The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  No. Not sores. Scars, she realized as he turned more fully into the light. They were flat, darker in color than the pale tone of his skin, with a darker red rim around their circumferences.

  What on earth had happened to him?

  Now she knew why he never removed his shirt. His torso was beautiful, but the scars were blemishes that spoke of violence and pain.

  After he finished bathing himself, Luke put his shirt back on and sat in one of the upholstered armchairs. He sat for a long time, perfectly still, his elbow on one of the arms of the chair and his forehead resting in his hand.

  After a while, she couldn’t bear it anymore. She slipped out of bed and pulled her light robe over her shoulders and limped over to him.

  He looked up at her, his face darkening. “I woke you.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “Come back to bed?” she asked in a husky voice.

  “Not sure I can sleep.”

  “Try?”

  He looked unsure.

  “I’m cold,” she murmured. It wasn’t a lie. She was starting to shiver. “Come warm me?”

  It was manipulative, because she knew he wouldn’t deny her this. But she wanted so badly to lie with him, to wrap him up in her embrace.

  “Just for a little while?” she begged.

  “Of course,” he said softly.

  They went back to the bed, and she twined her arms around Luke and peppered kisses to his chest over his shirt. He pressed his lips to her hair. “Sleep, Em,” he said gruffly.

  But she wouldn’t sleep until he did. It took a long time, but finally, when she heard his breaths grow even and deep, she allowed herself to slip away into her own dreamless slumber.

  * * *

  On Friday, after they’d eaten a late supper, Luke told Emma he was going to his club. He hadn’t been there in months and wanted to make an appearance. At least, that was what he told Emma. The truth was, he couldn’t face sleeping with her, waking from one of the nightmares, then seeing the look of pity on her face.

  He knew she didn’t approve from the way her lips pursed and her gaze faltered before she smiled and said, “I’ll see you later, then.”

  He was treating her despicably. He knew this. He hated himself for it.

  But the next night—Saturday—he did it again. At Boodles he played vingt-et-un with a group of exceedingly dull men while he drank copious amounts of brandy.

  He ended up losing ten guineas. It seemed a pittance compared to the risk of another nightmare.

  He arrived home staggering drunk and fumbled his way into his bedchamber. She was asleep, her beautiful, thick hair fanned over her pillow. He lay beside her as carefully as he could since the world kept tilting under him. And then he gazed down at her.

  Emma. He fingered one of her soft curls. She’d accepted him in a way that no one in his life ever had. In bed and out. She was so strong, but also sweetly submissive.

  He dropped his heavy body on his own pillow, still gazing at her smooth skin, at the thick russet brows that swept in arcs over her eyes.

  Something in his chest squeezed hard. He wanted to gather her close and hold her against him and never let her go.

  * * *

  On Sunday, Luke and Emma rose early to attend church services at St. Anne’s church in Soho. They’d learned there was more than one church in Soho, and Emma had fretted over whether they should go to St. Patrick’s, the Catholic church—after all, Macmillan had said the husband of Morton’s sister was Irish.

  But Luke thought that surely Macmillan would have mentioned that Morton was Catholic if it were the case. So it was to St. Anne’s they went for early divine services at eight o’clock in the morning—an ungodly hour, as far as Luke was concerned.

  St. Anne’s was a plain rectangular brick building with tall, narrow windows. Its only distinguishing feature was the bell tower—a square structure that rose above the church and whose bell pealed as Emma and Luke entered the church.

  They sat quietly in the back so they could have a better prospect of the congregation, which numbered about two hundred persons packed into the pews. The sermon was on the seventh commandment, and while the preacher droned on, Luke took careful stock of the parishioners.

  There were two possibilities—two red-haired men accompanied by dark-haired women. One of the men sat in the third row, and it appeared as though the entire row was made up of his family—him, his dark-haired wife, and at least eight children. The other couple looked like just a man and his wife, sitting in the middle of the congregation across the aisle from Luke and Emma. The man was very large in stature and girth, and the woman was thin and of an average height.

  “The body was not created for fornication; rather, it was made for the Lord,” the preacher said. “Further, according to the words of St. Paul, ‘To avoid fornication, every man should have his own wife and every woman her own husband, for it is better to marry than to burn.’”

  Luke fidgeted. Obviously the reverend had decided to take this sermon a step further than the seventh commandment and the sin of adultery. Luke slid a glance at Emma. She was sitting with her hands folded in her lap over her prayer book, looking utterly serene.

  Just looking at her calmed him.

  The reverend preached about casting away filthiness of the soul, and Luke cast his own eyes heavenward. Before he met Emma, he might have agreed with all this talk about filthiness and impurity and uncleanness, and how it was related to all the sins he’d committed.

  But somehow, sitting beside her, in spite of all the debauched, lustful things they’d done, Luke felt purer than he ever had. He wondered what the reverend would think of how tying a woman to the bed and having his wicked way with her over and over again had somehow helped to cleanse Luke’s soul.

  With a last admonition to all the men in the congregation to find themselves a prudent wife who would prevent them from looking at other women with lust in their gazes—which was, evidently, just as sinful as the act of fornication itself—the preacher finally ended the sermon.

  Luke let out a relieved breath. He glanced at Emma. She still sat there placidly, except now the corner of her lips wobbled as she fought a smile.

  She looked down at her prayer book, turning it to a marked page. Then she glanced at him and gave in to the smile, and all was well in Luke’s world.

  When the service ended, Luke subtly indicated the couple he’d pinpointed earlier.

  “Mmm, yes,” Emma murmured. “I saw them, too.”

  They made their way to the front of the church—being in the last row they were among the first out—and waited for a few minutes. Finally, the redheaded man exited, his wife at his side.

  Emma blew out a breath. “Ready?”

  “Always.” Luke narrowed his eyes on the couple. He wondered if they knew anything about their brother’s nefarious deeds.

  Soon enough, they’d find out.

  They fell into step behind the man and woman as they wove through traffic to traverse Dean Street. Emma leaned on her cane, and he wanted badly to put his arm around her and support her weight, but if anyone who knew him saw them—well, it wouldn’t end well, because he wouldn’t tolerate talk about Emma around Town. So he kept a respectful distance from her and ground his teeth. God, he hoped she didn’t reinjure her ankle.

  When they were close to the couple, Emma called to them. “Excuse me.”

  They stopped and turned, curious expressions on their faces. Emma limped up to them, Luke on her heels. He was content to let her do most of the talking. She managed very well in these kinds of situations, he’d learned.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you.” Emma gave the woman a dazzling smile. “But are you Roger Morton’s sister?”

  The woman glanced at her husband, who shrugged. She turned back to Emma and said in a low, soft voice, “Yes, I am Veronica O’Bailey. This is my husband, Colm.”

  Emma clasped her prayer book to her chest, looking delighted. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I saw you in church a
nd had hoped to make your acquaintance, but I wasn’t sure I’d catch up”—she gestured toward her foot—“due to this blasted twisted ankle.”

  The woman’s brow furrowed. “Are you…acquainted with Roger?”

  “Oh, yes. You see, he was a business associate of my husband’s. I’m Emma Curtis. It is lovely to finally make your acquaintance.”

  Both the woman and the man gazed at Emma with utterly blank expressions upon their faces.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She turned to Luke, motioned him forward. “This is Lord Lukas Hawkins.”

  Mrs. O’Bailey gave him an owlish blink, then curtsied. “It is an honor to meet you, my lord.”

  O’Bailey bowed over his excessive girth and echoed his wife. “Milord.” His voice was deep, with a pronounced Irish flavor.

  “Lord Lukas is also acquainted with Mr. Morton—through his mother, the Duchess of Trent.”

  Mrs. O’Bailey looked aghast. “Is that so?” she asked, her voice so breathy he could hardly understand her words. “You are a relation of the Duke of Trent, then, my lord?”

  Luke fought not to roll his eyes. “Yes, madam,” he said, proud of his patience. “He is my brother.”

  Her eyes widened, and she looked from Luke to Emma in awe. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured. “I’d no idea Roger possessed such esteemed acquaintances.”

  “We had heard he might be in London,” Emma said. “We’d so like to see him. Would it be possible for you to direct us to his place of residence?”

  Again, Mrs. O’Bailey glanced at her husband. Again, he shrugged. “He keeps an office and rooms in Wapping,” Mrs. O’Bailey said. “We haven’t seen him in a few months, though.”

  “Can you tell us where? We’d love to surprise him!”

  “Of course.” And she rattled off a location in Wapping High Street.

  “Thank you so much,” Emma gushed.

  Luke bowed to Mrs. O’Bailey and her husband. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you, my lord,” Mrs. O’Bailey said, her brown eyes still a little wide with awe. “Such a pleasure.” Her more reticent husband just bobbed his head.

  Emma and Luke stood on the curb and watched them turn and walk a ways down Dean Street.

  “They know nothing of their brother’s illicit activities,” Emma whispered.

  “You’re right. They’re innocents, I believe. Nonetheless, I should follow them. Remain here and rest your ankle. I’ll return as soon as I see where they’ve gone.”

  She nodded. Luke kept himself a good distance behind the couple, watched them turn down another street, then another. They finally disappeared into a very small brown-brick residence tucked between two far larger ones.

  “All right,” Luke murmured when he’d returned to Emma’s side. “That should be easy to find again, should we need to.”

  As they walked back to where they could find a hackney, Emma asked, “Why would he keep rooms in Wapping? That’s near the docks, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps they’re the same lodgings Macmillan told us about, and even though his fortunes have changed, he has chosen to continue residing there.”

  “But he can certainly afford much finer lodgings now.”

  Luke shrugged. “Perhaps he’s hiding the money. Perhaps he prefers the thievery to the spending of his ill-gotten gains. Come, let’s go.”

  The hackney they hired took them directly to Wapping High Street. There, above one of the open warehouses, they found Roger Morton’s office.

  They only knew they were at the right location because the number 6 was painted in heavy black above the door just as Mrs. O’Bailey had described. They stood in a dim first-floor gallery, gazing at the door. Windows flanked the door, but they had been painted black as well.

  Emma shuddered. “I wonder what kind of business he conducts in there.”

  Luke was sorely tempted to break in. After his knock was met with silence, he tried the door and the windows, but all of them were locked. Since it was Sunday morning, the warehouse was essentially abandoned. It would be so simple to punch a hole in one of the windowpanes and climb in.

  Emma clearly read his thoughts in his expression, because she narrowed her eyes at him. “No. We’ll wait.”

  “What if he doesn’t return?”

  She took a deep breath. “Well, he’ll need to, eventually. We’ll come back tomorrow, and if he hasn’t arrived by then, we can ask the landlord about his habits.”

  Finished with their investigations for the day, Emma and Luke returned home in another hackney, then spent a leisurely afternoon together in the drawing room, Luke reading while Emma worked on her sewing. It was so domestic. Unnervingly so.

  Something compelled him to put an end to that.

  Luke set aside his newspaper. He went to Emma and took the needle and thread out of her hands, setting it aside. Then he stripped her bare and made love to her, laying her out over the drawing room’s velvet sofa and taking her from behind, stroking his hands up and down her beautiful, flawless back as he pumped deeply and deliciously inside her.

  * * *

  Emma lay bent over the arm of the sofa, her breasts pressed against the velvet cushions. Luke’s hands roamed over her back as he moved inside her, caressing the deepest, most intimate parts of her.

  She had learned that her body loved this position—him entering her from behind like this. There was something utterly and decadently submissive about it. It was wicked and wonderful, and the angle of his penetration stroked her in a way that made her squirm and clench.

  She moved her face to the side, pressing her cheek into the soft sofa cushion. Her fingers curled around the edge of the sofa as her body went taut. She came in a warm rush of pleasure, letting the sensation take over her until she sagged limply over the sofa. He bent down over her, whispering, “I love to watch you come. I love watching your body move helplessly beneath me. So beautiful.”

  His thrusts had decreased in speed, and now he slid languidly in and out of her hot, slick, and oh-so-sensitive channel. He set a slow, leisurely pace, rare for Luke, whose lovemaking was usually so powerful and intense.

  He remained bent low over her, his shirt and chest pressed against her back, his lips grazing the back of her neck. Emma closed her eyes and sank into the sensation. Sweet, smooth heat. So deep.

  She was building to that pinnacle again, but this time it was a slow, meandering journey, a gentle road toward that ultimate peak.

  She lay on velvet with Luke over her, stroking her, teasing, coaxing her ever so expertly. She could feel all of him—his length and breadth inside her, his texture, his strength.

  The orgasm came, starting with a low, rumbling pleasure deep in her womb and rolling through her entire body until she was overcome with pleasure.

  Moments later, he came, too, releasing his seed on her lower back. Eventually, he lifted off her. She didn’t have the wherewithal to move, so she just lay there draped over the side of the couch, completely spent. Moments later, she felt a cloth move gently over her back. When he finished cleaning her, he gathered her in his arms and took her to the sofa, where he helped her don her chemise. Then he tucked her against his body as they sat on the sofa.

  They sat there for a long while, murmuring to each other about meaningless things. She cuddled up against his chest and wondered whether it would rain tomorrow when they went to Wapping. And Luke talked about buying Emma another cloak, since the silk had been torn on her old one. They spent several minutes guessing what the new cook would make for dinner.

  The dinner, served in the dining room as it had been ever since the cook arrived, happened to be a white vermicelli soup followed by pork cutlets with red cabbage and stewed watercress, and a baked pear pudding for dessert.

  It was simple but delicious. Baldwin had done an excellent job in hiring the cook. The maid he’d hired, Delaney, had worked out very well, too. She’d had experience as both a housemaid and a lady’s maid—just what Luke had requested. The best part about both Dela
ney and the cook was that they both appeared to be exceptionally discreet, treating Emma with the utmost deference and politeness. She wondered what Baldwin had told them about her.

  When Emma rose from the table, her belly pleasantly full, Luke rose with her. She headed upstairs to the drawing room, planning to continue her work on the new chemise she was sewing. Luke might have insisted on buying her new dresses, but she could certainly make her own chemise.

  Tension settled over her as they walked up the stairs. Luke had left her for the past two nights only to return sotted in the early morning hours. Would he do it again? What would she do if he did?

  At the door to the drawing room, he turned her gently to face him. “Emma, I’m going out.”

  She’d expected it. Still, it felt like he’d knocked all the wind out of her.

  Of course he was “going out.” That was the pattern, wasn’t it?

  She tried to force a smile. She struggled to find at least something decent to say. But she could do neither, so she just gave a jerky little nod.

  “I’ll be back. Later.” He kissed her on the forehead, turned, and retreated back down the stairs they’d just mounted.

  Damn it!

  She stood there for long moments, hands clenched at her sides, unsure whether to fall to her knees and sob or to walk out the front door and never come back.

  But she couldn’t leave him. Not completely. The logical part of her told her that she had nowhere to go, that she still needed his help to find Morton. But to her soul she knew it was more than that. Luke had become too important, too much a part of her. She couldn’t walk away.

  She couldn’t accept this, either. And that was exactly what she’d been doing so far: She’d never liked his drinking and his late nights, but she’d accepted them. She’d allowed Luke to run away because…Well, she didn’t exactly know. Because he had nightmares. Because he had scars on his back. Because he’d been through something terrible and had convinced himself he couldn’t face it without drowning himself in ale or whisky or brandy every night.