The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  Luke stopped his work on the horses and went to meet the vehicle as it came to a halt just ahead of the ditch where the curricle had lost its wheel.

  Men poured out of the coach to view the wreck, their curious gazes roaming over the curricle, then over the intimate wet and muddy clothing spread over the lopsided seat. Then their attention moved to Emma. Luke, who was speaking to the coachman, broke off, his gaze going to the men, then to her.

  He was beside her in a few long strides. He scooped her up, as he had before. Ignoring the five men who’d emerged from the carriage, he approached one of the coachmen, who was dismounting.

  “I’m sorry—I used my real name,” he murmured to her. Then to the coachman, “My companion was injured in the accident.”

  “I hope it isn’t serious,” the driver said in a compassionate tone, but Emma could see the glint in his dark eyes as his gaze perused her. He thought she was Luke’s mistress.

  Which, she supposed, she was.

  “Really, it’s not so bad—just a bruised ankle.” And to Luke, “Please put me down, my lord.”

  Luke ignored her and said to the coachman, “You will drive us to the nearest physician.”

  The man raised a brow. “Sorry, my lord. I’m from London—not even sure physicians exist this far from civilization.”

  The second driver had descended from his perch and stood beside the first. “We’re an hour from Belford. There is a coaching inn there. They’re likely to know where to locate a doctor.”

  Emma nearly groaned. They’d passed through Belford a while ago. They’d be going backward.

  “Good. We’ll join you, then,” Luke said.

  The men helped to move the wreckage of their curricle to the side of the road. They secured the horses behind the mail coach and fetched Emma’s and Luke’s luggage. Luke assured her he’d also gathered her wet clothing and had returned it to her valise. Then, three of the men sat on the top of the mail coach, leaving plenty of room for Luke and Emma inside. Luke carried her in, setting her gently beside the window, then sitting beside her.

  The hour was long. Luke glared whenever either of the two men glanced at her. So Emma sat quietly, her skin numb with cold, but the outside of her foot throbbed with pain.

  Belford was only fifteen miles south of Berwick-upon-Tweed. After all they’d been through today, they would have only fifteen miles of progress to show. And no carriage. Emma wanted to discuss what they were going to do from here with Luke, but she didn’t want to talk in front of strangers.

  So it was with deep relief that she alighted from the mail coach in Belford. Practically before she could blink, the driver had grabbed a bundle of mail from the open window at the inn, and the coach was on its way again, kicking up mud onto the luggage that had been deposited at Emma’s and Luke’s feet as they stood there, Emma balancing on one leg with Luke’s supporting arm around her, the reins of the two horses gripped in his free hand.

  Luke stared after the mail coach, supreme annoyance in his expression, then he looked at his feet. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, deep breath.

  He looked up again. “Sorry about that.”

  She raised a brow. “About what?”

  “The way they were looking at you.”

  Ah. That.

  “God help me, I wanted to wipe those smirks off their faces. It was all I could do not to.”

  She laughed softly. “I admire your self-control, but truly they were not that bad.”

  “I don’t approve of anyone looking at you like that.” His eyes narrowed. “Except me, of course.”

  Two servants wandered out from the inn and took their luggage. Another took the horses and promised to give them a good rubdown and a clean stall for the night.

  “I require a pint of red paint, I believe,” Luke muttered.

  Emma turned to him, wide-eyed. “What on earth for?”

  “So I can write ‘Property of Lord Lukas Hawkins. Anyone caught staring will be immediately throttled’ on your forehead.”

  She laughed. “I doubt all that would fit on my forehead.” At the same time, a part of her secretly thrilled at the idea of being his “property.” Which was unsettling, because ever since her disaster of a marriage, she didn’t like to think of herself as anyone’s property but her own.

  And she wasn’t Luke’s property. She hadn’t promised anything to him, nor had he promised anything to her. Even if they had made promises, she didn’t know if she could ever again accept the concept of belonging to any man. She’d spent her life first as her father’s property, then Henry’s. Now she was her own woman, making her own decisions. And she liked it that way.

  But she couldn’t dwell too much on such thoughts right now. They had more pressing matters to deal with.

  “What are we going to do?” she murmured, gazing at the bend in the road where the mail coach had disappeared.

  “First, let’s get you inside. You’re still cold. Then a doctor for that foot. After that I’ll find us a new carriage.” He gave her a cocky grin that warmed her from the inside out. “If all goes well, we’ll be on our way again tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The doctor prodded Emma’s foot. She gritted her teeth but didn’t complain. Finally, he pronounced a badly sprained ankle—the wheel landing on her lower leg had only produced tenderness and bruising, but the true injury must have been upon her impact with the ground, when she twisted the ankle. Truly, she couldn’t quite remember exactly how it had happened. It had all been such a blur.

  The doctor reassured Luke that it was a relatively minor sprain and should heal in a few weeks, as long as she kept off it as much as possible. He wrapped it tightly in a linen cloth, directed her to keep her leg on level with her body, ordered hot towels to be brought at regular intervals, and gave her a cane.

  When the man left the room they’d procured at the Blue Bell Inn, Luke stood still, glaring down at where she was seated on the bed with her back propped against the wall. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

  He was furious. At himself. For allowing her to get hurt.

  Yet another reminder of his inadequacy.

  Not to mention the fact that he’d lied to her from the beginning…

  He took a measured breath. He needed to see about a carriage. He tried to smile at her but was certain it emerged as more of a grimace. “A post chaise.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll hire a post chaise to take us to London.”

  She seemed to consider this, then gave him a wry smile. “I would have loved that idea back in Bristol.”

  He frowned. “But not now?”

  “I grew fond of our little curricle, I suppose. I was sorry to see it in pieces like that.”

  He went to the edge of the bed and sat, gathering her delicate, feminine hand in his own larger one.

  “I shouldn’t have bought it. I should have known better.”

  “I saw all of England, from the south to the north. I breathed fresh, clean air every day. The experience was incomparable. I’d no idea back in Bristol how much I’d end up appreciating all that.”

  “But you were hurt,” he said gruffly.

  “Not badly.”

  “It could have been worse.” So much worse. He remembered her body lurching through the air like a rag doll, then slamming into the water. The wheel spinning through the air after her—God, the most sickening images had run through his mind all afternoon. His stomach was still a twisted mess.

  “But it wasn’t worse,” she told him. “I’m all right, thanks to your careful driving.”

  He brought her knuckles up to his mouth and kissed the top of her hand gently. “Rest. I need to go down and find us a new carriage.”

  She sighed. “All right. I’ll write to Jane while you’re gone.”

  He brought her her writing supplies and arranged them so that she wouldn’t have to get out of bed in order to write the letter. Then he took his coat and left her.

  Half an hour
later, he’d arranged for a post chaise to depart from the Blue Bell promptly at nine o’clock the following morning.

  As he was heading back up to Emma, his eye caught on the pub across the street from the inn, which was growing busy for the dinner hour.

  He’d have a drink before heading up for the evening. Just one, and then he’d join Emma for dinner, perhaps carry her down so they could eat together.

  * * *

  The sun went down, and a servant came in to light the lamps. Emma didn’t ask for dinner to be brought up, because Luke had mentioned something about eating downstairs.

  Another hour passed. And another. Another servant brought her a batch of hot towels for her ankle. She took them with thanks and sent the servant away.

  By now, Emma knew where he’d gone. She set the towels aside, hobbled to the window, and pressed her forehead against it.

  The man brought out such conflicting feelings in her. From unadulterated happiness to deep despair and just about everything in between. She’d never even known she was capable of feeling so much.

  Right now, the prevalent feeling was despair. She hated that compulsion he had to leave her. He would have done it every night, she knew. The only reason she’d had a reprieve in Berwick-upon-Tweed was that she’d kept him so completely occupied in bed.

  Tonight she would have been happy to keep him occupied in bed as well. That surge of desire at the scene of the carriage accident hadn’t dissipated as the day had slipped by. It still resided somewhere deep and dark and delicious inside her.

  But those desires surely wouldn’t be satisfied tonight. Luke wasn’t here. He was gone. In the pub across the street she’d seen him glancing at as they’d gone into the inn earlier.

  As she stood there gazing out into the black of night, the despair transformed to anger. She briefly contemplated limping down there to fetch him. No. She wouldn’t make a scene, and she was too furious with him not to. She felt like railing at him. She felt like punching him.

  The pane of glass pressed against her forehead, cold as a block of ice. Their room was at the back of the inn, and the lane, as well as the mews and stables beyond, were dark. It was cold, and everyone had gone home for the evening. Everyone except Luke, evidently.

  She pressed her palm against the windowpane, realizing she was feeling possessive about Lord Lukas Hawkins. She was feeling entitled to have a say in what he chose to do in the evenings. But, in truth, that wasn’t at all the case. Technically, he owed her nothing. He’d made her no promises. He could do whatever he pleased. Even find a woman downstairs, if that was what he chose.

  Still, her heart told her otherwise. Her heart told her that they had shared too much intimacy to be indifferent toward each other.

  Which was a dangerous thing. She was becoming too involved. She knew Luke well enough now to understand that he was unlike anyone she’d ever met—charming and dark, teasing and sensual, demanding and generous, content yet aching for something mysterious she wished she could give him. He was a maddening, intriguing combination of lightness and darkness, but he kept so much of himself hidden from her, even now.

  How could a woman tell her heart what to feel?

  She waited for hours. A maid came in with her laundered damp clothing and hung it. Hopefully it would dry overnight, because it would need to be packed early in the morning if Luke did indeed intend to leave tomorrow, and she didn’t want it to sour.

  And then she sat on the bed, keeping her foot level with her body as the doctor had ordered.

  She waited. And waited. Growing more angry. More sorry for herself. Tears gathered behind her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

  Why, Luke? Why do you do this to yourself? To us?

  She donned her nightgown and attempted to sleep. That was a fruitless endeavor. She was too agitated. Too angry and hurt and confused. Her mind was too consumed by Luke. For the first time since she’d known him, she wondered how she was possibly going to survive this man.

  Finally, in the early morning hours, he returned. Emma hadn’t slept at all. She turned away from the door at the first fumble of the key in the lock, then feigned sleep as he stumbled in, cursing under his breath. She heard him lock the door, strip down to his shirt. Then he climbed into bed beside her. She could smell the liquor on him, and again, she felt that heavy pressure of tears behind her eyes.

  “Emma?” His voice was thick, and he pronounced her name as if it were a foreign word he’d yet to master.

  She closed her eyes and didn’t answer.

  His lips pressed into her hair. “Beautiful angel,” he slurred. “Sleep, my love.”

  It was only then that a single tear escaped from her clenched eyes. It slid slowly down her cheek in a hot, painful trail.

  * * *

  The next morning, Emma awoke to the smells of eggs, ham, toast, and steaming coffee.

  She stirred, stretched. Remembering last night, something inside her clenched as she saw Luke rise from the chair across the room bearing a tray. She schooled her face to passivity as he approached her.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, the tray in his lap, and gazed down at her, an expression of infinite tenderness on his face. “How is your ankle?”

  She moved it experimentally, and pain flashed through her foot. “The same.”

  “I have your breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” She sat up and scooted back, leaning against the wall but keeping her bad leg straight, trying not to wince at the pain of the weight of the blankets on her foot as it slid up the bed.

  Her eyes widened at the tray Luke held. It contained two cups of coffee—hers heavily creamed the way she liked it—and a single plate piled high with ham, eggs, toast, sweet bread, and butter.

  “For your strength,” he said, and there was a hint of hopeful boy in his expression.

  She reached for the plate, but he caught her hand and placed it firmly at her side. “Let me feed you.”

  “I am not an invalid. I can feed myself.”

  “I know. But…I would very much like to feed you your breakfast this morning.”

  She knew exactly what he was doing: trying to make up for leaving her last night.

  Sighing, she said, “I’ll never be able to eat that much food.”

  “I hope you’ll share.”

  With a small, false smile on her face, she nodded.

  He buttered the toast, tore off a piece for her and one for himself. Using the same fork, they shared bites of egg and meat until Emma’s stomach was pleasantly full.

  Luke moved the tray to the table and then sat on the bed again. Cradling her coffee cup in her hands, she gazed at him, all kinds of questions barreling through her mind. Accusations, too, for the memory of how he’d made her feel last night was a dark, festering pit inside her.

  She’d felt abandoned.

  That was exactly what he’d told her he’d end up doing to her. Why was she surprised? Still, she asked in a small voice, “Why didn’t you come back last night?”

  He gazed at her, his expression unreadable. Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

  Could such a simple, flat apology soothe all the dark feelings inside her? She didn’t think so.

  “I sat in that tavern last night,” he said, “and all I could think about was what a liar I’ve been. How I’ve been lying to you.”

  She gazed at him, her heart suddenly feeling like it was kicking against her ribs.

  “I can’t lie to you anymore, Em.”

  “What is it?” she asked unsteadily. What now? What on earth was he talking about? Was he married? Did this have something to do with his secretive outing in Worcester?

  His throat moved as he swallowed, and he suddenly looked so unsure. “I discovered something last summer. Something that has altered my life but also explained a great deal about my past.”

  He swallowed again, looked down at the bedclothes, then back up at her. “My mother went missing in April, as you know. In the course of searching for her, my brother beca
me involved with Baron Stanley. Have you heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “Stanley’s lands are adjacent to Ironwood Park. Stanley wanted his daughter, Georgina, to marry Trent, and he attempted to extort marriage from my brother.”

  “How?” she breathed.

  “He had information—potentially devastating information. About my two brothers Mark and Theo. And about me.”

  She shook her head, confused. “What kind of information?”

  He jerked his gaze away from her, looking toward the window she’d leaned against for so long last night.

  “I am not the Duke of Trent’s full brother,” he said dully. “I am his half brother, on my mother’s side. I am the illegitimate son of the Dowager Duchess of Trent and Lord Stanley.”

  She gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

  “When Trent was a baby, my mother became embroiled in a short-lived affair with Lord Stanley. The old duke knew about it and was furious, of course, but he agreed to raise me as his own if the truth about my mother and Stanley’s liaison was never revealed.”

  “Good Lord,” she murmured. “And…and you never knew?”

  He shook his head slowly. “No. For almost twenty-eight years, I thought the Duke of Trent was my father.”

  “Oh, Luke. I’m so sorry.”

  “None of us knew. Not Trent, not me, not my other brothers or my sister. We were kept in the dark until Stanley revealed the truth last summer in his attempt to force Trent to marry his daughter.”

  “But the duke didn’t marry her,” Emma mused. “He married the housemaid.”

  “Sarah…yes.” Luke’s lips quirked at one edge. “Trent managed to avoid that potential disaster. Georgina Stanley is quite the brat. She and my brother never would have suited.”

  “Miss Stanley…she is your half sister, then?”

  “Yes.” Slowly, his head turned until he was looking at her. The depth of sadness in his gaze undid her. Unraveled her completely.

  Oh, Luke.