The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  “Oh, Luke,” she breathed, burying her face in his chest. “I was so worried.”

  He stiffened, his arms straight at his sides, and she felt it, for she took a step back, wariness seeping into her expression as she looked up at him. “Come,” she murmured. “Let’s go inside.”

  He gave her a tight nod, then looked over at his brother, who was watching them, his brows drawn together in an unspoken question.

  Trent had already poked his nose too deeply into Luke’s relationship with Emma. He gave a shake of his head as if to say, Not now.

  Trent nodded. “Call upon me if you require anything tonight. I’ll come over tomorrow, and we’ll discuss further action.”

  Right. Luke didn’t think so. But he didn’t say that. He turned away from his brother and followed Emma inside, for the first time in days not making any attempt to support some of her weight off her ankle.

  He should have offered to support her. But he couldn’t bring himself to, because he was too damned angry with her right now. He supposed that just served as more proof of what an ass he was.

  She led him inside and upstairs to his bedchamber. The servants were notably absent. A steaming bath was prepared, and clothes had been laid out for him.

  Except, despite the fact that he’d been steeped in filth for the last twenty-four hours, he was in no mood for a bath.

  He followed her into his room, closed the door behind them. She turned to him. “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “No,” he said flatly. A sufficient answer to both questions, he decided.

  She looked down. “I’m sorry, Luke. I know you didn’t want to involve anyone…especially Trent.”

  At least she knew why he was angry. At least she wasn’t pretending she hadn’t betrayed him.

  “Then why did you?” His voice was sharp, cracking like a whip, and she cringed.

  “I tried not to. I went to Mr. Hawkins—Samson—instead. I told him of your wish to handle this alone, but he insisted. He said Trent knew Lord Winchell personally and could resolve the situation quickly. I just wanted you out of there. I could hardly think straight knowing you were in danger.”

  Luke’s fists clenched at his sides. He stared at her. “Really? You went to Sam? You went to Sam and honestly thought he wouldn’t involve Trent?” Obviously she didn’t understand in the least how his family worked. Everyone went to Trent. For everything.

  For the first time, challenge blazed bronze in her eyes. “Nothing mattered but getting you out of that place.”

  “So you went against my plainly expressed wishes.”

  “I tried to think of other options—”

  “I asked you to trust me to handle this, Emma. Me. Ultimately, you did not. That is all there is to it.”

  Distress washed over her features. “I’m sorry.”

  “You know how I feel about this. I have been very clear with you about how Trent interfering with my life affects me. I could have handled this on my own, but even you wouldn’t give me the chance.”

  “I was just so…so very scared for you.” Her voice was small.

  “Is that why you told him about…” Luke swallowed thickly, then forced the words out. “About what his father did to me?”

  She recoiled. “I didn’t tell him that.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Oh, Luke,” she whispered. “It slipped out when I was talking to Mr. Hawkins and Lady Esme. And then they must have told Trent. I am so very sorry.”

  Holy hell. Now his whole family would know. Esme had probably already written to Theo and Mark and told them everything.

  “I thought they knew,” she whispered. “I had no idea they didn’t know about any of it. I…I wasn’t thinking very rationally at the time.”

  He gazed at Emma with new eyes. Her betrayal burned acid holes in him.

  “I can’t do this,” he said. His voice was flat. Cold.

  “Luke,” she begged, “please. I am so very sorr—”

  “I’m going out,” he said, cutting her words short. “Don’t wait up.”

  He turned his back on her.

  “Don’t run from me, Luke. Not this time.”

  Ignoring her pleas, he strode out of the room. Without bothering to change out of his stinking clothes, he went downstairs. And after stopping in his study to fetch his pistol, he went out the back door and into the mews. He went straight into the stable, where he saddled his horse. Then he rode into the encroaching darkness.

  He didn’t go to his gentleman’s club. He didn’t go to a pub or a gaming hell or a whorehouse. He went to none of those places that were usually his first choices to help dull those blades that cut at him. And those blades were sharp now, slicing deep.

  Yet tonight, he avoided his usual haunts. Instead, he went to find Roger Morton.

  * * *

  Emma stood still in Luke’s bedchamber for a long time. She gazed at the door, stunned. By his anger, by his abrupt departure. By her inability to stop him from leaving.

  Her heart throbbed and ached.

  He was furious with her. And could she blame him? She’d gone against his wishes. She’d told Sam everything, and Sam would not be dissuaded from going to the duke. Worse, in her worry and anger, she’d revealed Luke’s secret—hadn’t known how deep of a secret it had been until after she’d blurted it to his brother and sister.

  The hours passed excruciatingly slowly. He’d said not to wait, but she waited anyhow. What else could she do? She didn’t know where he’d gone. Her best guess was to his club, and as much as she wanted to go looking for him, she knew that if she went there and demanded to speak to him, she would be turned away.

  She went to her room on the second floor and prepared for bed with Delaney’s help. Then she lay on the bed. Shivering, she stared up at the white ceiling. This bedchamber would always feel cold and lonely to her; it was plainly decorated, sparse and painted white, with plain oak floors. There were no colors, no carpets, no excess decoration, because Luke never came up here, and he rarely, if ever, hosted guests.

  But it was more than that, she acknowledged. Luke had never lain beside her in this room. He’d never made love to her here, nor warmed her in the circle of his arms. That was why it was a lonely, sterile place.

  She felt his absence keenly—she’d felt it like an open wound within her ever since the Bow Street officers had taken him away yesterday.

  Lying here in the cold, lonelier than she’d ever been, Emma realized a truth that she’d been avoiding for days.

  She wanted to be with Luke in every way. It didn’t matter that she was married to someone else. She needed him…and a deep, intrinsic part of her told her that he needed her as well. She truly wanted to be beside him through thick and thin. She wanted to help him heal, and she wanted him to help her heal. He had already gone so far in doing so. Since she had been with him, she’d never felt so confident. So cherished or so protected.

  Luke made her whole.

  By being with Luke, she would consciously be committing the most grievous of sins—one that had always disgusted her. Yet, Henry had been dead to her for a year. And somehow, seeing him in the flesh for those brief seconds had solidified his death in her mind. There was no doubt about it—Henry was dead to her in every way that mattered. In the eyes of the law, he might be her spouse, but he would never be her true husband again.

  She remembered the preacher in Soho, the sermon about adultery. A twisting sickness welled in her gut. She closed her eyes and prayed for understanding.

  She lay awake for hours, her ears straining for the sounds of movement in the house below. Once the servants had gone to bed, there were none. Luke wasn’t coming home.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emma woke to a scratching sound at her door. She bolted upright, instantly awake. Luke had returned and wanted to see her. Thank God.

  She hastened out of bed and hurried to the door. She unlocked it and flung it open as her heart fluttered in anti
cipation. She would fall to her knees and beg his forgiveness if that was what it took.

  “Luke, I…” The words died on her tongue.

  Luke wasn’t at her threshold. It was Henry—Morton. He stood there, wearing a fierce expression and holding a pistol pointed at her chest.

  “Emma,” he said softly, “don’t make a noise, or I’ll shoot. I swear it.”

  She froze, her lips parted, staring at him. “What are…what are you doing here?” she stammered.

  He gave her a tight, false smile. “We need to talk.”

  “T-talk?” Her gaze went to the weapon. His forefinger rested on the trigger. One little movement of that finger and her chest would be blown open.

  “Right. Talk. But not here. You’ll need to come with me.”

  “Now?” she breathed.

  He huffed out a breath. “Yes, now. Do you think this is a social visit? It’s two o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.”

  Her mind worked frantically. “I need to…dress.”

  His jaw firmed. That jaw she’d once pressed her hand to—that jaw she’d once thought she loved…

  No, she couldn’t think of any of that right now. This man was a stranger to her. He always had been.

  He was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Very well. Dress. Quickly. I’ll give you five minutes. And don’t make any noise, Emma, because I don’t want to be forced to use this”—he waved the gun—“but I will, if it comes to that.”

  “I understand,” Emma murmured. She believed him. His hair was tousled, his cravat askew. He bore the expression of a desperate man.

  “Go, then.” He gestured the gun in the direction of the armoire but made no move to close the door or give her any privacy.

  She gathered her courage. “Will you…will you wait outside?”

  His glance darted to the window. “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you honestly think I’d jump out the window? We are two stories up. I’d kill myself.”

  He ground his teeth audibly. “You’ve four minutes now. Don’t attempt to lock the door. If you do, you’ll regret it.”

  He stepped back and pulled the door so that it was almost, but not quite, shut. She knew he was hovering just behind it, his fingers on the handle, his foot at the threshold to prevent the door from closing. He was fully prepared to rush in should she attempt to do anything untoward.

  Hurriedly, she donned her chemise and one of her muslins. Then she fetched the old wool and ermine cloak that looked so bedraggled now. It had deep, concealed pockets sewn into it, and like the day they’d ventured to the docklands, she removed her own pistol from the bottom of the drawer where she’d stowed it and slid it into one of the pockets.

  She was pulling the edges of the cloak together and stepping toward the door when Henry—Morton—opened it again. His eyes raked up and down her body. Evidently satisfied, he gave a brusque nod and stepped aside to let her out of the room.

  “You will go downstairs and out the back door. I’ve a carriage waiting in the mews. Don’t make any loud noises.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  She didn’t like the way he said “safe.” As though it would be safe for him but not necessarily for her.

  And suddenly it all made sense. He wouldn’t kill her here—it would be too conspicuous. Instead, he’d take her somewhere “safe” and do away with her there. In a place where he wouldn’t be immediately implicated for her murder.

  How could he do that? Murder a woman he’d once pretended to love?

  “Are you a murderer, too, Henry?” she asked him, the words coming out before she could censor them.

  “No,” he said. But he didn’t meet her eyes. “Go on, then.” He gestured toward the stairs. She went down, and he followed close behind her. As strong as a touch, she felt the barrel of the gun aimed at her back. They left the house through the open back door.

  It was cold outside, the air crisp and clear. The moon shone bright, and what seemed like a million stars glittered overhead.

  He nudged her toward the waiting carriage.

  The comforting weight of her own pistol knocked against her leg as she walked. With a growing sickness inside her, she realized that she truly didn’t have any idea how to handle a gun. She’d never shot a weapon in her life.

  All she could do was wait until he least expected it, then bring out the pistol. Hopefully he’d be in a position where he’d have no choice but to let her go. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to attempt to shoot him.

  The sickness in her gut twisted and tightened. She was glad she hadn’t eaten anything for dinner, because she wouldn’t have been able to keep it down.

  Morton opened the door for her, and she stepped inside. As she turned around to settle onto the seat, she saw the broken remnants of the open dining room window. Morton had shattered the panes and climbed through it. She hadn’t heard the sound of breaking glass, and clearly the servants hadn’t either, but there must be ways to quiet it. And the floor in the dining room was carpeted, so that would muffle the noise of glass falling onto it.

  Morton pushed in next to her and closed the door, and the carriage jerked into motion. She scooted across the squab and pressed herself into the opposite door, as far away from him as she could manage.

  He still held the gun. He held it balanced on his leg, ominously pointed at her.

  “I could kill you now,” he murmured quietly. “It would be so easy. And it would fix everything. Do you realize how eliminating you will rid me of all my problems?” He sighed, as if he thought her cruel for putting him in this untenable position.

  “It won’t rid you of your problems,” she said confidently. “Luke will come after you.”

  “Lord Lukas Hawkins?” he scoffed. “Last I heard, he was in prison for theft. The evidence against him is very strong indeed. I have no doubt he’ll hang.”

  So he hadn’t heard that Luke had already been released. He quirked a brow at her. “Hanging is a well-deserved fate for that man, wouldn’t you agree? Taking my wife into his home as if she were a common whore…” He made a low noise of disgust.

  Emma’s stomach cramped and twisted.

  “But then again, I wouldn’t have expected that of you, either, Emma.”

  “I was a widow,” she ground out. Then she pressed her lips together, refusing to speak any more on the subject. Above all, she didn’t need to defend her actions to this man. Instead, she asked quietly, “So that is your goal? Have Lord Lukas hanged for a crime he didn’t commit, then kill me so neither of us will implicate you? But you’re not a murderer. You said so.”

  “Yet I can’t allow you to implicate me, either. Don’t you see? It’s you or me.”

  “What if I didn’t implicate you?” she asked quietly. She hated this man so much right now. She despised the way he spoke of taking her life as if it were a business transaction. “All I want is my father to have his money back.”

  He barked out a humorless laugh.

  “And Luke—Lord Lukas—needs information regarding the whereabouts of his mother. Just give us our money and give his lordship the information, and we will leave you alone.”

  “But you’re my wife, Emma. Or have you forgotten?” His voice was soft.

  “You’re dead, Henry. Or have you forgotten?”

  He blinked at her. She’d changed since she’d last known him. Circumstances had forced her to become a much stronger person. She was a woman of action now, a woman who’d fought for her family’s survival for the past year.

  Hopefully Henry would soon know the extent of that strength. When she escaped from him. When she forced him to unearth her father’s money and the Dowager Duchess of Trent. When she saw him called to task for all that he had done to everyone he had wronged.

  “How’d you end up with Hawkins?” he asked her. “Did you think you could win a duke’s brother to save your father’s fortune?”

  “It has nothing to do with that.�
�� She clutched the door handle to steady herself as the carriage rattled over a deep rut. “He came to Bristol looking for Roger Morton. I was also looking for Morton, so—”

  “You were looking for Morton?”

  “You didn’t escape as thoroughly as you believed, Henry. You left plenty of evidence of Morton behind. For over a year, I thought he’d murdered you.”

  He raised his brows.

  “Lord Lukas and I followed you all the way to London.”

  “Where you somehow located my offices.”

  “You are Roger Morton, then,” she murmured. “Who is the alias? Are you Henry, or are you Roger? Or are both of those identities false?”

  He grimaced, then shrugged, as if thinking that revealing the truth would not affect matters between them. Strengthening her theory that he indeed intended to kill her. “My real name is Roger Morton.”

  She released a slow breath. She’d known it—all the evidence pointed toward it. But it cut deep to know that even his name had been a part of his fake courtship. He’d played her false from the moment she’d made his acquaintance.

  “You’re still my wife,” he muttered now.

  “Please don’t be a hypocrite.”

  He narrowed his dark eyes at her. “You’ve taken him into your bed, haven’t you?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “The courts wouldn’t agree.”

  “Is that so? Would you begin criminal proceedings against Luke, then? After faking your name and subsequent death and leaving me and my family penniless for a year?” She made a low, scoffing noise in her throat. “Would the courts even acknowledge our marriage?”

  “Henry Curtis existed in truth, Emma. I could become him again. Easily.”

  “Is that what you want?” she asked, well aware of the bitterness lacing her voice. “To return with me to Bristol and resume our life there?”

  His expression soured. “Of course not. That monotonous existence wasn’t for me.”

  Clearly.