The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

Luke put a hand on his shoulder. “You may squeeze, brother, but not too much, all right?”

  Bertram’s head bobbed up and down, and he smiled. His teeth were very small—it looked like he’d never lost his infant teeth.

  Emma studied him. He looked…odd, like his facial features had been somewhat flattened. He was shorter than Luke by several inches—about her height, actually—and he was far softer than Luke. His skin had a pale, doughy complexion. His face was round, his nose small and flat, his eyes tilted a bit upward at their corners. He looked quite young, but his features were so smooth and soft, she couldn’t be certain of his age.

  But there was something of Luke in those eyes—in the crystal-clear blue of them. His hair, too, was a dark blond, nearly exactly the same shade as Luke’s.

  He wore a white shirt and black wool trousers—the ensemble completely paint spattered. She glanced at Luke to see that he’d been smeared with paint, too, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “I know we usually walk and play on the grounds, Bert, but Emma has an injured ankle. Would you mind if we stayed inside for a while?”

  Bertram blinked at Emma, his blue eyes clear and guileless. In that way, they were definitely not like Luke’s. His gaze landed on her cane. “Injured ankle?”

  “I twisted it,” she explained, smiling at him. “I’m not supposed to walk at all.”

  “There is no one else here in the painting room, so you may stay if you like,” Hannah said. “Perhaps you could show your friends your paintings, Friend Bertram.”

  Bertram looked down and shuffled his feet bashfully, his ears turning red. “Aw.”

  Something in her heart softened at his sudden shyness. “I’d very much like to see them,” Emma told him.

  Luke flashed her a relieved smile. “As would I, Bert.”

  Bertram looked up, but his expression was still tentative.

  “Good,” Hannah said firmly. “Now I must go see to our other visitors. If you require anything, please do not hesitate to call upon us. Friend Bertram, do be good to your guests.”

  “Thank you, Friend Hannah,” Luke said.

  Hannah slipped out of the room, closing the door with a snick behind her.

  “What a room this is, Bert,” Luke said, looking around as if impressed. “I didn’t know you were a painter.”

  “I like painting.” Bertram made a flourish with his hand as if he were holding a paintbrush and making a grand sweep of color with it.

  “Will you show us something you painted?” Emma asked him.

  He turned, and they followed him, Luke supporting her as Bertram walked toward the easel where he’d been standing as they entered. He walked around it and stopped, frowning.

  They came to stand beside him.

  “Well,” Luke said.

  “That’s lovely,” Emma said.

  “Flowers,” Bertram said bashfully.

  It was, in fact, a bunch of yellow daffodils growing in a green field with a blue sky overhead. It was a colorful, cheerful, happy painting, and quite good. Not something Emma would have expected an “idiot” capable of.

  “Pretty yellow flowers. And orange. Using red with yellow, like this.” And then Bertram launched into a description of all the colors he’d used in the painting, speaking so quickly he slurred a bit and showing them his pots of paint in various colors. Emma couldn’t keep up with all he said.

  “Well,” Luke said finally, and there was admiration in his voice as he clapped his hand over Bertram’s shoulder, “you, brother, are a very talented artist indeed. Have you any other paintings you can show us?”

  Bertram looked up at him brightly. Then he turned from the easel and scurried over to a far wall, where canvases lay piled on the floor. He got down on his knees on the painted-over floor and began to spread them out.

  “All mine, my paintings,” he told them, looking up and grinning.

  Luke raised his brows at the pile on the floor, then murmured to Emma, “There aren’t any chairs in here for you. Can you sit on the floor?”

  “I think so.”

  He helped her down so she could have a closer look, then he moved beside her. Bertram handed them canvases, and Luke held them up one at a time.

  There were many garden scenes. Brightly colored flowers. Trees. Sunshine. All painted in bold, bright, heavy strokes. There were structures, too. A barn, and a picture of a simplified Bordesley Green that made it look cheerful and open rather than dark and sinister. Just looking at all these happy paintings infused an odd kind of well-being in Emma.

  And then Luke held up another house. This one was obviously a fine home—regal with its redbrick fa��ade and front colonnade. Luke’s jaw worked as he studied it. Finally, he looked up at her. “The Stanleys’ country home.”

  And now she knew how Bertram was related to him. Bertram wasn’t a Hawkins—he was another disregarded son of Lord Stanley’s.

  Which was why, too, Luke hadn’t visited Bertram until this past August—August was when he’d learned that Stanley was his true father. It must have been when he’d found out about Bertram, too.

  “Mama’s home,” Bertram corrected Luke now. “And baby Georgie is right there.” He pointed to one of the tiny windows.

  “Georgina,” Luke explained softly. “Our sister.”

  Emma nodded rather than spoke—her throat was too constricted for her to say anything.

  Bertram rifled through the paintings and pulled out a smallish one. It was of a beautiful blond, blue-eyed baby lying upon a blanket, holding up a chubby fist. Bertram gave the picture directly to Emma. “Georgie,” he told her, pointing at the infant.

  “She is lovely,” Emma mused.

  Luke smirked but quickly relaxed his expression and moved on to the next one. “What’s this?”

  She watched them mull over the remaining paintings, marveling at their easy camaraderie. She couldn’t help but notice how much easier Luke was with Bertram than he’d been with the Duke of Trent.

  The duke was his half brother on his mother’s side, Bertram his half brother on his father’s. Luke and Trent had gone through childhood together, but Luke and Bertram had only known each other since August.

  It was so interesting to Emma how some bonds seemed completely natural, while others had to be forged by blood and sweat. And even then with no guarantees that they would hold.

  They remained with Bertram for several hours. They talked and laughed. They shared the luncheon Luke and Emma had brought with them. Bertram wanted badly to show her the gardens behind the house, so Luke helped her downstairs and sat her on a bench while Bertram festooned her hair with little pink flowers.

  And then visiting day was over. They said their good-byes. Luke hugged Bertram—it was an odd sight to see an aristocratic man like Luke behaving in such an affectionate fashion, but then again, Emma knew firsthand that he was naturally an affectionate person.

  Luke carried her to the carriage and set her gently inside. She settled in, waiting for him as he instructed the postilions.

  Moments later he climbed in and sat beside her, and the carriage began to move. It was afternoon, but the days were growing so short now, it felt like dusk was upon them.

  He gazed at her, his expression inscrutable. “Well?”

  She smiled at him. She touched her hair, and her thumb and forefinger came away trapping a tiny flower. “He’s lovely, Luke. I can see why you couldn’t bear to break your promise to visit him. But,” she added slowly, turning the flower between her fingers, “what I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me sooner. Heavens, why didn’t you tell me last month when we were here?”

  He leaned his head back against the soft velvet squab. “Hmm, and what would I have told you? That I have an idiot half brother who lives in an asylum? That would not have given you the correct impression. Bert is…” He shook his head. “I didn’t understand either, back in August when I first saw him. I thought he would be a drooling imbecile. But then I met him and…” His voice trailed off.


  “And…?” she prompted.

  He gazed at her seriously. “I’ve never met anyone so simply pure,” he told her. “He’s so full of innocence and…and joy. I find him, I don’t know, soothing somehow.”

  “I think he is comforted by your presence as well.”

  “And it turns out he’s a talented artist,” Luke mused. “I didn’t expect that at all. I’ve thought about pulling him from that place and bringing him to live with me. To be with family instead of those strangers.” Luke studied her as if to gauge her reaction to this.

  She nodded.

  “On the other hand, I am not sure. He seems content there most of the time. But sometimes I see hints of loneliness in him. Though if I brought him home and then went about my business as usual, would he be lonely there, too?”

  “I don’t know,” Emma said softly. “But I am certain he’d love to be close to you.”

  “Also, he’d be in London. In a crowded city. His paintings show how much he loves nature, gardens, and open skies. Would I stifle him by bringing him into the city?”

  Emma gazed at him. Luke—the man who called himself “evil”—was consumed with worry about the happiness of a brother he’d only known for one day a month for four months. A brother whose parents had obviously decided to tuck him away and ignore him. Their lack of attendance at today’s visiting day didn’t escape Emma.

  She couldn’t help it—she took Luke’s hand in her own and brought it to her lips, kissing his knuckles and breathing in the leather of his glove.

  “You don’t need to make such decisions now,” she told him softly. “The people at Bordesley Green seem very compassionate and focused on the well-being of the people who reside there. I’m sure Hannah will help. Maybe you could start with bringing him home with you for a few days at a time to see if he will be happy in London.”

  “Do you think so?”

  At that moment, Luke seemed so eager, so young. So intent upon doing the right thing for his brother. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight.

  She was a married woman, though. Swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise, she released his hand and turned away. “I do think so.”

  And she knew, above anything else, that Bertram Stanley was lucky to have Lukas Hawkins as his brother.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They spent the night at Ironwood Park, Luke’s childhood home. It was the right distance from Bordesley Green, so they arrived just at dusk.

  When he first told her where they were going, Emma had raised her brows, remembering how flatly he’d refused to visit Ironwood Park the last time they were in the area. But Luke just laughed. “Last month, my brothers and sister were in residence. Now they’ve all gone. We’ll have the entire mausoleum to ourselves.”

  That didn’t sound promising. Indeed, when they went through the gates of Ironwood Park and down the long, meandering driveway, the massive gray edifice looked dark and forbidding under the gathering purple clouds of dusk.

  But as soon as they dismounted from the carriage, Luke swept her into his arms and carried her up the steps. An older woman with thick white hair piled atop her head opened the massive front door. As soon as she saw them, she beamed.

  “Why, if it isn’t Lord Lukas. I thought I might see you tonight, my lord.”

  Luke’s brows rose. “Did you?”

  “I did indeed. The duke told me you’d be venturing in this direction monthly and that you might be gracing us with your presence.”

  Luke glanced down at Emma, still surprised. “It’s as if he’s omniscient sometimes,” he grumbled. At the top of the stairs, he set Emma gently on her feet. “Mrs. Hope, this is Mrs. Curtis. She is providing assistance with the search for my mother. Mrs. Curtis, this is Mrs. Hope, the housekeeper.”

  Mrs. Hope seemed to accept this incomplete introduction of Emma at face value. She curtsied. “A pleasure, Mrs. Curtis.”

  “Good evening,” Emma said.

  “She sprained her ankle,” Luke said. “Badly.”

  Mrs. Hope made a tsking noise. “Now I see why you brought her here, my lord. Because I’ll surely have a poultice just for that.”

  She led them inside the house, clucking and talking. Emma blinked at the vastness of the marble entry hall and the lavish paintings along the corridor. Mrs. Hope ushered them into the opulent drawing room and told Emma she’d be back with the poultice in a trice.

  She bustled out, leaving Emma blinking after her as Luke helped her to one of the two ornate sofas.

  “Goodness,” Emma murmured. “I never thought a single person could make such a colossally cold place so inviting.” Then she winced. “I hope you do not take offense—”

  “Not at all.” Luke laughed. “I was the one to call it a mausoleum, was I not? And, yes, Mrs. Hope does have a way about her. She’s been here ever since I was a boy. Sometimes she feels like the only beam of light in the gloom of this place.”

  Moments later, servants brought in refreshment. Then Mrs. Hope entered with a soothing salve that she gently rubbed into Emma’s ankle. Dinner followed in the impossibly enormous dining room. Emma drank a glass of sherry in the drawing room afterward, while Luke joined her with a glass of port—Emma had noticed that sherry was the one drink he refused to touch.

  Finally, Mrs. Hope led them up to their rooms. She had brought a footman to carry Emma upstairs, but Luke scowled at the man. “No. I’ll do it.”

  With a pleasant nod, Mrs. Hope dismissed the footman and led the way to the guest bedchamber that had been assigned to Emma. Luke settled her onto a soft armchair as one maid brought in her luggage, another a basin of water, another a pitcher, and yet another maid held nothing—her sole purpose was to turn down the bed.

  When they’d finished their tasks, the maids trickled out, leaving just Luke and Mrs. Hope.

  “Might I fetch you aught else, Mrs. Curtis?” Mrs. Hope asked.

  “Oh no, thank you. Thank you so much for all you have done, and without any advance notice that we were coming today,” Emma said with feeling.

  “Of course, dear.” With that, Mrs. Hope took her leave, shutting the door behind her, not seeming to notice she was leaving Luke alone in the room with Emma.

  Emma gazed after her. “She doesn’t condemn me for coming here with you.”

  Luke shrugged. “If she were that sort of a woman, she wouldn’t have held her position here for very long.”

  “Goodness,” she mused as she took in her surroundings. The guest room—one of many, she was told—was simple but elegant, decorated in ivory and trimmed in gilt.

  His voice gentled. “Will you be all right?”

  Looking up, she met his gaze. “Yes.” Her voice was lower and huskier than she’d intended it to be.

  “I miss you, Em,” he said softly. Slowly, he stroked a knuckle down her cheek. The simple action brought warmth to her face that spread all the way through her body.

  “I miss you, too,” she murmured.

  He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Do you know how much I want to take you to my room and tie you to my bed and make you scream?”

  Her breath caught. The warmth inside her deepened.

  “I miss you,” he said again, placing quiet emphasis on each word. “Have you made your decision?”

  “My decision?”

  “About leaving your husband. About coming back to me. To my bed.”

  “I’m not with him right now,” she reminded him.

  “But you’re not with me, either.”

  She blinked up at him.

  “Being with you yet being unable to touch you…It’s driving me mad.”

  It was driving her mad, too. But she couldn’t tell him that.

  “Let’s find Henry first,” she said. “It will be soon. I know it will.”

  She didn’t know if she could ever betray her vow to Henry. But seeing him, talking to him, somehow having a deeper understanding of what he’d done and why—she needed all of that before she
could move forward.

  Luke gazed down at the floor, then back to her. “For you, Em. Only for you.” He turned and walked to the door, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll send someone in to help you prepare for bed.”

  He slipped out, closing the door firmly behind him.

  And she prayed that the chaos in her mind wasn’t causing him to slip through her fingers.

  She was a married woman. She belonged to another man. If Henry discovered what she and Luke had done, he could bring legal action against Luke. He could publicly destroy Luke. And Luke had been destroyed enough as it was.

  She gazed at the door. Something deep inside her, intrinsic to her well-being, had become inexorably entwined with Lord Lukas Hawkins.

  She didn’t want to lose him.

  * * *

  Two days later, they arrived back in London. Luke helped Emma up the front steps—her ankle was improving again, and she’d insisted he stop carrying her everywhere—and looked up when Baldwin opened the door.

  “Good afternoon, Baldwin,” Luke said.

  Baldwin’s face bore a fierce expression. It was the strongest emotion Emma had ever seen from him. Luke, too, because his steps ground to a halt as he took in the look on his servant’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked darkly.

  “There are men here, sir,” Baldwin said. “Bow Street officers. They’ve a warrant to search the premises. I told them you were returning this afternoon and to wait, and they agreed.”

  “Search the premises?” Emma asked.

  “For what?” Luke asked.

  “It seems they’re searching for evidence of some sort,” Baldwin growled. “I haven’t any idea what, though. They would not say.”

  “Where are they?” Luke added.

  “In the drawing room upstairs, sir.”

  “Stay here,” Luke said to Emma, and he strode into the house. Emma watched him disappear up the stairs.

  She glanced warily at Baldwin. “What’s happening?”

  “I really do not know, Mrs. Curtis,” he told her. But his Adam’s apple shifted as he swallowed. “Please come inside and wait for his lordship.”

  She was still standing outside the door. It was a cold afternoon; the wind whipped across the square, and leaves had gathered in every available nook and cranny. She glanced across the street to find only a few tenacious leaves clinging to the tree branches. Winter had descended upon them.