Once More, My Darling Rogue

by Lorraine Heath

  Then she tipped up her pert little nose in that gesture that never failed to irritate—thank God, thank God, thank God—tilting his world back onto its rightful axis. “Of course. Pardon my intrusion.”

  He watched the swing of her hips, the apron ties swaying, as she made her way from the room. She may not have slammed the door in her wake, but it closed with a definite resounding click that conveyed her pique.

  He covered his eyes with his arm and wondered why clothing that left so little skin revealed was so incredibly enticing. He wanted to see her wearing naught but the apron. Where had that thought come from? What was the matter with him? Tomorrow was not soon enough. Perhaps he should return her tonight. As soon as he was convinced she was in no danger. No sense in prolonging the inevitable.

  Tossing back the covers, he rolled out of the bed, coming to a halt as her words finally hit him. She’d prepared his bath. He shouldn’t be surprised that she’d managed to learn by observing him the day before. He’d always known she wasn’t an idiot. Still, he was taken aback that she hadn’t feigned ignorance today, that she hadn’t garnered some excuse to avoid the chore. A chore that wasn’t truly hers.

  He wondered if it had felt foreign to her or if she’d conjured images of others doing the task for her.

  He went through the door that connected the bathing chamber to his room. No steam arising. He climbed in, settled his head back against the lip of the tub. The water wasn’t as blistering hot as he preferred it but—

  Who the devil did he think he was—her?—complaining about something that had been done for him? The temperature of the water didn’t matter, didn’t undo the effort that had gone into preparing—

  Click.

  He stilled. The door was opening. He glanced over his shoulder.

  She gave him a tentative smile. “I’m here to wash your back.”

  “Right.” He shoved himself up, waited as she settled behind him.

  “I was listening at the door, trying to hear you getting into the water. I felt rather perverted. Perhaps we should get a bell for you to ring when you’re ready for me.”

  No need when this would be the last time she’d ever touch him. Not that he was going to tell her that. He simply held his silence and anticipated the first caress of those gentle fingers.

  She reached around him for the soap, and cotton brushed up against his skin. The frill of her apron or the cotton-covered swell of her breast. All the blood drained from his head, went elsewhere, and for a second he was hot and dizzy, grateful the bathwater was not as heated as he was accustomed to.

  The water made a slight splashing as she dipped her hands into it. He heard a sharp hiss, twisted in time to see her grimace.

  “Sorry,” she said. Biting her lower lip, she rubbed her hands over the soap, flinched.

  “What the devil?” He grabbed her hand. The soap plopped into the water, but he barely noticed as he gazed at the red, raw blisters on her palms. He cursed soundly, imagining her carrying the buckets of water, the handles digging into her soft flesh, rubbing, scoring, tearing the satiny skin.

  “It’s all right,” she said, fighting to wrench free while he refused to let go. “I can see to my chore here.”

  “Like hell you can. Go into my bedchamber and wait for me.”

  Finally managing to break free of his grip, she glared at him. “You can’t order me about.”

  “Of course I can. I’m your employer.”

  She blinked as though she’d forgotten that, and he realized that in anger she was more the Ophelia he knew. Best not to anger her until he was ready to deliver her to her brother’s doorstep, lest her memory come roaring back. He had a feeling his life would be in danger if it came back while she was here.

  The thought almost had him laughing, welcoming her fury directed at him. He’d never realized how much her fire could appeal, excite. Damnation, but he didn’t want to like her, yet he was seeing shades to her that put her in a different light. If they could be friends, he thought they might very well enjoy each other. But as they weren’t, and she was hurt, he needed to tend to her. “Go. To. My. Bedchamber,” he repeated.

  If looks could kill … well, hers might wound him, but it wasn’t going to be the death of him. She punctuated it with a little huff before shoving herself to her feet and disappearing through the threshold and slamming the door behind her.

  He couldn’t help it. He chuckled at her pique. God, it was a damned good thing that she wasn’t his servant in truth, because she would drive to him to madness. Searching the bottom of the tub, he located the soap and scrubbed up as quickly as possible.

  It wasn’t until he was drying off that he realized he hadn’t brought in any clothes, but then he never did. He washed up in here, then strode as naked as he pleased into his bedchamber to dress. Why should he change his habits for her?

  Because the choices were the uncomfortable chair or the bed, she chose the bed, sitting on its corner on top of the rumpled blankets, a pillow at her back. A pillow upon which he’d slept and upon which she would sleep later. A pillow that smelled of him. She knew because she’d buried her face in it before placing it behind her back.

  She cursed her hands and her inability to hide the discomfort. She had so wanted to wash his back again, to glory in it. She’d been too self-conscious the day before to enjoy it as much as she might and she had planned to rectify that mistake today.

  While he was a mixture of kind and curt, she suspected there was more to their relationship than was proper. The clothes he’d brought her today fit her as though they’d been made for no other, as though he knew her precise measurements. She didn’t want to consider that he had spent so much time in the company of women that he had an eye for sizing them up, although that was probably the truth of it. She was probably no more than a servant.

  But why the novels? Why the silver brush? Why the concern over her hands?

  He strode out of the bathing room with a towel around his hips, held firmly in place at his waist by one hand clutching it. Without a word, he snatched up the trousers and shirt that were draped over the chair and disappeared back into the bathing room.

  When he again emerged, the shirt was tucked into his breeches but not buttoned. He set an assortment of items on the table beside the bed, before sitting down on the edge of the mattress. He took her hands, turned them palms up, and scowled at them. While she found herself staring in wonder at how small her hands were when compared with his. His were rough and lined with faint scars that must have been part of him for an eternity.

  “How did you come to have the scars?” she asked.

  His scowl deepened before he released his hold on her hands and reached for a jar. “They’re from when I was a lad.”

  She hadn’t thought he’d answer. He was always surprising her. No more so than when he gently applied the salve on her broken skin. She imagined those fingers gliding over all of her, with such reverence and care. “You would think my hands would be tougher,” she said, “accustomed to carting pails of water.”

  “I usually prepare my own bath.”

  “I thought you said I prepare it.” Had he? Or was her memory faulty on that score? Perhaps her brain had somehow been damaged. Would she constantly be confused and forget things?

  “If I did, I misspoke. You’re not to do it again.”

  “You’re angry with me.”

  Releasing a deep breath, he began to fold a strip of linen around her hand. “No, but you were never supposed to get hurt. I don’t want you doing any chores that cause you pain.”

  “Perhaps you should hire a footman to assist me.”

  “Eventually I will.” He began wrapping the other hand.

  “And a valet.”

  “I need my money for other things right now.”

  “What things?”

  He concentrated on his task.

  “Not my business, I suppose,” she said tightly.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Then you shou
ldn’t have spent your money on the silver brush set.”

  “It wasn’t that much.”

  “It was very costly. I recognize quality when I see it. I don’t know how I do but I do. Like the carriage that brought you here. It was very fine indeed. Is it yours?”

  “No, it belongs to the man who raised me.”

  “Why don’t you refer to him as your father?”

  “Because I’m not worthy enough to be his son.”

  “Why not?”

  She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t answer, that he merely tautened his jaw and concentrated more diligently on his task. The relationship between an employer and a domestic was such that they didn’t share secrets and dreams and yearnings of the heart. She should let it go, but she seemed unable to follow her own counsel. “Are you saving your funds to purchase a carriage?”

  Finished with the wrapping, he gave her a pointed look. “No.”

  “What then? Another residence?”

  “You’re quite the busybody, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not fair. You know nearly everything about me and I know nothing at all about you.”

  “If you knew everything about me, I daresay you would not be impressed.”

  “Did I know nothing about you before I came to work here?”

  He skimmed his fingers along her cheek, catching stray strands of her hair and tucking them behind her ear. “We didn’t talk much.”

  “I suppose I was more concerned with impressing you than having you impress me.”

  “Something like that.”

  His fingers lingered at her ear, circling the delicate shell. “You’re not to do anything else that causes you discomfort, is that clear?”

  Nodding, she thought she could sit for hours while he touched her like that. His finger skimmed along her neck. She was incredibly tempted to mimic his actions, but she feared if she did that he might stop.

  Even without her distracting him, he stopped. She wanted to shake her head until her hair came loose again, so he would put it back into place. She thought if he had ever touched her like this she would have remembered.

  “Perhaps we didn’t talk much because I was shy,” she said.

  He barked out his boisterous laughter then, and the quiet moment between them shattered. “You are anything but shy.”

  Coming off the bed, he gathered up the items that he’d used to treat her hands. “These will be in a cabinet in the bathing chamber if you have need of them.”

  He began to walk away.

  “Drake?”

  He stopped, turned back, something dark in his gaze, and she wondered if she should be addressing him as Marla had instructed her, but it just didn’t seem right.

  “Will things change between us when I remember everything?”

  “Yes.”

  He walked from the room, leaving her to wonder why he seemed saddened by the admission.

  Drake. She’d never called him by that name before. It shot straight to his gut, caused it to tighten. He liked the way it sounded on her lips. Christ, if he were honest, he liked everything that came from her lips since she’d awoken in his bed. Even the tart tones were starting to have an appeal. She had backbone. He had to give her that.

  He tried to imagine what it would be like not to know anything at all about oneself. It would be like falling into a great unknown. How many people, he wondered, would simply stay abed and pull the covers up over their heads until they remembered something? But not her.

  She straightened her spine and charged into the fray. Oh, she’d grumbled and questioned, but he could hardly hold either of those reactions against her. He suspected he would have been pounding his fists into something. He would not have graciously accepted his circumstance.

  She’d already left his bedchamber when he returned from the bathing room. After changing into fresh clothes, he headed out. He caught the fragrance of polish. Apparently, she’d done more than just prepare his bath. As he neared the kitchen, lovely aromas wafted around him. Had she actually cooked?

  Stepping into the kitchen, he found Phee bustling around, setting items on the table, where the roasted pheasant sat, browned and glistening. His mouth actually watered, but it didn’t stop him from being irritated with her. “I ordered you not to do anything.”

  “This was already in the midst of being prepared when I went upstairs to awaken you. And you’re most welcome.”

  He came up short at the reprimand in her tone. He deserved it, blast it all. She had gone to all this trouble. He couldn’t help but be impressed by all she’d accomplished. He’d never considered her stupid, but she was quite the quick learner.

  She pointed to a chair. “Sit. Enjoy.”

  “You’ll be joining me,” he said, pulling out a chair for her and waiting.

  “That’s being quite unconventional, isn’t it? To dine with the housekeeper?”

  “Do I strike you as someone who follows convention?”

  “To be honest, no, you don’t.”

  She took the chair and he sat opposite her. Doing away with formality, they served themselves. Then she sat, poised on the edge of her seat, waiting for him to sample her cooking. She’d probably poisoned it. No, she didn’t know yet that she should.

  He took a small bite. To his immense surprise, it nearly melted in his mouth. “It’s quite tasty.”

  “You were correct. Once I got started seeing to matters, I remembered what was to be done.”

  She remembered something she’d never known? He was fairly certain she’d never prepared pheasant in her life, had no doubt never boiled an egg. He almost questioned her on it. Instead he let it go because he would have to explain how he knew she’d never made her way about a kitchen.

  “You’ll be leaving for the club soon,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll be gone all night?”

  He recognized the trepidation in her eyes. “Yes, but no worries. Sleep in my bed. The nightmares won’t bother you there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it’s a very comfortable bed and based on your previous times beneath my covers, you shall sleep most soundly.”

  A faint blush rose into her cheeks, mesmerizing him. He had no idea Lady O possessed the wherewithal to blush.

  “Perhaps I’ll purchase a new bed with my wages,” she said.

  That would be quite the trick, considering he wasn’t truly paying her wages. “Your employer provides the bed.”

  “When will mine be arriving?”

  He sliced off another bit of pheasant. “Your memories are quite erratic. You should recall that you have one.”

  “I have a cot, not a bed,” she stated very succinctly. “It’s ghastly uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, I know. I slept on it when I was waiting for my bed to be delivered.”

  “Then why give it to me?”

  Because I wanted you uncomfortable, because I didn’t think you’d be staying more than a day. Because I hadn’t expected to find myself caring about your well-being.

  “Because I’m an unkind employer.”

  She skewed her mouth and he had the insane thought to unskew it by kissing it. Why did she have to look completely adorable sitting across from him, striving to work things out, to make sense of them? Why did her brow have to pleat slightly? Why did her green eyes have to take on a faraway look as though she were traveling a path toward enlightenment? God help him when she did uncover all the answers.

  “Your actions don’t match your words,” she said. “I’m left with the impression that you are striving to deceive me, but for what purpose?”

  Because he didn’t truly want her to know him, his hopes, his dreams, his secrets. Why then did he find it so difficult to accept that perhaps Lady O had felt the same, had distanced her true self from him, had created a haughty veneer to protect the woman within? “A puzzle to think about while I tidy up in here.”

  “That’s my duty, to clean up.”

  “Not w
hile your hands are blistered. You don’t need them in dirty water.”

  As he removed the plates and glasses from the table, wiped it down, washed the dishes, he could feel her watching him, striving to understand him. He wasn’t even certain he understood himself any longer. He could only hope that Gregory would provide him with the answers he sought so he could return Phee home before she drove him mad.

  “Lord Wigmore was there?” Incredulously, Drake repeated the words that Gregory had just told him. He wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but it wasn’t that, not really.

  “Yes, sir.” Gregory stood straight and tall as though insulted by Drake’s doubt. “I delivered the invitation to his hand.”

  If Wigmore was there, then had Somerdale lied? Had he wished Phee harm, and thought no one would look for her at her uncle’s? It was a tale too easy to check. But if she’d been traveling with her uncle, what was she doing here? “Was there anything odd about him?”

  “Odd?”

  “Did he look as though he may have been set upon by ruffians?”

  “No, he appeared quite well. He was a bit impatient with my presence and I believe insulted by the invitation. He merely muttered, ‘When hell freezes over,’ and had me escorted out.”

  It made no sense, although he was relieved that he didn’t need to notify Scotland Yard that they should be out searching for a missing lord of the realm. But it still left the mystery of how Phee had come to be in the river. With her having no memory, he didn’t know how he could uncover the truth. He wasn’t comfortable returning her to her brother without ensuring she would be safe with him.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Looking up at Gregory, he was disconcerted to realize he’d become so lost in his thoughts about Phee that he’d forgotten the man was present. “Job well done. You can return to your duties.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After Gregory left, Drake walked to the window and gazed out on the street. Nothing made sense, in particular his relief that he might not be returning Phee to her residence in the morning. That she might stay with him a bit longer, might again wash his back. With a sigh, he pressed his forehead to the cool glass.