The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  He was dark, tall, and broad. Taller than both his brothers—who were tall themselves—by a few inches. His skin was several shades darker than his brothers’, too, and his eyes were a deep, rich brown—very similar to Esme’s.

  He walked around the desk, focused on Esme. He gathered her hands in his own. He didn’t waste time with formal greetings. “Esme, why are you here? What’s wrong?”

  “Sam, this is Mrs. Curtis, a friend of Luke’s. Mrs. Curtis, this is Mr. Hawkins, my brother.”

  The brown gaze of Samson Hawkins settled on her, and Emma felt vulnerable and exposed. It was clear this man wasn’t going to beat about the bush.

  His voice was brusque. “Mrs. Curtis. How may I help you?”

  She took a slow, steady breath, bracing herself limb by limb. “Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. Hawkins. I’ve come to beg for your help. You see, Luke has been arrested.”

  Mr. Hawkins’s face showed no emotion. “On what charge?”

  “The theft of six hundred pounds from Lord Winchell.”

  “I see.”

  “They took him away last night,” Emma continued. “I don’t know where he is, or what’s going to happen, but we need to—”

  “Did he do it?”

  Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Then she snapped, “No! Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Anger boiled up within her faster than she could contain it. She had always strongly believed that a family should support their own unconditionally and without reservation. Luke was a self-confessed rogue and a scoundrel, but that didn’t exclude him from this rule.

  Did Luke’s own family not implicitly trust him? If that was the case, then it explained so much. It was no wonder he had never truly healed.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the big man. “I’m sure.”

  His expression still didn’t change, but he lifted one brow slightly. “You’ll forgive me, Mrs. Curtis, but as you probably know by now, my brother is prone to excesses of drink and other debauched pursuits. A drunkard’s actions can be quite different from his actions when he is sober.”

  Tears choked her throat and stung her eyes, but she didn’t let them free. “Luke is not a drunkard,” she bit out, her voice harsh with certainty. Luke did drink to escape from the hard realities of his life, but he was no more a drunkard than she was.

  That dark eyebrow crept higher on his forehead. “Is that so?” he asked dryly.

  “It is.”

  Mr. Hawkins stared at her for a long moment—the members of the Duke of Trent’s family stared at her too much. All of them were evidently attempting to delve under her skin in an effort to understand her motives. She didn’t like it, and Mr. Hawkins’s calm perusal of her now did nothing to allay her anger. It remained, bubbling close to the surface.

  His gaze dropped to the fists clenched at her sides, then he gestured to a chair behind the desk. “Please sit. You must tell me everything you know of what has transpired.”

  Woodenly, she walked to the chair and lowered herself into it, aware only vaguely of Mr. Hawkins going to the door and ordering someone to bring in another chair for Esme.

  She was so angry. She hated the fact that she’d had to defend Luke to his own brother. That one, small question—“Did he do it?”—riled every possessive and protective instinct within her.

  Nonetheless, one tiny remaining rational part of her told her that she was overreacting, that she was already overwrought, and it had only taken Mr. Hawkins’s innocent question to push her over the edge.

  A servant placed a chair beside hers, and Esme lowered herself into it. Mr. Hawkins strode around to the other side of the desk and sat in the seat across from them.

  “Now,” he said, still wearing that unnerving, unreadable, flat expression on his face, “tell me what happened.”

  She told him about the Bow Street officers who’d been waiting at Luke’s house when they’d arrived home from Bordesley Green, about the papers they’d found in Morton’s office and how the officers had believed the bill of sale was sufficient evidence to arrest Luke.

  “Are you certain they were referring to the receipt you found in Morton’s belongings?” Mr. Hawkins asked eventually.

  “What other paper could they possibly be referring to?” she asked in exasperation. “In any case, the papers were gone when I looked for them later. It was the obvious conclusion.”

  “Did the officers show you the evidence? Did you see it firsthand?”

  “No, but—”

  “They could have confiscated Morton’s papers as possible evidence, but the true evidence could have come from anywhere,” Mr. Hawkins said.

  “No,” Emma said mulishly. “You cannot believe that. There is no other true evidence. The only other possible evidence would be the false word of my villainous husband.”

  That infernal dark brow rose again. “Why do you believe that so strongly? You haven’t known my brother long, Mrs. Curtis. What makes you so certain he is innocent?”

  “He is a good man,” she ground out.

  “Hmm. I suspect Luke himself would be the first to disagree with you on that count.”

  Her chest was so tight with emotion it hurt. She felt slicing daggers shooting from her eyes toward Samson Hawkins. “Because he has been told so many times that he isn’t good that he has come to believe it,” she said coldly. “That lie was brutally beaten into him as a child, and he still believes it.”

  Esme made a small noise, but she ignored it, knowing full well that she had spoken too plainly, but she was too angry, too scared for Luke, to censor her words. Her voice was bitter with accusation as she continued. “He is trying, ever so hard, to prove himself to his family as a man capable and dependable, but at every turn the lot of you decide that he is unworthy. Every day he has come close to giving up altogether, but the goodness of his nature doesn’t allow him to. And still you all make him believe he has failed.”

  “That’s not true!” Esme breathed.

  Emma rose on shaking legs. “Perhaps I shouldn’t ask for your help at all. I was unaware of the extent of your disloyalty to him.”

  “Mrs. Curtis,” Mr. Hawkins snapped. “Sit down.”

  Her hand curved around the back of the chair. The instinct to obey this man’s hard, commanding words was strong, but she held her ground. “No. Either you promise to help your brother in whatever way possible, or you let me go so I can help him on my own. But I will not tolerate you questioning his innocence.”

  She glared at him, noticing for the first time that he’d lost color and that his eyes were wide with surprise rather than narrowed with anger as she’d expected.

  She turned to Esme. The young woman was staring at her lap, blinking furiously as if to hold back tears.

  Feeling Emma’s gaze on her, she glanced up. “B-beaten?” she asked, and a tear slid down her cheek.

  Esme was much younger than Luke—she’d probably been an infant when the old duke had died. Could she really not know, though?

  Emma looked at Mr. Hawkins, who wasn’t looking at his sister at all. He was staring at Emma, his brows flat, his expression stark and pale.

  “You didn’t know?” she asked them.

  Slowly, Mr. Hawkins shook his head. “No,” he said gruffly.

  Her jaw dropped in amazement. Surely brothers knew such things about one another.

  “Who…who did that to him?” Esme breathed.

  He’d told no one. The knowledge that Luke had borne his abuse throughout his whole life without anyone knowing slammed into Emma, leaving her breathless.

  She closed her eyes, imagining him as a blond-haired, blue-eyed little boy, frightened and alone, unable to go to anyone, his attempts to hide what his father was doing to him only resulting in more scoldings from the people around him. Enduring a cycle of pain and fear no child should ever have to endure.

  Then she pictured him as she had all night and all morning, as a man alone in a cold, dark cell in Ne
wgate. At this moment, she wanted nothing more in the world than to drag him out of that place and hold him in her arms.

  And never let him go.

  And then, of course, she remembered who her husband was. The man responsible for this situation.

  She opened her eyes and looked directly at Lady Esme. This was a young, sheltered woman she was speaking to, but Emma didn’t intend to mince words. “It was the old Duke of Trent—your father. Evidently, he made a ritual of punishing Luke. But it was more than punishment—it was abuse. It was torture. Haven’t you seen his scars? His back is riddled with them.”

  Esme’s gloved hand went to her mouth to stifle a gasp of horror. Mr. Hawkins’s dark eyes narrowed. “Christ,” he spat out.

  Emma continued. “The duke thought to beat the badness out of him. He convinced Luke he was evil. Luke has believed this ever since and feels that his every action is further proof of his evil. Horrible nightmares torment him. He suffers every day because of what that man did to him when he was a child.” Emma turned to Mr. Hawkins. “You, of all people, should know about this. The old duke evidently despised his ‘sons’ who weren’t his true progeny. Did he not deliver the same treatment to you?”

  It was a ridiculously forward question. Impossibly forward—she had met this man minutes ago. But Emma was beyond caring.

  “No,” Mr. Hawkins pushed out. “He did not.”

  So Luke truly had been the sole recipient of all the old duke’s cruelty and vengeance. Emma’s lips tightened, and she turned to go.

  “I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m wasting time. I need to help him.”

  “Wait, Mrs. Curtis,” Mr. Hawkins said, his voice raspy. “You need to know I’ll do whatever I can to help my brother. Please stay.”

  Emma glanced at Mr. Hawkins over her shoulder. He was standing, and true concern was etched into the lines of his face. Esme had risen, too. She twisted her hands in front of her and wore a pleading expression.

  Forcing her feet to move, Emma returned to her chair.

  * * *

  “Come with me, yer lordship.”

  Luke warily rose from his haunches from the stinking floor.

  He’d pressed himself into the corner of the wall all night and for most of the day. It was damned cold in this place, and for the few hours when the sun had provided a little square of light through the tiny barred window, he’d moved under it, hoping to absorb a little warmth.

  He hated small, enclosed spaces. The duke had, more often than not, locked him in a closet for several hours after a beating, not allowing Luke out until he was certain Luke was recovered enough not to blurt out the truth. More than once, the governess had punished him for “running off” without telling her. But her sharp raps on his knuckles were nothing compared to the discipline his father had wielded.

  Luke had dozed fitfully last night, waking from nightmare after nightmare, shaking, sweating, even though the temperature in the cell had dropped to near freezing levels.

  After one such dream, his heart had pounded so hard, he was certain it would kill him. He’d felt the walls pressing in on him, squeezing the life out of him. He kept telling himself that was impossible, that he wasn’t dying, but his body wouldn’t believe him.

  Finally the feeling had ebbed somewhat, and he’d drifted off into another fitful sleep, only to be awakened an hour later in the throes of another nightmare.

  It was now late afternoon. He’d been here, locked in this nine-by-six-foot cell, for twenty-four hours. He couldn’t bear it much longer, that much was for certain. It wouldn’t take this place very long at all to drive him to real madness.

  But, really, it didn’t matter. If he was found innocent, he’d be set free. If he was found guilty, he’d hang. Either way, he wouldn’t have to bear it for much longer.

  The barred wooden door creaked as the guard opened it.

  He looked into the man’s lined, unfriendly face. “Am I to be arraigned?” He’d been looking forward to that moment all day, to informing the court of his innocence and his intent to prove it.

  “Nay,” the man mumbled. “You’re to be released.”

  Luke narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but the man turned with a brusque, “Come,” and began to lead him down a long corridor. He shuddered as they passed cell after depressing cell, some with hands reaching through the bars that topped each door, others with moans and cries emanating from behind the thick slabs of wood.

  The man opened the door onto a cloud-dimmed day and gestured at Luke to exit through it. “Good day, then, milord.”

  Luke paused. So this was it? He was free? He quirked a brow. Since he’d entered this place, the turnkeys had demanded money from him at every turn. He’d paid for a private cell in the state area. He’d paid for water, a plate of food, release from the shackles they’d placed on him when he’d first arrived, the soiled and torn sheets that he’d failed to sleep on last night. And now this man was letting him go. Free and clear, with no expectation of additional payment.

  A sick feeling began to twist in Luke’s gut. This was too fast. Too easy. It reeked of Trent’s involvement.

  Grinding his teeth, Luke stepped out of Newgate Prison and into a brown dirt courtyard. The thick wooden door closed with a hollow thud behind him.

  His brother’s carriage stood ten yards away. He recognized the gold crest on its side.

  Of course. He really wasn’t surprised. Still, his chest felt tight, the skin taut over his body.

  As he stepped forward, Trent alighted from the carriage.

  Luke pushed forward, striding resolutely toward his brother. His heart felt like a dead rock in his chest.

  This had to be Emma’s doing. But why? He’d asked one simple thing of her—for her trust. Yet she hadn’t trusted him. Instead, she’d gone to Trent.

  Because Trent was more capable. Trent was better.

  His brother met him a few steps away from the carriage. For a moment, they just gazed at each other. Luke knew he should be furious. Should be railing over the duke’s involvement.

  But it was Emma who had betrayed him. And that made him feel like an integral piece of himself was being forcibly ripped away from his body, leaving him without the energy to argue with his brother.

  Trent gestured toward the carriage. “I’ll take you home.”

  Luke nodded. He went around the back of the carriage, climbed in, and slid onto the seat. Trent rapped his knuckles on the ceiling, and they lurched into motion.

  Luke sat perfectly still, staring straight ahead. What would he say to Emma when he arrived home? Would she even be there?

  Feeling his brother’s eyes on him, he glanced over at Trent.

  “I’m sorry,” Trent said.

  Luke blinked at him. What was he talking about?

  “For what my father did to you.”

  Every single muscle in Luke’s body went completely rigid. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t react. Couldn’t breathe. His lungs were frozen.

  “I didn’t know, Luke.” Trent sounded as though he were on the verge of tears, but that was stupid. Trent didn’t shed tears over him. He seemed at a loss for what else to say, so he repeated, “I’m sorry.”

  Luke wrenched his face toward his window. He couldn’t speak. His throat was incapable of producing sound. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to jump out of this carriage and to run away. From all of it. But that was folly. He was an adult. He would stay and endure his brother’s judgment…or sympathy. Whatever Trent chose to give him.

  But Trent didn’t speak further. He gazed out his window. His hands drummed restlessly over his thighs. The action reminded Luke of Emma’s nervous finger tapping.

  Emma.

  He closed his eyes. She’d told Trent the deepest, most personal secret he’d shared with her. He’d never felt so betrayed.

  They didn’t speak again. Luke didn’t want to talk to Trent. He didn’t need to find out how Trent had set him free. He had probably gone to the source, to Lord Winchell
, and handed over the six hundred pounds.

  The point was, Luke hadn’t been able to do it himself. As always, Trent had cut in first, solving all his problems, proving once again that Luke was incapable of doing so himself.

  And in the interim, Emma had told Trent his darkest secret. That one shameful bit of himself he’d never revealed to anyone but her.

  He closed his eyes. He really didn’t want to face her—his anger was far too close to the surface. But he knew he must.

  “How much do I owe you?” he asked Trent finally.

  Trent waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Luke huffed out a breath.

  They were close to Cavendish Square now. It had been less than a three-mile drive from Newgate to his home.

  “I like her,” Trent said.

  Luke’s fingers curled into fists. “Who?” But he knew the answer.

  “Mrs. Curtis.”

  “She’s married,” he pushed out, as if that explained everything. It didn’t, of course.

  “Perhaps not,” Trent mused. “If the man’s name is truly Roger Morton, then he married her fraudulently by taking on another man’s identity, and the marriage isn’t legal. It could be annulled, and you could step in.”

  “What are you saying? That I should marry her?”

  “Yes,” Trent said. “I think you should.”

  Luke blinked at his brother. Trent had never approved of Luke’s paramours as topics of conversation, much less suggested marriage.

  Trent gazed at him, his green eyes solemn as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Luke’s house. “She loves you, man. You’d be a fool to let her go.”

  Emma was waiting for him. She burst out of the door when Trent’s carriage stopped at the front of Luke’s house, and she hobbled out to greet him as fast as her injured ankle would allow.

  Luke stepped down from the carriage, his heart heavy. Hell, his whole body felt like it had quadrupled in weight in the last half hour.

  In public situations, Emma was usually quite cognizant of appearances. She refrained from touching him except when necessary due to her injury, and she was always aware of people witnessing them speaking intimately. But she didn’t seem to care about any of that now. She rushed toward him and threw herself into his arms.