The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  Merrow was taciturn until Luke told him his name, and then the floodgates opened.

  “Oh, yes, Roger Morton lets number six upstairs,” he told them.

  “Does he live there all the time?”

  “No, he isn’t always in residence; however, he does appear to spend two or three nights a week in residence. And he oft conducts business from his office.”

  “Has he been here recently?” Luke asked him.

  “He was here last week sometime—I’m sure I saw him about.”

  “Will you let us see his rooms?”

  At that, Merrow grew squeamish. “Sorry, sir. I can’t let you in. Not unless you are in possession of a warrant to search the premises.”

  Luke blew out a breath. “Very well. We should like to hire a boy to notify us when Morton returns to the building.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Merrow said.

  They arranged for Merrow to take care of hiring the boy, as he informed them that he had several boys he used as messengers and one of them would surely suit.

  “Good,” Luke said. “We will await your message.”

  As they left Merrow’s office, Luke saw a man lounging against the wall in the corridor. He stopped dead, studying the man, who’d turned away from him, but not before he caught a glimpse of the scar that ran down his cheek.

  And he knew exactly who this man was. He thought he’d seen him in Bristol from afar, the morning of the day he’d met Emma. He’d definitely seen him at Ironwood Park, entering his brother’s study last summer.

  “Trent,” Luke growled, fury rising so fast he could hardly breathe through it.

  Emma glanced at him in surprise. “Stay here,” he snapped at her, then he stalked over to the man. He grabbed his collar and pushed him, hard, against the wall. Emma gasped behind him.

  The man’s face broke into a scowl, and he tried to shove Luke off him.

  “My brother sent you,” Luke said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Unhand me, if you please, my lord.”

  Of course, the bastard knew exactly who Luke was. He let go of his collar but kept his face close to the man’s. “What’s your name?”

  “Grindlow,” the man said, red-faced. His hands went to his collar, straightening his stock.

  “Why are you following me?” Luke asked, even though he knew the answer.

  “On the orders of the duke, sir.”

  Luke cursed under his breath. He’d asked Trent not to become involved, and still he’d sent his man to watch Luke’s every move. His brother didn’t trust him to do anything correctly.

  For a moment, Luke was too furious to speak. Then he clenched his teeth and said, “Stay away from me, Grindlow. Tell my brother I know what he’s about. Tell him I caught you red-handed. Tell him to stay out of my life.”

  Grindlow frowned. “Er, very well, sir. I will tell him.”

  Luke gave him a tight nod and backed up a step. Then he turned and went back to Emma. “Let’s get out of here,” he said under his breath, taking her hand in his.

  Holding her hand was immediately comforting. The tight knot of rage in his chest loosened. And though he directed the hackney driver to take him to Trent House so he could storm in and rail at his brother, halfway there, he changed his mind, deciding that it would be much more fulfilling to go home and take Emma to bed instead.

  * * *

  That night, Luke felt that pull trying to take him out of the house. It was so damn powerful. Like a steel cord yanking at his chest and toward his club. Or any damned place that would serve him a drink.

  After dinner, he looked up at Emma.

  Seeing the expression on his face, she murmured, “Stay with me, Luke.”

  How could he? He knew what would happen.

  “Em,” he said softly, “the drunken version of me is so much better than the nightmare version.”

  “The best part of you is the real you. Not the you that has been dulled and subdued by drink.”

  He closed his eyes, resigning himself to whatever might happen. Then he looked back up at her. “I’ll try.”

  She gave him that warm, wide smile he adored, and he felt a little better.

  Later that night, he awoke with a jolt. He heard the hiss of burning skin. The stench of charring flesh was thick in his nose. It was a smell he’d never forget. A smell he hated. He twisted, trying to escape, moaning with fear and pain.

  “Luke. Luke!”

  No, no, not again. Not two in one night. The first one still burned like a hot poker was jabbing into his back.

  Something brushed against his back. His body jerked away violently, his arm reaching up in pure instinctual self-defense, smacking into flesh.

  He heard a feminine gasp and realized someone else was in the room with them. Someone was seeing what was happening to him. Shame coursed through him. He curled up in a ball, wanting to hide, not wanting anyone to see him like this.

  “Luke, shhh. It’s all right.”

  He vaguely recognized the voice. He knew it. But he didn’t want to listen, because, no, it wasn’t all right. Nothing was all right. “Go away,” he muttered, sounding petulant.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly.

  And it hit him. Emma.

  What was she doing here?

  And then he realized he was in his own room at his house in Cavendish Square. He was a grown man, and Emma was lying beside him.

  But he still smelled the charred flesh. He still heard the sizzling noise. He still felt it, and damn it, it hurt.

  “Luke! Wake up!”

  He blinked, and Emma came into focus as she leaned over to turn up the lamp. Her beautiful hair framed her face in loose, tousled curls. He’d taken her braid out last night when he’d made love to her.

  But why was she here?

  And…oh, God. Her cheek was turning pink in stripes—the shapes of fingers. His fingers. He’d hit her, thinking she was his father and that she was after him with the cigar. God, no. His airway constricted. His chest felt like a horse stood upon it. His heart was beating too fast. He had to go.

  Choking, shaking, he tumbled out of bed. He found his trousers and jerked them on. She was talking, saying something, but he couldn’t hear over the roar in his ears. He’d hurt her. He’d struck Emma. His angel.

  He’d known he wouldn’t be able to do this. What had he been thinking? God. God. God. It was half prayer, half curse.

  Her arms went around him, holding him tight. And finally, he could hear her. “No! I’m not letting you go.”

  He froze, because he was afraid he’d hurt her. He stood like a statue, except for the deep-rooted shaking he couldn’t seem to contain.

  She was behind him, her arms wrapped around his torso. She pressed her cheek against his back, and he shuddered, because his burns hurt when she did that.

  No. No, damn it, they didn’t hurt. That had happened long ago. They didn’t hurt anymore. His mind was trying to fool him, taking a memory of something that had happened long ago and turning it into something real.

  He took a deep, shaky breath. The pain receded a little. He closed his eyes and breathed, again and again, telling himself it wasn’t real.

  Emma stroked his chest, whispered against his back, but he was too focused on trying to twist his mind back into the present to hear her words.

  They stood there for several minutes. Slowly, Luke’s breathing and pulse returned to normal, and he returned to himself. When he felt like he had control over his mind and body once more, he dropped his hands, which had been frozen on the buttons of his falls.

  It took another several minutes before he gently pried Emma’s hands off him. Then he turned to look at her.

  She gazed up at him, relief burning bright in her eyes. “Are you…are you all right?”

  The red outlines of his fingers showed on her cheek. Something in his chest clenched hard, and he closed his eyes in a long blink.

  Slowly, he reached up, skimming his fingers over her face.
“I…hurt you.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I hit you.”

  “You were dreaming, Luke. You were dreaming of something awful, and you thought I was going to hurt you. I shouldn’t have touched you.”

  “I shouldn’t have touched you.”

  She looked up at him, cupping his face in her palms. “Listen to me. It is nothing. I can’t even feel it.” Her expression softened. “But are you all right? You’re cold.”

  Belatedly, he realized he’d begun to shiver.

  “Come back to bed,” she coaxed.

  He stepped out of her hands and wrenched his gaze to the bed.

  “You’re staring at it like it’s going to bite,” she murmured. “It’s just a bed, Luke. It’ll be all right. Come, let me warm you. Let me hold you.”

  She was right. The damn bed was not going to bite him. Still, his steps were hesitant as he forced his legs to move him to the bed. She undid the one button he’d buttoned on his falls, then sat him down on the bed’s edge and pulled off his trousers the rest of the way. “Lie down,” she commanded.

  He blew out a breath and looked at her askance. But she just stared at him. So he laid his body onto the bed. She tucked the covers up around him, then went to the other side of the bed and slid in beside him. He turned to hold her as she nestled against his body.

  He pressed his face in her mussed hair and took a deep breath in. She smelled so good.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said gruffly. “I can tolerate most of the stupid, boorish things I do…but I draw the line at hurting you…or any woman.”

  “I know,” she said simply. “But you cannot—you mustn’t—blame yourself for what happened. You weren’t yourself.”

  He sighed, feeling marginally better. He knew he wouldn’t have done it on purpose. But the fact he’d done it at all was another burn on his soul.

  “You were afraid of something,” she continued in a whisper. “Was it him?”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

  “I hate him,” she said with soft vehemence. “I hate him so much.”

  “He’s dead, Em.”

  “Yes, but not in your heart.”

  He didn’t answer her.

  “Have you had these nightmares all your life?” she asked a moment later.

  “No. When I was a child, after he died. Then not until recently.”

  “When did they start again?”

  He knew the exact date. How could he not? “Last summer. It was the day I learned he wasn’t my real father.” Somehow, the revelation had opened all the gates of his mind, releasing those past painful memories, allowing them to flood back.

  Emma pressed herself more tightly against him. “Can you sleep?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Usually he didn’t bother to try after a nightmare woke him. But last week he’d fallen asleep holding her after she’d come to him in his armchair. Maybe he could do it again.

  “Try,” she murmured.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  He tried his damnedest to believe her. Yet a part of him rebelled, told him it was all his fault, that everything was his fault. That he should leave her before it was too late to save her, because the duke was right—he was inherently evil.

  Eventually, he thrust that voice aside. She’d told him it wasn’t his fault, and to his knowledge, Emma had never lied to him.

  With that truth soothing him, he fell back to sleep.

  * * *

  Morton didn’t return to his rooms in Wapping until a week later, when a messenger came to Luke’s house saying he’d seen Morton arrive just before noon. He was in his office, the boy said, working.

  Luke and Emma locked eyes. Today was the day. Luke would learn what had happened to his mother. Emma would learn what had happened to her father’s money.

  This might get complicated, Luke knew. He might have contemplated going to Trent or his brother Sam, but after that scene with Grindlow, Luke was determined to manage this on his own. While Emma was upstairs fetching her cloak, Luke went into his study and readied his pistol.

  He didn’t intend to use it, of course. To kill Morton would be to bury whatever secrets the man kept. But it might prove to be a useful tool of intimidation.

  The hackney ride was tense, both Luke and Emma hardly speaking. It was a forty-minute drive in good traffic conditions, but at this hour on a Tuesday, it took over an hour.

  By the time they arrived, Luke saw that a tiny bead of sweat had appeared on Emma’s forehead, though it was frosty outside. Gently, he brushed it off, then gave her a reassuring smile.

  He needed to succeed today. For Emma. If he was able to reestablish her father’s fortune, perhaps it would make up for some of the hell he’d put her through. Perhaps it would prove to her—and to himself—that he was worthy of her.

  He almost laughed at himself for having that thought. He couldn’t comprehend ever thinking of himself as worthy of Emma.

  They went upstairs, Luke helping to bear some of Emma’s weight even though she said her ankle was almost completely healed. And then they hesitated at the closed door. He took a breath, looked at her.

  “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” she murmured.

  He rapped on the door. Silence. He knocked again, this time harder, and heard a muffled, “Just a moment.”

  Standing beside Emma, he waited. Finally, the door opened.

  Emma gasped, the sound drawing the gaze of the man who was standing there. Roger Morton was dark-haired and dark-eyed and of average height, just as he’d been described by various people to Luke. He was wearing a white shirt and a simple black waistcoat with black cloth buttons.

  He saw Emma. His eyes widened. The blood drained from his face.

  “Emma?” Morton choked out. He blinked rapidly. His eyes flickered to and fro, as if he was looking for an escape route.

  How did Morton know Emma? Luke glanced at her, but she seemed frozen, as still and cold as an ice statue.

  “Bloody hell,” Morton muttered. Then he thrust forward, out the door, pushing between Luke and Emma and then sprinting down the corridor.

  Luke turned to race after him, Emma on his heels, bellowing, “Stop! Come back!”

  Then he heard her cry out in pain. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that she had fallen. Saw that tears streamed down her face. He rushed back to her.

  “No, no!” she cried. “Go after him, Luke. Stop him!”

  Luke hesitated for a moment. But she kept shouting at him to go, so he did. He spun around and ran down the stairs where Morton had disappeared seconds ago.

  On the ground floor, he saw Morton exiting the warehouse, the white of his sleeves stark among all the pedestrians in their dark coats. Luke raced after him, bursting out into the chill of the street seconds later.

  There, he came to a grinding halt. The street was crowded with both pedestrians and vehicles. Luke turned slowly, looking first up the street, then across the street and down it.

  He saw no men wearing just a waistcoat. It was too crowded. Morton had melted into the crowd.

  Luke clenched his fists. “Damn it,” he cursed, causing a passing older woman to look at him askance.

  His steps heavy, he returned upstairs. He hadn’t expected Morton to run like that. Hell, the man was guiltier than he’d thought.

  Why had he recognized Emma? Emma didn’t know him. Perhaps Curtis had pointed her out to Morton without Emma knowing.

  He hurried toward her. She was standing upright but balancing precariously on one foot, and he knew she’d reinjured her ankle. Damn it again. This had really not gone how he’d intended.

  “You…didn’t…catch…him?” It seemed like each of her words was emitted with a gasp of pain.

  “No.”

  She blanched, gazed off in the direction where Morton had run.

  “It’s all right. Morton will need to return here eventually. Next time we�
�ll be more prepared. How’s your ankle?” he asked as he approached her.

  She stared at him, seemingly not understanding what he’d said.

  “Are you in pain?” he asked, suddenly very concerned.

  “L-Luke…”

  “Lean on me,” he murmured, sliding his arm around her. She was stiff as a board.

  “Y-you don’t understand,” she whispered.

  All his senses went on high alert. Her tone was…odd. “What is it?”

  “Luke,” she breathed. “That wasn’t Roger Morton. That was Henry Curtis. My…husband.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Emma allowed Luke to carry her. She sat in the hackney on the ride home unspeaking, unfeeling, stiff as an automaton.

  She was completely numb.

  When they reached Luke’s house, he lifted her out of the carriage and held her against him. Baldwin opened the door, impassive as ever.

  “Mrs. Curtis has reinjured her ankle,” Luke snapped at him. “Summon a doctor right away.”

  That was completely unnecessary, but she couldn’t even bring herself to tell him that.

  Henry…Henry was alive. Despite believing he’d had a hand in the loss of her father’s fortune, she’d mourned him for a year. But he’d never been dead. She’d despised Roger Morton for murdering her husband, but Henry had been alive all along.

  Unless there had never been a Henry at all. Or there had never been a Roger Morton. Could they be one and the same?

  In any case, she wasn’t a widow. Her husband hadn’t died. She remembered the sermon at St. Anne’s two Sundays ago on the seventh commandment. She’d been living in sin with Luke, but now that sin was much more poignant.

  Adulterer.

  Luke carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed. He took off his coat—the pockets of which she knew contained papers taken from Morton’s—Henry’s—office. The door had still been open, and Luke had done a quick search of the place before they’d left, finding a small satchel that contained soiled men’s clothing and the sheaf of papers.

  After depositing his coat over the back of one of the armchairs, Luke returned to her. He untied the string of her cape, gently slid it from under her, and set it aside.