“Excellent,” he said. “Now that you’re with me.”
A part of him registered that that had made no sense.
She stepped back, waiting for him to enter the room. So he did. She closed the door behind him. He turned to see her watching him warily in the dimness. The lantern on the table had been lowered so that he could see the expression on her face but not its finer details. Not the velvet-thick lashes on her eyes or the exact shade of the pink of her lips. All those features he’d memorized while he drove the curricle earlier today.
The loveliness of her nightgown snagged his gaze. The bits of lace that adorned its collar and hem and sleeves—he could see those. He could also see the way the white, flowing gown made her look so innocent and virginal.
She isn’t a virgin, the sober part of him said. But she might as well be, the way that bastard Curtis had treated her. She’d never been properly loved. All women should be properly loved. Especially this one.
God, how Luke loved women. Especially this one.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked.
“Because I’m drunk, and I can’t stop admiring your loveliness,” he told her honestly.
Was that his imagination or did the pale pink of her cheeks deepen? He took a step toward her, intent on pinning her to the door as he had last night—was that last night? He couldn’t remember. And tasting her again…oh, she’d tasted so…damn…good. But she slipped under his arm and escaped.
“I made a bed for myself, my lord.” She gestured to the floor, where she had taken one of the pillows and one of the blankets and folded it to look like it was covering a bed.
Oh, hell no.
“You are not sleeping on the floor.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I am not sleeping with you.”
A vague part of him remembered the agreement they’d made. “You’re not ready for ‘relations’ yet?”
“No, I am not.”
“But you will be soon?” he asked hopefully.
“No.”
He sighed dramatically. “Well. Blast,” he mumbled.
He fumbled with his coat buttons, finally managed to free them. He stripped down to his shirt, dropping his clothes on the floor, and fell onto the bed.
The bed was comfortable, but damned cold.
Where was Emma?
“Emma?” he called.
No answer.
He struggled to a seated position, panic swarming over him. Where the hell had she gone? “Emma, where are you?”
Her head popped into his vision, and he blinked. Then he realized where she’d appeared from. She’d been lying on the floor and had sat up.
“I’m right here,” she told him softly.
“Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I told you—”
“I need you here, Emma. No relations.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m too damned drunk for relations, anyhow. Just sleep. Sleep with me, Emma. It’s so cold.”
She stared at him for a long moment with one of those unfathomable expressions she seemed to enjoy wearing. Then, with a sigh, she rose, her lovely white nightgown falling to her ankles. Moonlight crept through the thin gauze curtain covering the window behind her, haloing her curvaceous body. She looked like an angel.
She was an angel. At that moment, he was sure of it.
She bent down to retrieve the blanket she’d been using and laid it over him. He shivered again.
She fetched her pillow and walked around to the other side of the bed. She stared down at him. “No relations?”
“None,” he said in the most reassuring tone he could muster. He’d forgotten what “relations” were, but hell, he just wanted to sleep next to her warm, luscious body.
She hesitated a moment longer, then slipped into bed beside him. Not touching him, she turned her back to him. She hovered on the very edge of the bed. All he had to do was nudge her shoulder and she’d go tumbling off.
He reached out and pulled her against him, feeling her body stiffen in his arms. “Shhh,” he said against her warm, soft neck. He breathed in, then shuddered. She smelled so good. Like lavender and flesh and woman. “Shhh,” he told her again, stroking her hip as if she were a skittish horse. “Just go to sleep, angel. Go to sleep.”
Moments later, he drifted into oblivion, his arms wrapped around the warm, soft, delectable body of Emma Curtis.
* * *
Emma awoke alone in the bed. Luke was nowhere to be seen. Where had that man gone now?
She rose and looked out the window to see that it was a fair day again, with milky blue skies, but when she pressed her palm to the pane, it was ice cold. She checked the door to find herself locked in—this time he’d taken the key. Grumbling to herself, she washed and dressed in her white muslin, casting furtive glances at the door. Thankfully, Luke didn’t saunter in to find her half naked.
Fully dressed, she lowered herself into the simple wooden chair at the small armoire tucked into the corner of the room, undid her braid, and pulled a comb through her hair. Memories of last night washed through her.
His behavior…She swallowed hard. He’d called her “angel.” In her entire life, no one had ever called her angel. She’d been called devil, though, and often. Mostly by Mama and the various governesses who had passed through their home. Words like willful hoyden and stubborn hellion had oft been used to describe Emma. She remembered one of them speaking in low tones to her mother: It is hopeless, ma’am. No one will ever make a lady out of that one.
But that woman had been wrong. Emma had gone to boarding school with Jane, and they’d both grown into ladies—though Jane definitely made a more admirable example of a lady than Emma ever had.
Now she’d given up all hope or pretense of ever being a lady again. Further, she no longer felt that burning desire to be a true lady—her days of wanting to please society had vanished along with her father’s fortune. All she wanted now was to take care of her family and redeem herself in Papa’s and Jane’s eyes.
Still, last night, Lord Lukas Hawkins had called her an angel.
Well, one thing was certain, she thought ruefully: the man had been three sheets to the wind.
But she had liked falling asleep in his arms.
No, liked wasn’t the right word. She’d loved it and hated it and been tortured by it. She had lain there long after his breaths had deepened, signaling that he slept. Her body had felt rigid and pulsing with energy—wide awake and tense and…aroused. Even in sleep, his arms remained clasped firm and strong and masculine around her. He smelled of soap and smooth malt.
The arousal had spread through her like a slow-burning fire. A part of her had wished desperately that he’d forgotten all about their bargain and had tried to take liberties with her. Would she have fought him off?
Her mind—that proud, wary thing inside her—screamed yes, but her body’s answer was a definitive no.
She didn’t understand him, and she didn’t really know him. And there was no question that he bore some of Henry’s less savory traits. But she wanted him.
It had taken nearly an hour for her body to cool and for her to relax in the circle of his heavy arms. But finally she did, and when she slept, she’d dreamed of his blue eyes and his kiss, and in her dream, his arms around her had turned into shackles. Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have moved. He’d smiled at her with a wicked gleam in those eyes, and he’d said in a gruff voice, “Do you like this, Emma? Do you like to be bound?”
And then he’d lain over her, his body heavy and warm and strong, and in the middle of the night, she’d awakened with a soft moan, trembling through the tail end of a body-clenching orgasm.
She’d lain awake for some time afterward, stiff and terrified that he had awakened, too, but he didn’t budge. Finally she let go, forcibly releasing the tension that had built in her muscles. She nuzzled her body against his and, finally warm and relaxed and comfortable, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
&nbs
p; It seemed she was a bigger fool than she’d originally believed herself to be. She might be able to forgive herself for being seduced by an immoral rake once. But twice? No. Only a complete ninny would make that mistake twice.
He’d obviously risen long before her and had left the room without waking her. Odd, since she was an early riser to begin with, and he’d probably drunk an entire barrel of ale last night.
Nevertheless, she had to admit, her sleep had been more restful than it had been in a very long time. It was no wonder she’d slept late.
She had twined her hair on her head and was pinning it when she heard the key in the lock, and Luke opened the door and entered, carrying a large parcel.
Holding her hair in place with one hand, she turned to him. “What’s that?”
“Good morning to you, too,” he said mildly.
“Good morning,” she said agreeably. Then, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
He glanced at her with humor in his eyes as he laid the parcel on the bed. “When was I feeling poorly?”
“Last night.”
“Ah. That.” Straightening, he met her gaze evenly. “I wasn’t feeling poorly. I was just cold. You did an excellent job of warming me.”
She jammed a pin into her hair, not knowing how to respond. So he remembered. She was glad he hadn’t been so drunk he’d forgotten what had happened last night. You did a fine job of warming me, too, my lord. I was burning. On fire. An inferno…In fact, you had me so hot and wanting you that I came in my sleep.
Turning back toward the mirror, she gave a self-deprecating laugh into the glass.
He came to her, laid a hand on her shoulder. His touch burned into her, and she froze, staring at him in the little mirror. “Did I scare you last night?”
She pondered the question, then answered him as truthfully as she could. “Yes. But…perhaps not in the way you imagine.”
He took a deep breath, then his fingers tightened over her shoulder. “Know that whatever happens, whatever I say, I would never physically harm you, Emma. Well”—he gave her one of those reckless grins—“unless you asked me to, that is.”
What would he do if she asked him to…? Oh, Lord. Something deep inside her clamped down, desire rekindling from last night.
He met her gaze in the mirror, held it for a long moment, his blue eyes simmering with heat, then he turned away. He went to the bed and began to untie the strings of the brown-paper-wrapped package. “Here. I want you to try this on.”
Pressing the final pin into her hair, she turned, intrigued. “What is it?”
He pushed the strings aside, tore the paper, and miles of black silk and fur seemed to fall out of it.
Luke held it up for her to see.
It was a hooded cloak of black silk, lined with wool and trimmed with the softest-looking fur she’d ever seen. Ermine, she thought—white fur speckled with black dots. And a matching fur-lined muff.
She gazed at the cloak and the muff for a long moment, unexpected tears prickling at her eyes. “Oh, Luke.” She swallowed hard. “I…you…No. They are too much.”
“Not at all. I promised I’d try to keep you safe. Yesterday you were chilled to the bone—you could have caught your death out there. These will help.”
“I shouldn’t accept such a gift.”
“Not a gift—a necessity. I can’t allow you to freeze to death.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Luke stepped forward. “Stand.”
She stood, and he laid the cloak over her shoulders. It was exquisitely made, heavy and soft and warm. He tucked the muff over one of her hands, and she obligingly pressed her hand into its other side.
“I’ve never felt anything so soft,” she said.
“Warm enough, do you think?”
“Oh, yes.”
He studied her for a long moment, satisfaction in his gaze. Then he removed the cloak from her shoulders and laid it back on the bed. “Breakfast? We have a long drive ahead of us today.”
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?”
The Rogue's Proposal Page 6