The Rogue's Proposal

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With heartfelt thanks to:

Selina McLemore and Michele Bidelspach, my brilliant editors,

Kate McKinley, for enduring all my writerly moods,

Cindy Benser, for finding typos no one else in the world can,

My kids, for putting up with such a nutty mom,

My husband, for being such a rock,

And all my readers, who inspire me every day.

L
ord Lukas Hawkins wasn’t drunk enough. Not yet. He gazed at the glass of ale sitting
on the table before him and dragged the pad of his thumb through the drops of condensation
on its lip.

He would have preferred something stronger, but the ale was beginning its work. All
his sharp edges, those phantom blades that sliced so ruthlessly at him when he was
sober, were beginning to dull. The noises of the tavern had faded into an agreeable
drone rather than the piercing, headache-inducing racket of when he’d first arrived.

Luke took another generous swallow of the cool amber liquid and leaned back, his eyelids
descending to a pleasant half-mast.

He’d asked enough questions for tonight. He’d made no progress in his hunt for Roger
Morton, but that didn’t surprise him. The villain who’d taken Luke’s mother from her
home at Ironwood Park was a wily man, slipping through Luke’s fingers from Cardiff
to Bristol.

Luke wouldn’t find Morton here. It was hopeless. What he needed now was to gulp down
another three or four tall glasses of ale, unearth some pleasant companionship for
the evening, and plummet into a dreamless sleep.

Only to wake up tomorrow and begin the whole fruitless endeavor again.

Taking his ale in two hands, he brought it to his lips, closed his eyes, and tossed
back the whole bloody thing.

His eyes reopened as he lowered the empty glass.

Well, well, well.

Straightening his spine, he brought his glass down until it landed with a decided
clunk
on the worn wooden tabletop. His lips curled into a wicked grin. It seemed his pleasant
companionship had unearthed itself.

A vision in black and white had seated herself on the other side of the narrow wood-planked
table. She was the loveliest thing he’d seen in a very long time. Brown eyes shot
through with polished gold gazed at him, their expression inscrutable. Thick, burnished
waves of bronze hair escaped the little annoyance of a prim white cap and framed a
heart-shaped and pink-cheeked face. Her lips…hell, just edible. Gazing at those lips
aroused Luke’s senses—the deep red of cherries in the summertime, their sweet scent,
the decadent, juicy burst when he bit into one.

Just one glance at those lips was enough to bring Luke’s sluggish body to sudden,
alert life.

“Well,” he said, infusing his voice with a lazy edge of suggestive slyness. He’d perfected
the tone over the years, and it had a dual purpose: It told a lady of loose morals
exactly what he wanted, while simultaneously warning an innocent maiden to escape
while she still had a chance. “It’s about time. I’ve been waiting for you.”

To her credit, her only reaction was a slight widening of her eyes. He wouldn’t have
seen it if he hadn’t been looking carefully. Otherwise, she didn’t move.

“Have you, now?” she asked.

Lust jolted through him. God, that voice. Potent and smooth, like the finest brandy.
It evoked images of the bedroom, mussed sheets, a rough tumble, erotic pleasure.

His body hardened all over. His cock pressed against the falls of his breeches. Between
her lovely face, her calm, unperturbed demeanor, and the husky sensuality of her voice,
he was done for. He wanted to take her upstairs. Immediately.

But Luke wasn’t one to rush things overmuch, especially when he was so intrigued.
He possessed some restraint, some patience. Not much, but some.

He cocked his head at her. “What took you so long?”

“Well…” She took a deep breath. The action drew his eyes to her bosom—her full breasts
strained at the top edge of her bodice as if they yearned to be set free. He’d be
happy to perform that task for her.

“…I was detained,” she finished.

“Oh? By what? Or whom?”

The corner of her lip quirked upward. She was playing with him. He was the one who
usually toyed with females. But in this case, they were toying with each other. He
liked that.

“By ignorance,” she said.

Ignorance.
Loose women usually didn’t use such words, especially not with such inflection. Her
throaty voice had spoken the word as only an educated woman would.

Luke settled back in his seat, pushing past his arousal and drunkenness to study her.
He’d only noticed her cap before—when he’d wanted to toss it to the floor and push
his hand through that bounty of burnished hair. He hadn’t noticed the pearl earrings
or the fine silk of her dress, white with black velvet trim.

She was no whore. She was a lady.

He stiffened, quickly scanning the area surrounding them. The tavern was crowded with
men and women drinking, eating, conversing. The atmosphere was boisterous, and the
smells of charred meat and hops and yeast permeated every inch of the place. No one
was watching them—at least not overtly. But, hell, ladies like this didn’t just waltz
into pubs and plunk down across from the first drunkard they encountered. This woman
knew something.

None of these revelations made her less appealing. In fact, they fascinated him. She
was brazen, lady or not. Luke liked his women brazen. That kind of woman was fearless,
more likely to take risks, in bed and out.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the smooth surface of the table. The slab
of wood was so narrow his face ended up only a few inches from hers. “And now you’re
no longer ignorant?” he asked her. “Someone has enlightened you?”

She nodded sagely. “Indeed.”

She’d probably heard he’d been asking questions about Roger Morton. “So, then, you’ve
information for me?”

“Hmm,” she said. Her fingers drummed on the table, drawing his gaze downward. Her
brown kid gloves hugged each long, elegant finger as they tapped the wooden surface.
“I thought
you
might have information for
me
.”

He raised his brows. “Is that so?”

Her brows mirrored his in a haughty reaction. “It is.”

He laughed, the rare feeling bubbling up in him and spilling over. His smile widened.
This was not how women generally behaved in his presence. They either ran crying to
their mamas like abused little kittens or dragged him straight to bed like lionesses
on the prowl. This woman was a different kind of creature altogether.

“Therefore, I have a proposal for you, my lord.”

Ah, so she knew who he was as well. Or she knew who he spent his life pretending to
be.

“And I have a proposal for you. Miss…?”

“Mrs.”

“Mrs.,” he repeated. But he didn’t believe for a second that she was married. No,
he possessed the skill of sniffing out married women. And this woman—she smelled of
lavender soap, but there was more. Something raw and sensual, something in her gaze
that spoke of warm, womanly flesh and dark, languid nights.

No, definitely not married.

So that meant she was lying about her marital status…or she was a widow. She was very
young to be a widow, though. He narrowed his eyes at her, trying to see beneath that
calm surface, to delve underneath and find some clue that would tell him what this
woman was about.

“Mrs. Curtis,” she told him.

“Mrs. Curtis,” he said, “
I
have a proposal for
you
.”

That corner of her lip quirked again. Her eyes sparkled the most fascinating shade
of amber.

“Do you?”

He reached up to drag a finger across her lower lip. Softer than the velvet of her
dress ribbons. Plump and red as a ripe, sweet cherry. He wanted a taste.

“Come upstairs with me,” he whispered.

She didn’t react to his touch, or his words. She was very still. Too still. Then she
drew back from his touch and gave the slightest of nods. “Very well, my lord.”

Terse and businesslike, she rose. He rose instantly, too, out of long-ingrained habit
more than anything else.
Always rise when a lady is standing,
his governess had told him,
or you shall be considered the rudest of gentlemen.

These days, he
was
considered the rudest of gentlemen, but it still didn’t prevent him from rising.

“Please”—Mrs. Curtis gestured in the general direction of the exit—“lead the way.”

“Of course.” He turned away from the table, seeing his empty ale glass from the corner
of his eye. How odd—he’d forgotten to hail the serving girl to ask her to refill it
for him. But that seemed unimportant now.

They threaded their way in silence through the crowded pub. No one paid them any mind.
They left the large room and walked down a long corridor, ascending the narrow stairs
at its end.

Night had descended, and with it came a bitter autumn chill. It was cold in the dimly
lit stairwell, and Luke had the urge to draw Mrs. Curtis close to warm her. But he
was sober enough to realize that that kind of advance in plain, public view might
be unwelcome from such a lady.

On the other hand, he
was
foxed enough to imagine how exuberantly she’d accept his advances behind a closed
door.

At the top of the stairs, he paused on the landing to gain his bearings. It was a
large inn, and the corridor branched in three directions from here.

She paused beside him, quirking a bronze-tinted brow at him. “I believe it’s this
way, my lord.”

He followed when she turned to the rightmost corridor and began to walk again. So,
he mused, she already knew where his room was located. She grew more intriguing by
the second.

She stopped at the very last room. “Here?”

“Yes, Mrs. Curtis. Here.”

He withdrew the key from a pocket in his coat and unlocked the door, then stepped
inside.

The room was Spartan and cold. Unlike his exalted brother, Simon Hawkins, the Duke
of Trent, Luke didn’t have the means to set aside entire floors of inns for himself
and his party and employ maids and other servants to stoke fires and light braziers
to keep them pleasantly warm. Besides, he had no party. There was just him. Always
had been, always would be. Especially now that he knew he wasn’t a true Hawkins.

He opened the door wider, and she stepped inside behind him. She made to move around
him, but he shut the door with a firm
click
, then held up an arm to stop her. She retreated until her back pressed against the
door.

He boxed her in, placing a firm arm on either side of her and flattening his palms
against the door. “There,” he said softly, “now you’re my prisoner.”

Something flared in her eyes. Heat or fear? Heat, probably. From what he’d seen of
her so far, she wasn’t a woman who was easily frightened.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “You like that idea, don’t you? Do you like
to be bound, Mrs. Curtis?”

Her reaction was slight—an infinitesimal tremor that ran through her body. It was
enough.

He moved his mouth to within a hairsbreadth of hers. The warm wash of her breath fluttered
across his cheek. Other than that soft release of air, she didn’t move.

His body was an inch from hers. Not touching, but so close he could feel their heat
combine and simmer in the narrow gap between them.

Slowly, painstakingly, he touched his mouth to hers in the lightest of kisses. His
eyelids sank shut. Her lips were plump and soft, forgiving against his.

He dragged his lips against hers in a back-and-forth motion, a slow, sensual slide.
She didn’t move, but her flesh yielded beneath his, and he released a low groan. She
tasted so good. Sweet. Ripe. He sipped at her unresponsive lips, then touched the
tip of his tongue to the corner of her mouth, urging a reaction, but still she didn’t
move.

God, he wanted this woman. His body screamed at him to haul her against him and take
all the wicked pleasure her supple flesh could offer. But he didn’t only want her
compliance; he wanted her to be an active participant.

He kissed his way from the edge of her lips, across the upper portion of her jaw—such
soft, smooth skin—until he nuzzled the tender lobe of her ear.

“Now,” he whispered, “are you ready to hear my proposal?”

He feathered his lips over her earlobe, bit down over it gently, then drew back to
study her. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyelids were lowered. She didn’t
speak for a long moment.

As she formulated her response, he formulated his own words in his mind.
I believe you have information for me, Mrs. Curtis. I believe you might want something
from me in return. But those are things that can be saved for later.
Right here, right now, I want you. I want your lovely body beneath mine. I want to
strip that dress from you and lick every inch of that delectable skin. I want to make
you scream my name in pleasure again and again until we’re both in such a delirium
that there’s nothing either of us can do but to sleep. And then, when we wake—

“No,” she said, finally looking up at him.

“No?”

“I
don’t
wish to hear your proposal, my lord.”

God, her voice. It scraped his every nerve into a raw, needy thing that only her touch
could soothe.

“I think you do.”

“I know I don’t,” she said. “Because I know the essence of it.”

“And it’s not a proposal you believe you’ll accept?”

“Absolutely not,” she said.

“Why not?”

She looked deliberately down at the arms that caged her, first his right arm, then
his left. Then she turned her gaze back to his face, her eyes coming to sparkling
golden life, brimming with determination. “Because I’ve more important things to do.”

He laughed, long and loud. “Trust me, Mrs. Curtis. At this hour, there is nothing
more important than what I intend to suggest.”

“There is,” she said simply, and the soft curve of her lips firmed.

He’d humor her, then. “What could it possibly be?”

“The proposition
I
have for
you
.”

He sighed. “Very well. Tell me what it is.”

“You’ve come to Bristol looking for a man named Roger Morton. Is that correct?”