The Rogue's Proposal by Jennifer Haymore Page B

and gazed up at the ceiling, which was decorated
     along the edges with fancy plasterwork rosettes. “Most of the time, anymore, I think
     she’s dead.”
    She was silent. Then a soft, “Oh, Luke.”
    “She’s been missing since April, Em. April . How many months is that?”
    “Six,” she said softly.
    “Six months,” he said, his voice dull. “Six months without a word from her. How could
     she not be dead?”
    “You can’t be sure that she is, though. Not until you have proof.”
    He released a low groan. He’d been searching for months, following every bit of evidence
     he could find. Ultimately, he’d achieved nothing. He had no better idea now of where
     his mother was than he had when she first went missing. As much as he wanted answers,
     he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that C. Macmillan would be the man to provide
     them.
    She reached out and took his hand, her slender fingers wrapping around his. Words
     weren’t necessary. The squeeze of her hand offered him all the comfort he needed.
    They were silent for several minutes, their hands clasped together. Luke finished
     his apple and set it on the table beside him. Finally she asked in a soft voice, “Was
     she a good mother?”
    “Yes.” He gazed at the whorls in the plasterwork, remembering. Once upon a time, before
     the duke had died and when his life had seemed to consist of one hellish event after
     another, she had been the only person in the world who’d seemed to understand him.
     The only one who’d convinced him he was worth anything.
    “Though,” he continued, “I have hardly seen her in the last several years. First there
     was Eton”—he’d told her about his antics at Eton during their conversations on the
     way here—“and then my short-lived education at Cambridge, and then London. I saw her
     a week here, a week there, but infrequently.”
    “She is still your mother. She was a good mother, and you miss her.”
    “Yes. Do you miss your mother, too?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Was she like you?”
    She gave him a wry look. “I wouldn’t say so. My mother was very stern and upright.
     She insisted Jane and I strive for perfection at every waking moment.” She sighed.
     “I could never please her. The day she died, she reprimanded me for a small tear in
     the lace of my sleeve. I was so busy being afraid, terrified, mourning her imminent
     death, I hadn’t even noticed.”
    “How did she die?”
    “Consumption.”
    He released a heavy breath. “I am sorry.”
    “I tried very hard to please her,” Emma continued, “but she always required more.
     There was a point at which I could only turn to myself to feel pride in my small accomplishments.”
    “What about your sister?”
    Her smile softened. “Yes. Thank God for Jane.”
    “What of your father? Was he demanding as well?”
    “No, not so much.” She took a last bite of apple and turned away to discard it. “He
     was less involved, I suppose you would say. He wanted sons, but he ended up with a
     pair of daughters. He was mostly indifferent to Jane and me.”
    “And now that your mother is gone? Have things changed?”
    “A little for the worse, a little for the better. He’s less indifferent, in any case.
     But he hates me a little now.”
    Luke stiffened, sitting up straighter. “Why?”
    “Because I am the reason for his poverty. I can’t blame him, can I? I am the reason.”
    “For God’s sake, Em. You were innocent. You had no idea your husband could have been
     part of a scheme to ruin your family.”
    “Yes. I know. But I shouldn’t have been so trusting.” She gave a heavy sigh, then
     her eyes slid toward him, their golden flecks glowing in the lamplight. It was already
     nearly dark outside. The days were growing shorter.
    “Will you stay tonight?” she murmured.
    He looked at her with hooded eyes. Then, still holding her hand, he rose, pulling
     her up with him. Slowly, savoring every touch, every slide of the muslin of her