at them for a long moment.

  With a sigh, she rose and returned upstairs, where she slipped into Jane’s room, once a lovely haven, now as barren as her own.

  Jane was already stirring. An early riser like herself, Emma’s twenty-year-old sister was competent and intelligent. Emma had no doubts or worries about leaving Papa in Jane’s capable hands.

  Jane sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Emma, is something wrong with—” She broke off abruptly, her gaze moving to the valise Emma held firmly in her grip. Then she looked into Emma’s eyes, her own widening with alarm.

  “Where are you going?” she breathed.

  “I’m going with Lord Lukas,” Emma told her sister. “We’re leaving this morning.”

  “Em!” Jane gasped, her eyes like saucers.

  “It’s my only hope to find Roger Morton. Lord Lukas has as much desire to locate him as I do, but not only that, he also has the support of the Duke of Trent—all the resources he’d ever need to bring that bastard to justice.”

  Jane flinched as she always did when Emma cursed. She frowned and slipped out of the bed, the skirt of her white nightgown falling around her ankles. “But you cannot travel with him alone. Take Marta with you.”

  Marta was their maid—the only remaining servant, when once they had had a butler and a half-dozen footmen, as well as a housekeeper, housemaids, chambermaids, a cook, scullery maids…

  “Absolutely not. You will require her here. You cannot manage this house and take care of Papa all by yourself.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “Are you?”

  The sisters stared at each other with challenges in their eyes. But Jane knew when Emma wouldn’t retreat.

  She lowered her eyes. “People will talk. Do you realize what it will do to your reputation?”

  Emma’s lips twisted. “What reputation? I am a widow with no money and no prospects. It’s not like any gentleman will take a fancy to me now. My reputation is of no consequence, and I’d gladly give it up for a chance to retrieve what is rightfully ours.”

  Jane sighed. “Oh, I do wish you’d give this some thought first.”

  “I have. There’s no alternative.” She took a step forward. “Jane, have you thought about what would happen if Papa’s fortune was returned to him? About what it would do to Papa?”

  “Of course I have. But I wouldn’t have you sacrifice yourself for Papa’s sake. Is there no solution that will keep you both safe?”

  “This is the solution,” Emma said. “I am safe. Lord Lukas is a”—she pushed the word out, because she didn’t believe it for a second, despite his pedigree—“gentleman.” But then she dealt the winning blow. “Don’t forget, he’s the Duke of Trent’s brother.”

  Jane sighed wistfully, as she and every other young lady in England were wont to do whenever the Duke of Trent’s name was mentioned.

  “You’re right. I had forgotten.” She straightened. “In that case, I’m sure he’ll realize that this shall be a sensitive position for you, and he’ll do whatever is necessary to protect your reputation in light of the scandalous nature of the situation.”

  Do you like to be bound, Mrs. Curtis?

  A shudder pulsed through her.

  “Exactly,” Emma lied to her sister. “He will be discreet. I am certain of it.”

  Jane’s brow furrowed. “Oh, Em. I still don’t like it.”

  “There is no choice,” Emma said again.

  “I wish I could think of something else.”

  “You can’t. I can’t. Papa can’t. We’ve all tried.”

  “Will you say good-bye to him before you go?”

  “I don’t think I should.”

  The sisters stood in silence for a few moments, then Jane said, “You’re right. You probably shouldn’t. He’ll try to force you to stay, and I know you. You’ll defy him…”

  “And I’m not sure if his constitution could withstand such a blow,” Emma finished.

  “I don’t think you should take that risk.”

  “Nor do I.”

  Her sister’s brown eyes were shining with concern and trepidation. “But what will I tell him?” she whispered.

  Emma closed her eyes as all the possible excuses ran through her mind. She went off on holiday with Miss Delacorte, an old school friend. Her grandmother had summoned her to Leeds because she was ill and demanding to see Emma. She wasn’t feeling well and was worried she might be contagious—she wouldn’t want to further weaken Papa’s constitution by making him ill.

  “I’ll tell him the truth,” Jane said. “There’s nothing else to tell.”

  “No,” Emma said quietly, “tell him I’ve gone to Scotland to help a friend in need.” In one of their rare moments of camaraderie, Henry had told her that the best way to lie to someone was to remain as close to the truth as possible. “Tell him I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

  “You know he’ll ask who took you.”

  Emma pursed her lips. “Tell him…tell him it is a relation of the Duke of Trent. And if he demands more, then you must lie.” Because if Jane told Papa she’d run off with a man…No, that wouldn’t be good at all. “Tell him she’s a relation of the Duke of Trent.”

  Jane said nothing. She looked stern but resigned—so much older than her twenty years. This past spring should have been her second Season—she’d received five offers of marriage last year, including one from a baron. She’d turned them all down.

  Of course, they hadn’t had the money for a Season this year. Now that they were poor, she’d told Emma she would accept any one of the five if given the opportunity. But, of course, none of those offers still stood. No one paid attention to either Emma or Jane now.

  “Thank you, Jane.” After lowering the valise to the floor, Emma stepped forward to embrace her sister. “Take care of him.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll find a way to get Papa’s money back,” Emma promised. “At least, I shall try…”

  “I know you will,” Jane said. “When you’re determined, nothing can stop you.”

  * * *

  Luke blinked hard. His eyes were gritty. He felt like he hadn’t slept more than half an hour, though by the way daylig
ht blazed through the window, it had to be noon. Or later.

  A slight movement drew his attention, and he blinked again as the figure of a woman wearing black and white came into focus. She was seated in the sole chair in the room, a spindly wooden thing tucked into the corner. She was gazing at him with an ever-so-patient expression on her lovely face.

  “You have clothes on,” he said, his voice rasping over his dry throat. “How unacceptable.”

  Her golden-brown eyes met his, and she raised a brow. “Many people prefer to utilize clothing at this hour of the day. I am one of them.”

  He closed his dry eyes and fell back against the pillow, his lips attempting to twitch into a smile.

  He’d enjoyed her company last night, even though she’d stood stiff when he’d kissed her. She’d still tasted sweet. Then she’d made him a proposition and he hadn’t been able to resist—even with her demand that they not engage in “relations.”

  He chuckled out loud at that memory.

  He’d give her time. He wasn’t one to force an unwilling woman. But he’d wear her down. Because, even lying here in an uncomfortable bed in a strange inn in Bristol, he wanted her beside him. Naked.

  It seemed he’d have plenty of time to work on her resistance. She’d insisted they travel together, after all.

  He opened his eyes to find her still gazing at him with that imperturbable expression that wound him in knots and made him want to knock down her wall of defenses, one brick at a time.

  “Good morning, Emma,” he murmured.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Luke.”

  She gave him an almost-smile. “Luke. Do you truly prefer that? Surely you are more accustomed to ‘my lord’?”

  That low and sultry voice washed over him, and he couldn’t prevent his body, already on alert just from her presence in the room, from hardening.

  “Mmm,” was his only response. He damn well did prefer Luke. That was his real name, given to him by his real mother. Everything else was a sham. And for some reason, while he was usually content to allow his women to call him whatever the hell they liked, he wanted Emma to call him by his true name. Even if he wasn’t about to tell her why.

  “I think I shall like calling you Luke. Calling the son of a duke by his Christian name—it’s such a brazen thing to do. I shall feel as if I’m doing something extremely wicked each and every time I say it.”

  “Excellent,” Luke said. “When the words wicked and brazen are connected to you, they appeal to me very much.”

  She shook her head, laughing softly as he stretched and shifted his feet over the edge of the bed. He was wearing only a shirt, but she didn’t seem to mind. Obviously she’d seen men dressed only in their shirtsleeves and leaving their beds before.

  That thought did not improve his mood.

  She was a contradiction. Stoic, then playful. Flirtatious, then frigid. He wondered what thoughts were really going through that pretty little head of hers.

  He pulled on his trousers, which had been strewn on the floor beside his feet. He rose and stretched, then used the bellpull to call for some water to wash.

  He turned to Emma, who, save for the lack of the little white cap, looked exactly as she had last night. Even her clothes looked the same, with nary a wrinkle. He wondered briefly whether she’d sat there all night, then furrowed his brow. He vaguely remembered her leaving just before he’d removed his clothes and fallen into an exhausted heap on the bed.

  He hadn’t dreamed at all last night. He’d slept like the dead. Thank God.

  “What time is it?”

  “A little past noon,” she said.

  He sighed, rubbing his temple to soothe the headache forming there.

  “Can I fetch you something? Something to eat or drink, perhaps?”

  “No,” he said. He’d rung for a servant. He wasn’t about to make a lady like Emma Curtis play serving girl for him. “Thank you,” he added belatedly.

  He dropped his hand and slanted his gaze toward her. “God knows how long you’ve been sitting there waiting for me to awaken. I assume you have a plan that I have delayed by my late rising?”

  Hell, she looked like a woman with a plan, all tidy and calm. While he was muzzy-headed and had slept half the day away.

  She pressed her lips together. Such delectable, plump lips. He wanted another taste of her ripe sweetness.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “it was no hardship to watch you sleep, I must admit. You look rather innocent and boyish in repose.”

  Him, innocent? Boyish? He snorted. She ignored it.

  “However, I have been thinking of how to proceed,” she said, all business now. “I suppose we ought to begin by analyzing the papers that contain the clues as to where we might locate Roger Morton.”

  He nodded.

  “And then we should go.”

  “Care to tell me where we’re going?”

  “Scotland.”

  He raised his brows. “Ah. Perhaps I should see these papers.”

  “Of course.” She rose and knelt down beside the tattered valise that sat beside the chair. She removed a small pile of carefully folded clothes, and Luke realized that was all she planned to bring on their journey. It couldn’t have been more than one dress. Not even half the amount of clothing he carted about everywhere.

  She removed a file, set it on the small, round table, and then returned the clothing to her bag.

  A servant knocked, and Luke opened the door. He ordered water to wash and a light luncheon for both of them, then turned back to her. She’d resumed her seat and was patiently waiting, hands folded in her lap.

  He took two steps toward her—it was a damned small room—and held out his hand. “Let me see.”

  She took the first sheet of parchment from the file and handed it to him.

  He looked it over. “It appears to be a receipt for a transfer of funds from the Bank of England.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it is. However, that is not my father’s signature. It is a forgery.”

  “You believe Roger Morton forged your father’s signature? Then took your father’s money and ran?”

  “Yes. But before he left Bristol, he killed my husband. Henry was involved somehow—I don’t know exactly how. He must have known Morton’s intentions, and…” Her voice dwindled.

  He looked at her over the top of the wrinkled sheet, noting the color high on her cheeks. How sickening it must be to discover that your own husband was involved in a scheme to steal your family’s money.

  “How much did Morton take in total?” he asked in a low voice.

  “All of it.”

  He released a slow breath and glanced at the document. The amount was over five thousand pounds. “Was there more than this?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was clipped. “Quite a bit more.”

  “Do you know where the rest of it went?”

  She shook her head. “No. That is the only paper that struck me as odd when I was looking through my husband’s personal effects after he died. At first, I wondered at the large withdrawal. When I went to my father, he knew nothing about it.”

  “Why would your husband have this in his possession?”

  “He knew Morton. They had an association of some kind.” The delicate, pale column of her throat moved as she swallowed and looked away. Her fingers tapped her knee as they had tapped the table down at the tavern last night. “I went to the street in Bristol listed as the location of delivery for the funds. The landlady was very helpful—she told me that a man named Roger Morton boarded there occasionally but hadn’t been there for some time—not since”—she took a steadying breath—“since the date of my husband’s death.”

  She suddenly looked vulnerable. Alone. Some unfamiliar instinct urged him to go to her. To take her into his arms and hold her and tell her everything would be all right.

  But he couldn’t do that. How could he? He wouldn’t even know if he’d be lying.

  Emma took another sh
aky breath and continued. “The landlady let me in to search Morton’s rooms. It was there that I found an unopened letter.” She gestured to the remaining sheet of paper she held in front of her. “When I questioned the landlady later, she told me it had been delivered by the post on the eighteenth of September of last year.”

  She handed him the sheet of stationery, and he realized then that her evidence consisted of only these two sheets—the money transfer to a home let by Roger Morton and this letter.

  He unfolded it and read.

  You have taken long enough. Your preoccupation with Curtis does you no credit. End your business with him—the man wastes your time, and mine. If I do not receive the full balance of the amount owed by the first of October, further measures will be required. Don’t put my patience to the test.

  Please recall I am spending the autumn months at my residence in Scotland. Send the funds directly to me in Duddingston Parish, Edinburgh.

  C. Macmillan

  Luke read the letter twice, then glanced up at Emma. Today was the seventh of October. Just over a full year after the deadline stated in this letter.

  Emma’s head was bare, her bonnet hanging from its strings from one of the pegs on the wall behind her. Sunlight burnished her glorious hair, making it shine in various shades of bronze and mahogany and gold. But it was twisted severely at her nape. So severely that no tendrils curled around her ears as they had last night.

  Her body was coiled tight, just like her hair, her only movement that never-ending tapping of her fingers. He wanted her limp and responsive in his arms…in his bed. He wanted to pull out her pins and loosen that glorious, thick fall of russet beauty. He wanted to find the pins that kept her body so tightly coiled and pull those away as well.

  And perhaps, if he found this bastard Roger Morton for her, he could do just that.

  “When was your husband killed?” he asked quietly.

  “Last year on the seventeenth of September.”

  So, the letter had been delivered to Morton’s residence the day after he’d finished his nasty business with Curtis. The letter had never been opened, so clearly Morton had already escaped from Bristol by then.