The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  He didn’t speak, and for that she was glad. She couldn’t talk—not to him or to anyone right now.

  He went to work on her boot, gently removing it and then rolling down her stocking and taking it off. She watched him numbly.

  Setting her stocking aside, he looked up at her. “Is it very painful?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good.” He went to sit on the edge of the bed closer to her. “That was your husband?” he asked softly.

  She opened her mouth to speak. No words would emerge. She nodded.

  Luke’s chest rose and fell. He was silent, perhaps having similar thoughts to hers. Finally he said, “They never found Curtis’s body, then?”

  She shook her head. They had dragged the Avon downriver of where Henry had last been seen, to no avail. That was common, the authorities had told her. By then, the body could have traveled all the way to the Bristol Channel.

  “God, Em.” His voice was low. Heavy with the enormity of this revelation. “He counterfeited his own death so he could steal your father’s money.”

  And never have to see her again. Never again be forced to play at the false marriage she had so naïvely thrown herself into.

  Suddenly, she felt so heavy. Heavy enough to sink deep into this bed, so deep she’d never have the fortitude to climb out.

  “He truly must have despised me,” she said, her voice raspy. “And…and he’s my husband. Till death us do part…It was all a lie. He lied to me from the beginning. Even his death was a lie. I mourned him. What…what kind of man does that to a person?” She blinked hard, staving off the tears that pressed behind her eyes.

  Luke shook his head as if he, too, couldn’t fathom it. “A very sick bastard,” he said softly.

  She dissolved. It came suddenly, her tight muscles melting, her chest loosening and setting her pent-up emotions free. And she bent her head. Tears crested her bottom lids and rolled down her face, and she began to sob in great heaving gulps.

  She cried for her lost innocence. Because she’d been a stupid, naïve fool. Because, thanks to her, Jane had not been able to have her second Season in London. Because her father and Jane had collected the last scrapings of their money to buy her a half-mourning dress that now held no meaning whatsoever. She cried for all the loss she’d put her family through since she’d met Henry Curtis.

  And she cried for Luke. For the loss of his mother, the only person who’d tried to understand him. She cried for the demons he struggled with every day. She cried for his lack of belief in himself.

  She loved him so much. So much more than she’d ever loved the man who was her husband.

  He gathered her against him and rocked her, murmuring soothing, comforting things into her hair.

  Had Henry ever been so loving? So kind? No. Never.

  That horrid truth just made her cry harder.

  She didn’t know how long it lasted, but eventually the well of tears ran dry. She had nothing left. So she just lay, still and limp, while Luke held her and dried her eyes and wiped her nose.

  “It’s getting late,” he murmured.

  She blinked, glanced around the room, realizing for the first time that dusk had fallen and the room was growing dark. She’d cried for hours, and he hadn’t left her side for one second.

  And suddenly she was embarrassed. Heat suffused her cheeks, and she scrambled to a seated position, wincing at the pain that shot through her ankle. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Shhh,” he said. He pushed a lock of hair that had fallen from its pin behind her ear. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Are you hungry?”

  She wanted to say no—how could she manage food? Her stomach felt like a brick had taken up residence inside it. But she was sure Luke must be hungry, so she gave him a faint nod.

  “All right. And the doctor is here—”

  “Oh no!” she gasped, then cringed. God knew how long he’d been waiting for her to finish falling apart. “When did he arrive?”

  Luke shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  She was appalled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We were otherwise occupied, Em,” he said softly. “Come. We’ll see him now.”

  He carried her to the drawing room where the doctor awaited them. Pronouncing her ankle resprained, he wrapped it and commanded her to keep it level with her body at all times for the next three days. No walking at all for three days, and when she did walk after that, she must use her cane at all times for at least a month. And no traipsing up and down stairs during that entire time.

  “Can one of your men carry her?” the doctor had asked Luke. “Because if not, I suggest you make arrangements for her to remain downstairs for the month.”

  “I’ll carry her,” Luke said mildly.

  When the doctor left, dinner was served in the dining room. It was a quiet affair, and Emma moved around the food on her plate, managing only a few tiny bites. Luke noticed—she saw him glance at her plate multiple times—but he didn’t comment. She was thankful for that.

  After dinner, they went to the drawing room. He made no mention of leaving her to go out. But as the hour drew nearer to go to bed, her anxiety increased.

  Finally, she looked up at him. He was reading a book on horticulture. When he’d first started reading it yesterday, she’d found it so endearing that she’d teased him about it. He’d given her an arch look. “I happen to be quite fond of horticulture,” he’d said, and she’d laughed.

  Now she swallowed hard. “Luke?”

  He glanced up from the book. “Hmm?”

  “You know…I can’t…sleep in your bed tonight, don’t you?”

  He stared at her. Then he closed the book and very slowly set it aside. “Do you plan to return to your husband? Do you plan to resume marital relations with him?”

  The thought made her stomach lurch. “No.”

  “Then you can sleep with me tonight.”

  “No. I can’t. I really can’t.” She’d made a vow to Henry Curtis. Even having some idea of what he was, she couldn’t bring herself to willfully break it. She looked down at her lap where her hands were twisting together. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is this it, then?” he whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are we finished, Emma?”

  She opened her mouth to say yes, but the word wouldn’t come out. She looked back down at her lap. “Don’t make me answer that.”

  He released a harsh breath.

  “Please…give me time. I just found out that I’m still a married woman. That I’ve been…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I don’t want to give you time,” Luke said darkly. “I want to take you to bed and make love to you for so long and so hard that you forget all this and realize that you’re mine. That you’ve been mine ever since that first night in Bristol.”

  She closed her eyes. Because a very, very large part of her wanted that, too. But…she couldn’t. She shook her head.

  “Stubborn woman,” he murmured. “Very well. I’ll give you time, because I know you’re confused right now. But I’m not a patient man. And if I see that you’re suffering, it’s going to be very difficult for me to stay away.”

  She gave him a wavery smile.

  She loved this man so much. Why had she only realized it now?

  Now…when she couldn’t even tell him.

  He sighed. “I’ve something to tell you. I’d hoped we’d have things resolved by tomorrow, but evidently not. And now I have to leave London for a few days.”

  She gazed at him, bewildered. “Leave London?”

  “I need to be in Worcester by Friday.”

  She tensed. “Why?”

  “For the same reason I needed to be in Worcester last month when we were there.”

  So here it was again. His mysterious task in Worcester.

  “And this is necessary? Now? When we know Roger—Henry—is nearby?”

  He flinched but he recovered quickly. “I made a promise, Em.
You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Oh,” she said bitterly, “I understand promises. Far too well.”

  “True enough. I meant you might not be able to understand this particular situation until you see it firsthand.”

  “You’re not going to tell me why? You’re going to continue to tease me with this mystery?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Sorry, I don’t mean to tease you. I was hoping you’d come with me,” he said softly.

  “Do you mean come with you to Worcester and stay at the inn and worry and have all kinds of wild thoughts about what you might be doing?”

  He blinked. “Is that what happened last time?”

  She nodded.

  “Well. No. I was thinking this time I’d take you with me so you can see for yourself.”

  * * *

  Three mornings later, they rode up to a tall, sweeping, wrought-iron gate. The journey out here had taken two long days. Emma still couldn’t walk, so Luke carried her everywhere.

  Both of them were out of sorts. Not being able to touch him was driving her mad. And she hadn’t touched him—well, except when she’d fallen asleep in the carriage and woken with her head in his lap and his arm wrapped possessively around her. She’d insisted upon them taking different rooms in their lodgings, and this time he’d ground his teeth but had granted her request.

  He still hadn’t told her what this visit to Worcester was all about. He’d been surprisingly tight-lipped, maintaining that she needed to see for herself—that he couldn’t adequately explain it to her until they arrived.

  They’d spent much of the two-day journey mulling over the papers Luke had taken from Henry’s office. Now that Emma had calmed down from the initial shock of seeing Henry alive, she was more focused than ever on finding him and seeing him brought to justice.

  The papers from the office consisted of letters and various agreements. There were documents regarding a transaction of property, the purchase of a new carriage, a bill of sale and delivery instructions for a race horse, drawing room furniture, a fine Persian rug.

  There was no mention of a Henry Curtis; the few papers that were signed all bore the name Roger Morton. Which led Emma to believe that Henry Curtis might have been a false identity from the beginning. Roger Morton was Henry Curtis.

  Oh, how he had fooled her.

  “But where is he keeping all these things he has purchased with my father’s money?” Emma had mused after reading yet another receipt.

  “We need to find his true place of residence,” Luke said, “because clearly he’s not keeping any of it in Wapping.” After a moment of silence, he asked her, “Where did he live when he was courting you?”

  “He lived near my father’s house…his lodgings were…” She thought hard, trying to remember. “I believe they were in Percy Street?” She shrugged. “But he’s long gone from there. When we married, he gave up his rooms to move to Bristol.”

  “Yes, but we should question the landlord, and perhaps the neighbors. They might have insight.”

  The letters were mostly related to gambling debts and business settlements, all containing names of people Morton knew and who might have information about his whereabouts.

  By the evening they arrived in Worcester, they’d developed a plan. They already had someone watching Morton’s offices. If he returned, they’d be better prepared next time. Luke would call on his brother Sam—he was still too furious with the duke—for help. Sam, Luke said, had been a soldier and was used to dealing with men like Roger Morton.

  And, Luke had told her darkly, next time he wouldn’t risk her safety by bringing her to Wapping. Next time she was to stay home.

  Emma knew it was useless to argue. Further, she was beset by feelings of incompetence. She’d brought her pistol with her to Wapping last time, and after she’d fallen, she’d fumbled in her cloak for it, but by the time she’d grasped it in her hand, both her husband and Luke were long gone.

  While Luke and Sam waited for Morton to return to Wapping, they’d systematically go through the names in his correspondence, finding the people mentioned and then questioning them.

  Luke and Emma slept at the inn in Worcester they’d stayed in last month. Emma was in the room adjacent to Luke’s, and as she prepared for bed, she heard the creak of his door opening.

  She gripped the table. No…maybe he wasn’t going down to the tavern. Maybe he was coming to see her to wish her a good night…or…Well, she couldn’t think of another reason for him to leave his room.

  But he didn’t come to see her.

  He’d gone downstairs. She lay in bed for a long while, unable to sleep, fighting with herself about whether she should try to stop him. But how could she? She had no power over him anymore, no right to tell him what he shouldn’t be doing. She couldn’t hold him as he shuddered from his nightmares. They couldn’t even touch. She belonged to someone else.

  She’d never felt more alone. More hopelessly miserable.

  The following morning, they drove back in the direction of London. After they’d been on the road for about half an hour, the carriage slowed in front of this tall wrought-iron fence.

  They stopped outside the gate. There were already a half-dozen carriages standing out here, as well as several tethered horses.

  “Welcome to Bordesley Green,” Luke murmured.

  She gazed through the gates as Luke spoke to the postilions. Beyond the gates was a vast green lawn dotted with small clusters of strolling people. The lawn wrapped around an enormous, dark house with Gothic beams and cornices. If the day wasn’t so bright and the lawn so green, she might have called it forbidding.

  Luke came around to lift her out of the carriage. “Put all of your weight on me,” he told her sternly. “I do not want you to hurt that ankle again.”

  She complied, gripping her cane in one hand and slipping her arm around him. He moved his own arm around her waist to support her.

  She gazed at the house in the distance. “What is this place?”

  “It is an asylum for idiots,” he said tersely. “Come.”

  He nodded to the man at the gate, and he opened it. They went through, slowly traveling down the graveled path that meandered to the house.

  “Is it visiting day?” she murmured to Luke.

  “Yes. Second Friday of every month.”

  “And you come every month?”

  “Yes, but only since August.”

  They passed groups of people walking on the lawn, and she could now tell the residents of the asylum apart from the people who visited them. Family members and loved ones, she thought. The residents didn’t wear nightgowns to set them apart, but it was obvious who they were anyhow. They spoke differently, gestured differently, walked differently from the people who’d come to see them. Their expressions were less guarded, easier to read. There was the man of at least forty years, bouncing on his toes and grinning like a lad on Christmas morning. There was the young woman with her arms flailing wildly about, a man and woman with her speaking in soft voices, trying to calm her.

  She took a breath. “Who are we visiting, Luke?”

  He didn’t answer. They approached the door, which was opened by a stern-looking woman. “Friend Luke,” she said in a businesslike tone, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Friend Hannah,” Luke said.

  Emma tried to hide her surprise. This woman was clearly a Quaker, and Luke seemed totally at ease with their way of communicating.

  The Quaker woman’s gaze went to her, curious but not unfriendly.

  “This is my friend, Mrs. Curtis.”

  The woman nodded politely, then turned back to Luke. “He’s quite excited to see you. He hasn’t stopped talking about visiting day for the last week.”

  Luke smiled. “Where is he?”

  “He is in the art room. I’ll take you to him. This way.”

  Hannah led them down a long, dark corridor. As they were walking, she glanced back at t
hem. “Do not be surprised by the state of the art room. We like to give the idiots some freedom of expression…and they do take advantage of the opportunity.”

  Trepidation rose in Emma as they walked. Who was this person? An idiot? What did that mean, exactly? It was disconcerting to be walking toward something she knew nothing about.

  Hannah stopped at a door, and choosing a key from the thick ring she wore about her neck, she unlocked the door. “Wait here,” she said, and slipped inside. A moment later, she opened the door wide and smiled at them. “Come in.” Turning to look back over her shoulder, she called, “Friend Bertram, someone is here to see you.”

  Emma stepped into a room the likes of which she’d never seen. It was a very large room—perhaps meant to be a hall or drawing room in the original vision of the house—but it was splattered with paint. The wood floor was patchy—black and red and green and blues. Swirls and dabs. Big blocks of one color, then dull brown mixes of colors, then cheerful, bright stripes, strips, and swirls.

  There were a few paint-spattered easels strewn across the room. As they walked in, a thickly built, blond-haired man turned toward them, a broad smile splitting his round face.

  “Luke!” he called. “Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke.” And he dropped his paintbrush, spattering yellow paint over his bare feet and onto the floor, and ambled toward Luke.

  “Bertram!” Luke said cheerfully.

  Emma watched him carefully to see if this cheer was manufactured. But it wasn’t; she was sure of it. Luke was truly pleased to see this man.

  Bertram threw his arms around Luke, sending Luke stumbling backward. Laughing, the man held Luke in a big bear hug and squeezed him tight. With a grin, Luke looked back at Emma. “Bert, this is my friend Emma. Emma, meet Bertram, my brother.”

  His…brother? She glanced at Hannah, who gave the two men a benevolent look.

  “Emma!” Bertram hugged Luke even tighter.

  “Let me go, man,” Luke said good-naturedly. “You’ll squeeze the life out of me.”

  Bertram let him go immediately and began to pat his chest. “No squeezing, no squeezing.” His words emerged fast and slightly slurred. Emma could hardly understand them.