Once More, My Darling Rogue

by Lorraine Heath

  Her light footsteps echoed between the barren walls. He had yet to purchase carpeting for the wooden floors. He had yet to do a great deal. After reaching the last room on the right, he swung open the door. “Your bedchamber.”

  She hesitated as though fearing walking into the great maw of a beast. “My quarters are on the same floor as yours?”

  “I’m a kind employer. The rooms here have fireplaces. The rooms above—where I know servants would normally sleep—do not.”

  “Kind. I suppose I shall have to take your word on that as I don’t recall what it is like to be in your employ. To be in any employ. I can’t imagine it. In truth, I can’t dredge up the tiniest memory of servitude.”

  “I’m certain it’ll all come back once you’re engaged in the activity again.”

  “I shall hope so.”

  With cautious steps she approached and peered into the room. He could not mistake the horror that crossed her features. The space contained little more than the bare cot that he had used until his bed had been delivered and a pile of clothing that he’d hastily grabbed for show. He doubted she would be using any of it before he returned her home on the morrow.

  “I sleep on a cot?” she asked.

  “You are a servant, after all.”

  Walking through the doorway, she glanced around. “I would have thought that I would have made it appear more welcoming.”

  “I doubt you’ve had time, what with all your chores.”

  “I’m truly your only servant?”

  “You’re all I require at the moment. Come along. I’ll explain your duties as we head down to the kitchen, so you can get some sustenance.” Marching toward the stairs, he heard the patter of her feet behind him. “The floors need to be swept and polished, of course. Shelves and mantels dusted.”

  He hurried down the stairs and turned into a hallway, bypassing the front parlor, which contained only a fireplace with a mantel to be dusted. As he pointed out empty rooms, he became suddenly self-conscious regarding what was lacking in the residence. Even the library, his sanctuary, had been furnished with only a large desk and chair. He had ordered a few pieces that would be arriving soon, but for the most part he’d yet to decide what he was going to do with all the space. Sometimes he thought it pointless to purchase furniture, paintings, and statuary when he never intended to marry. He knew the cursed darkness that ran through his blood, had no desire to expose it to a woman who might love him, to pass it on to their children. He had long ago accepted what he was, and this latest effort on his part only confirmed what he and she alone understood about himself: he was a rotten bastard.

  He strode from the library with hardly a backward glance, Ophelia traipsing behind him like an obedient puppy. Fighting to quiet his conscience, he reminded himself that this little ruse would be for only a day.

  When the truth came out, Ophelia would be furious—whether or not she regained her memories—but then he’d long ago learned to ignore her rants. Perhaps with this little lesson, her servants would have to suffer through fewer of them.

  He almost laughed at his convoluted justification. He’d always been honest with himself. He should be honest now. He wasn’t doing this for the servants. He was doing it because Lady Ophelia Lyttleton had been a thorn in his side since she was old enough to speak coherently.

  Coming to a halt, he spun around to face her. “The kitchen, of course. I hope you’ll enjoy your breakfast.”

  It was paltry: boiled egg, toast, porridge, milk.

  Her nose wrinkled as though he’d offered her cow dung. “I like creamed eggs.”

  Leaning against the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know how to prepare creamed eggs.” He indicated the stove. “You’re welcome to prepare them yourself.”

  With three slender fingers, she rubbed her brow. “I know I prefer them, but I don’t recall how to make them.” She met his gaze. “Why do I remember some things, but not everything?”

  On that particular matter, he suspected she had no earthly clue how to prepare creamed eggs. “I’m not familiar with all the ramifications of your condition, although you don’t seem to be suffering physically.” For which he was grateful. It eased his conscience.

  She swept her arm in a wide circle. “None of this—none of the rooms through which you walked me—appear familiar. Shouldn’t they, if I’ve been attending to them?”

  “You’ve only been here a short while. You should eat. Perhaps if you regain your strength, you’ll regain your knowledge.”

  Cautiously, as though she didn’t quite trust it, she approached the table and stood by the chair, no doubt an ingrained habit of waiting for a footman to jump to do her bidding.

  “You pull it away from the table to sit in it,” he told her.

  She did as he instructed, her brow furrowing. “It seems odd—as though I’ve never done it before.”

  Lifting a spoon, she cracked the top of her egg.

  “It seems you do eat boiled eggs sometimes,” he pointed out.

  She scowled. “This one is overcooked. I like the yolk soft.”

  “You’re quite particular, aren’t you? Bath water just past warm, soft yolks, creamed eggs.”

  She jerked her head up. “Is that a fault? To know what one likes?”

  “It can be if you disparage those who don’t prepare things exactly to your liking.”

  “But if I don’t tell you how I prefer things, how will you know?”

  “In the future, I won’t be preparing your bath or your breakfast. You shall handle that yourself. You will also be preparing my bath and my dinner. For tonight’s meal, you’ll find pheasant in the icebox.” He shoved himself away from the counter. “I generally awaken around five. Bath first and then dinner.”

  He began striding toward the door. She came up out of the chair as though he’d lit a fire beneath it.

  “Hold a moment!”

  He stopped, studied her. Doubt flickered across her face, washing away any lingering signs of haughtiness, of entitlement.

  “You’re leaving me?”

  “Yes, I’ve been up all night. I’m ready to be abed.”

  Her features seemed to fold into amazement, into gratitude that had his stomach tightening, his resolve weakening.

  “You went without sleep to tend me,” she said softly.

  “No, in order to tend you, I did not see to my business. I’m a creature of the night, dusk is when I come to life. During the day I sleep.”

  The softness dissipated. “What is your business?”

  “I manage a gentlemen’s club.”

  “A place of sin?”

  “Quite right.”

  Her brow furrowed once again. “How do I know that?”

  “I’ll leave you to ponder it. If I tell you all the answers, you may never regain your memory. I think you need to exercise your brain. Wake me at five, after you’ve prepared my bath.”

  This time as he left she didn’t call out to him, and he wondered why he was hit with a stab of disappointment. He’d spoken true. If he allowed her to ferret out the answers to the questions herself, her memory would no doubt return. He quite envisioned himself awakening to a shrew determined to have her own revenge against him. His bath would be scalding, his pheasant laced with arsenic.

  He bounded up the stairs, strode into his bedchamber, and staggered to a stop. The bed remained rumpled, his shirt pooled on the floor. She wouldn’t tidy up after herself, now would she? When he’d first come into the room this morning, he’d retrieved his coat from where she’d abandoned it the night before and hung it back in the wardrobe.

  He picked up his shirt, folded it, and set it on the chair, to be washed later. He preferred order and routine, and was quite obsessive about cleanliness. Came from spending the first few years of his young life living in squalor. He remembered the first time that the duchess had scrubbed his body clean. He’d feared that she’d take his skin with the brush, and while he’d complained mightily, he’d fe
lt reborn.

  His tired mind was journeying into odd musings. No doubt the reason that his plan to tell Ophelia she was a servant had seemed like such a splendid idea. Still, little harm in it really.

  He removed his shirt, folded it, and set it with the other one. After tugging off his boots, he added his trousers and undergarments to the pile. Then he crossed over to the bed, stretched across it, brought the covers over his body, and settled in. The fragrance of his lemony soap wafted around him, but mixed within it was the scent of her, her skin warming beneath the blankets, her unique bouquet of womanhood. His body reacted swiftly and painfully. He cursed it for having no taste whatsoever. It cared only for breasts and thighs and the sweet haven that resided between them.

  Striving to tame his needs, he brought up images of her gazing down her long, aristocratic nose at him, of her ordering him about, of her snubbing him—publicly and privately—any chance she got. Keep your distance, she had telegraphed frequently and accurately. You’re not good enough.

  What did he care what she thought of him when her thoughts so accurately mirrored his own? Perhaps that was the ironic twist. That she saw him more clearly than anyone else, and he didn’t much like that they agreed on something.

  Chapter 6

  She couldn’t recall how to cook creamed eggs, but she was supposed to know how to prepare pheasant? Dear God, she didn’t even know how to heat the stove.

  She nibbled on the dry toast. She liked it with more butter, so where would she find that? In the icebox, she supposed. Sliding off the hard-backed wooden chair, she wondered if a more uncomfortable piece of furniture existed in all of Christendom. She could not be expected to sit in it for every meal. It required pillows. She required pillows. Softness, comfort. Why would anyone settle for less?

  She wandered over to the wooden box, released the latch, opened the door, and screeched.

  The bird stared accusingly at her.

  Slamming the door closed, she stepped back, her breathing harsh and shallow. It was dead, she knew it was dead, but it still possessed its eyes, its entire head. She couldn’t cook something that had the ability to glare at her, to make her feel guilty about preparing it.

  Drake Darling was going to have to make do with something else for dinner, because she had no desire whatsoever to touch that creature. Shivering, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, then wished she hadn’t because the material itched. It was incredibly stiff and scratchy. She thought of Mr. Darling’s shirt—how soft it had been—and she longed to be wrapped in it once more. She didn’t care that it was his. The linen was much more to her liking. She would put it on as soon as he left this evening.

  As for dinner, well, it was late morning so she had several hours to decide how she would handle that. Bread and butter perhaps. Only retrieving the butter meant dealing with the pheasant’s beady eyes again. Bread only then.

  The man needed to hire a cook. She could not be expected to manage the house and the kitchen, although apparently she had. She sank back down onto the chair. None of this made sense, none of it felt right.

  She supposed she could sit here all day in the uncomfortable chair, pondering, but perhaps he had the right of it. Once she began seeing to her duties, everything would fall into place.

  Rising, she glanced around for her apron. She peered behind doors, examined the pantry, looked into drawers. It was not to be found. In her bedchamber perhaps. As she was truly in no hurry to begin scrubbing and polishing, she ambled through the hallways and rooms, searching for anything familiar. She failed to find it as well, but she could see the potential in the rooms, imagined the furniture that should inhabit each one, the paintings that would delight, the sculptures that would add ambiance. How did she know art?

  Where was she before she came to work for him? Who was her family? Did she still see them? Did she send them her wages? How much did she earn? Obviously not much when her clothing was so terribly prickly and didn’t fit quite right.

  She wandered up the stairs and came to a stop outside Darling’s bedchamber. He was sleeping in the massive bed. Was it appropriate for her to be alone in the residence with him? Did no one care about her reputation?

  The longer she was awake, the more she wondered, the more questions arose. She carried on down the empty hallway, her footsteps echoing between the walls. He needed carpets, wall hangings, something to absorb the sound. She couldn’t be expected to creep around all day. Still, she lightened her footfalls. As he had apparently saved her from drowning, she supposed she should show more consideration.

  Walking into her bedchamber, she was once again taken aback by the simplicity of it and lack of anything personal. Sitting on the edge of the cot, she was struck by how hard it was. Surely she should remember sleeping on it. On the other hand, its discomfort was cause for not remembering.

  Reaching down, she examined each piece of clothing that seemed to be awaiting her inspection. None of it seemed to be to her taste. Other than the fact that everything was quite plain, it was not made to her standards. Sitting back, she stared into space. What precisely were her standards?

  Her head began to ache. Blast it all! Not remembering was quite a nuisance. She couldn’t imagine where else she might have placed an apron. Had she been wearing it last night when she’d tumbled into the river? Had Darling tossed it with the remainder of her ruined clothing?

  It didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though she was going to get filthy with her chores. As far as she could tell, she didn’t have a great deal to keep her busy. Dust, he’d told her. She’d begin in the library where furniture and shelves would attract motes and cobwebs.

  After returning to the kitchen, where she found a rag, she went to the library. In spite of the room’s sparse furnishings, it contained a masculine quality. She could see him working behind the large, dark desk, his head bent in concentration as he wrote diligently in ledgers. The lamp on the desk would cast a glow over his work. Did he seek her advice on matters? Did he care about her opinion? She couldn’t see herself not offering it if she had one.

  Edging around the desk, she sat in the thick leather chair and sighed with pleasure. Lovely. Just like his bed. It seemed he didn’t skimp on his own comfort. In the future she would take her meals in here. Or perhaps she would eat in his bed.

  She furrowed her brow. She’d eaten in bed before. Probably when he wasn’t here. She could get away with a lot when he wasn’t about. If she cleaned up after herself he would never know that she made use of his possessions.

  Walking over to the shelves, she slapped the rag halfheartedly at the shelves that were empty of everything except dust. She couldn’t say much for her housekeeping skills, although to be fair she found it rather difficult to take battling dirt seriously. No joy was to be found in the action. No fun. However had this become her life?

  She narrowed her eyes as an image flashed through her mind. Leather volumes. Dickens. Austen. Shakespeare. She could see them lined up, one after the other. Gold embossed lettering. She lifted her fingers as though she could touch them. She’d read these authors and more. She liked to read. No, she loved to read! She enjoyed being carried away into a world different from her own, with characters who did not sit in judgment of her.

  As she considered what her life was, she could well imagine wanting to escape it. But who judged her? Those better than she. But who were they?

  If books were so important to her, why weren’t any in her room? Because they were costly. Again, another tidbit that she knew.

  She swung away from the shelves and the room seemed to circle around her in a blur. Her life contained other blurs. She began to hum a familiar tune. Lifting her arms, she swayed, then began moving her feet in time to the music that only she could hear. She knew the song, knew the movements, knew that a gentleman had swept her over a floor.

  And she was convinced with every fiber of her being that she did not belong here.

  “I know how to waltz.”

  Squinting against the
sunlight pouring into the room, Drake stared at the woman standing near the end of his bed. She’d awoken him with her pronouncement. Why was he not surprised that she would think nothing of interrupting a man from his well-deserved rest? “Pardon?”

  “I know how to waltz. I can hear the music. No, it’s more than that. I know the music. I daresay, if you had a pianoforte, I would be able to play it. Chopin. Beethoven. Mozart. I can see my fingers flying over the ivory keys. I can see myself dancing with a gentleman. I can read. Dickens. Austen. Browning. I can quote passages.”

  He shoved himself to a sitting position, not caring that the covers fell to his waist. “Your point?”

  She blinked, stared at his person, somewhere along his chest, he thought. Her lips parted slightly, and he didn’t know why he felt a need to inhale deeply, expand his chest and beat on it like some great ape in the zoological gardens. He’d never cared about impressing her. He wasn’t about to start now.

  Swallowing, she grabbed hold of the bedpost as though she needed its sturdiness to support her so she could remain upright. “I don’t believe a servant would know all those things.”

  “You don’t think a servant could watch others dancing and pick up the steps? Memorize the music? Read? I assure you that valuable servants can in fact read.”

  “I’m not doubting that a servant can read, but that one would have time to read as widely as I have.”

  “You haven’t been in service all that long.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How did I come to work here at all?”

  “You were recommended.”

  She tilted up her chin. “By whom?”

  “I don’t remember the names.” When lying, keep the lies as honest as possible. Don’t create a lie that requires you remember something. “You came with letters of reference.”

  She shoved herself away from the bed, balled her hands into tightened fists, and jerked up her chin. “As they aren’t in my bedchamber, as there is nothing in that hideously ill-furnished room that feels at all familiar, I assume you have these letters of which you speak. I should like to see them.”