“You may indeed,” Drake said.
She set the bowl on the floor and a scrawny white cat crawled out from beneath the table and began lapping at the milk.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“Pansy. Because of her eye.”
When the cat looked up, he saw that one eye had a black marking around it that might possibly—with a good deal of imagination—resemble a pansy.
“Why do we need a cat?” he asked.
“We don’t. She needs us. She showed up at the door the last couple of evenings. I gave her a little milk. Last night I let her in, and discovered she’s terribly sweet and wonderful company.”
He would not feel guilty because she was alone at night.
Picking up a bowl filled with meat scraps, she headed for the door.
“Where are you taking that?” he asked.
“To feed Rose.”
“Rose?”
He followed her out to the terrace. She set the bowl down in front of a dog that was more bone than muscle. She patted its head. “She followed me home from the market.”
“She is a he.”
She peered beneath the dog. “Oh. You’re ever so good at noticing that sort of thing.”
He was amazed she wasn’t, but then ladies were not generally in the habit of peering at an animal’s private quarters. “So I’m not certain the dog will appreciate being called Rose.”
“Short for Rosencrantz,” she said with another beaming smile. “That’ll work.”
She went over to Daisy and petted her.
“We’re not keeping a menagerie here,” Drake told her.
“Of course not.” She walked back over and stood before him. “Kick them out whenever you feel like it.”
The woman was manipulating him again. He wasn’t going to kick these pitiful creatures out and well she knew it. As she opened the door to go in, Jimmy sauntered out, his cap pulled low over his brow, keeping the hair out of his eyes. Drake was surprised Phee hadn’t taken scissors to it. He most certainly didn’t want to remember that he’d been skinny as well at that age. For the briefest of moments he envied Phee her inability to recall the past.
“Be seein’ ye, guv’ner,” the boy said.
“Clean up after the dog as well. We’ll pay you two shillings.”
The boy grinned broadly. “Me pleasure. See you, missus.” He tipped his hat before racing for the gate at the back.
“That was nice of you,” Phee said.
“He’s too thin.”
“I thought the same thing.”
He suspected she’d feed the boy whenever he showed up. Drake couldn’t fault her for that. He didn’t like admitting that over the past few days he’d found very little fault with her. “I suppose he followed you home from the market as well.”
“See, there you are sounding all grumbling again when I know you don’t mind. But yes, our paths did cross at the market this morning. Marla and I went fairly early.”
“I suppose that cost me another fortune.”
She smiled, and he wouldn’t have cared if it had cost him a fortune. “Only went to the market this time.”
She walked into the kitchen. “Give me a few moments to prepare your breakfast.”
Dammit all. He was willing to give her all the time in the world.
He awoke earlier than usual, stared at the ceiling. What was he doing? Why was she still here, a week after he’d discovered her in the Thames? Why was he putting off uncovering the truth? Why was he delaying returning her home?
He needed to redouble his efforts to determine exactly what had happened the night he found her in the river. Oddly, Somerdale had not been in the club for the past two nights. He needed to seek him out, sit him down, and talk with him—get to the bottom of this entire matter.
And he would, after his meeting with the partners on the morrow. He needed to prepare for it. That was the reason he’d awoken with a start. Had nothing to do with guilt over Phee possibly being lonely in the evenings and seeking out a cat for company. Had nothing to do with the unfairness to her.
He had no clock, no pocket watch, but still he knew he’d awoken early. He’d bathe, head to the club, eat there. Reestablish his schedule.
Rolling out of bed, he found himself instinctively listening for the sounds of her moving about the residence—the creak of stairs, the moaning of a floorboard, the closing of a door. The house was more alive with her in it. He would barely notice when she was gone, however, as he would return to his habit of spending most of his time at the club. Everything would again be as it should be. His bed would no longer smell of her. He would sleep without dreaming of her being beneath the covers with him. He wouldn’t fantasize about touching her skin. He wouldn’t think about kissing every inch of her.
After drawing on trousers and shirt, he checked the bathing room to ensure she’d not filled the tub with water. He’d forbidden her to bring up the pails, not that his orders ever seemed to carry much weight with her. She did as she pleased. That part of her character seemed unchanged. Odd how it didn’t irritate him as it once had.
He jaunted down the stairs, came to a stop in the foyer. A narrow black and white marble-topped table was set against the wall. Hideous thing with scrolled iron legs and a chipped corner. A gleaming black vase held a bouquet of red roses.
Where the bloody hell had that come from? She was purchasing furniture for him now, was she? He’d have never selected that particular piece, yet he couldn’t deny that it somehow seemed to belong. He wondered where she’d found the flowers.
Stepping forward, he took a petal between his fingers and rubbed it. He should see about acquiring a gardener. Then she could have flowers all around the house, inside and out.
He jerked back his hand. She didn’t need flowers here. She would be leaving soon. She wasn’t a permanent resident.
Yet as he headed toward the kitchen, he couldn’t deny that he’d become accustomed to having a housekeeper about. He’d have to hire one. But even as he made a mental note to do so, he knew he would find her lacking simply because she wasn’t Phee.
As Phee dragged the brush through Daisy’s mane, she marveled at her own contentment, amused that she had fought so hard against believing she was actually a servant. While none of her cooking lessons seemed to bring forth any memories, she was mastering the task, and she could scarcely wait to serve this evening’s meal to Drake. She was purchasing little odds and ends for the residence, but she wanted to speak with him about purchasing more. She wanted to make his residence more homey—even if it meant more dusting and tidying for her. She didn’t mind it so much, well, most of it, anyway. The windows still needed cleaning and she didn’t fancy the scrubbing and polishing of floors. She would suggest they hire someone to assist her as the chores increased. It seemed only fair.
“Is that your brush you’re using?”
Jumping only a little at the brusque tone, she turned to Drake. His shirt was mostly unbuttoned, his feet bare, his hair tousled, his jaw shadowed. She loved him like this, when he came down to begin preparing his bathwater, before he tidied up. Although if she were completely honest, she loved to look at him just as much when he was tidied up. Scoundrel, rake, or gentleman. He always fascinated her.
“I just finished bathing her,” she told him, “and I wanted to get the tangles out of her mane. I didn’t see that I had any other choice except to use yours and I didn’t think you’d appreciate that at all.”
“It’s silver.” He said the words in a manner that suggested they explained everything.
“Well, yes, I’m quite aware of that. I know it was costly, but—”
“You’re using it on a horse? A horse?”
“Her mane was so snarled. I was feeling badly about it. You’ve set up a trough for her water. You feed her. I wanted to pamper her for a bit.”
“Why didn’t you say something? I could have purchased what you required.”
“You were already abed. I’d finished my cho
res, and it just hit me that I wanted to do it. Besides, she’s already cost you a fortune. I didn’t want to be a nuisance.”
His eyes widened. “You? Not be a nuisance? That is like saying the sun does not shine.”
“Well, thank you very much for that.”
“You don’t use a lady’s brush on a horse.”
Was he going to rant about it forever? She’d had quite enough of it.
“And your hands. You’re carting buckets of water after I told you not to.”
“They’ve healed,” she said. Rough and a bit callused but healed.
He didn’t seem to be listening to her, he was so caught up in his own fury. “You don’t think things through,” he carried on. And on. And on. As though she’d done something monstrously unthinkable.
She hefted the pail that contained the leftover water she’d planned to use on Rose. Doing exactly as he accused, she didn’t bother to consider consequences or ramifications as she tossed the contents at him.
His diatribe came to an abrupt halt as he jerked back, blinking at her while the water dripped down his face, caught in the stubble at his jaw, soaked his shirt and trousers.
She released a small laugh. “I didn’t mean for it all to hit you. I only wanted a bit—”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re going to pay for that.”
With a low growl, he charged. She shrieked, dropped the bucket, and ran. Or intended to run. She’d barely taken three steps before he scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder.
“I’m not a sack of potatoes!” While she tried to sound indignant, it was a little difficult to do when she was laughing. She didn’t know why it struck her as funny. Perhaps because he was always so somber and serious that she had rather enjoyed catching him unawares and eliciting such an unexpected reaction from him.
“You’re going to be a drenched sack of potatoes,” he said, striding across the grass with purpose in each step.
Pressing her hands to his back, she lifted herself just enough to cast a quick glance over his shoulder, to determine his destination. The water trough? Surely not. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I believe I would.”
His hand came to rest on her bottom. The world suddenly went topsy-turvy, grass, sky—
Rosencrantz leaping up—slamming into Drake.
As he lost his balance, somehow he twisted, released her, tumbled into the trough while she landed on the ground with a soft thud. She scrambled to her knees. “Are you all right?”
Soaked, he sat in the small trough, his legs sprawled over the sides, water dripping from his hair, droplets gathering on his face. He appeared so disgruntled, so … adorable. Not a word she would have ever thought to associate with him.
“I’m fine,” he groused.
“Serves you right, for wanting to dump me in there.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Careful, sweetheart, you don’t want to poke the tiger.”
The words, the tone, the menace were familiar. He’d said the words before. Why? In what situation? Because what she did know was that she did want to poke him, did want him to react. She was hoping for laughter, but she thought she would settle for anything other than the politeness, the careful questioning and answering that indicated he always watched his words with her, ever since their kiss in the garden. He was so cautious, distancing himself, and she hated it. It didn’t matter that he seemed to come home earlier and leave later, he was too watchful, too civil.
He started to pull himself up. Rose jumped up, placing his huge paws on Drake’s shoulder, and Drake went down again. Slapping her hand over her mouth, she chortled. She couldn’t help it. When he glared at her, she chuckled all the harder.
Rose began stroking his large tongue over Drake’s face and neck—
Sitting back on her heels, she laughed outright at the sight of the unhappy man and the incredibly happy dog, his tail wagging so forcefully that he was whipping up a wind.
“Help me get out of here,” Drake grumbled.
She swallowed back her amusement. “Yes, all right.”
After shoving herself to her feet, she shooed Rose away. The dog lumbered off, caught sight of a squirrel, and they were forgotten as he raced after it. Drake held up his hand. She wrapped hers around it, expecting to provide him with some leverage. Instead she felt an insistent pull, shrieked, fell forward—
She landed on his belly, water soaking her hips and torso, her legs over the side of the trough, her hands on his shoulders buffering her fall. Deep laughter echoed around her. Rather than protest her position, his ploy, she marveled at the richness of Drake’s throaty laughter, the sight of his head thrown back. She would weather a thousand dunkings for that sound. Smiling broadly, she joined her chortling with his, until her eyes watered, her sides ached. She laid her head on his chest.
His laughter died, hers withered.
Very slowly she rose up. He was so near. His nose nearly touching hers. Whatever mirth he’d been enjoying had dissipated. Within his smoldering eyes, she now saw desire and longing. She could feel the yearning in his tense body, almost quivering like a tightly strung bow with the arrow notched and pulled back—she was an archer, a corner of her mind whispered. But she let the memory go because nothing in her past mattered as much as he did. Nothing was more important than this moment.
He was going to kiss her again. She knew it with everything in her heart. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted to feel the luxurious movements of his mouth over hers. She wanted it desperately, even as she knew another kiss would lead them further into temptation and she didn’t know if she was strong enough to deny them the journey.
“I love your laughter,” she whispered.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard it. I’d forgotten—” He shook his head, swallowed. “We need to get you dry.”
Just like that the spell was broken, and she wondered if perhaps she’d imagined it. Shifting his weight, placing his hands on her hips, he managed to boost her up until she was again on her feet. Her clothing clung to her. She’d have to change into the scratchy clothing she’d first worn upon awakening with no memories, but she didn’t mind.
He worked his way out of the trough. Before he could step away, she cradled his jaw, his cheek. “I wish I remembered everything I knew about you.”
“You wouldn’t like me much if you did.”
“I find that rather difficult to believe, because at this precise moment I like you a great deal indeed.”
He liked her a great deal as well.
Gazing in the mirror as he knotted his neck cloth after his bath, Drake knew that was a problem. She wasn’t supposed to make him laugh. She wasn’t supposed to care so much about a blasted horse that she used her silver hairbrush to groom it. She wasn’t supposed to make him want to kiss her senseless. She wasn’t supposed to make him wish that she never regained her memories, that they could carry on like this forever.
He sank into a chair and lifted a boot that had been buffed to such a shine that he could fairly see his reflection in it. She had done that. She was doing so much more than he had ever initially intended. He couldn’t keep her. He had to tell her the truth, return her to her life.
Shoving his foot into the boot, he decided that he would confess all and take her home before he went to the club. He was fairly certain Somerdale hadn’t meant her any harm. She would be safe with her brother.
As he yanked on his other boot, he wondered if fairly certain was certain enough to ensure her safety. He shook his head. He was striving to convince himself to delay the inevitable. Surely arguing with himself was a sign of madness.
She had driven him to it.
He’d almost kissed her when they were in the water trough. If he took her mouth one more time, he didn’t know if he’d find the strength to stop until he’d taken all of her.
Standing, he stomped his feet to get them situated in the boots the way he liked them. He tugged on his waistcoat. It was time to set the m
atter right. He needed to prepare for his meeting with the partners and she merely served as a disruption to his life.
“Right, then,” he muttered. “Now is the time.” She would be furious with him, things between them would return to normal, and he could cease having these damned moments of enjoying her. He much preferred the haughty nose-in-the-air Lady O. He knew precisely where he stood with her. The woman in his residence now was far too layered, far too intriguing, far too distracting.
He strode from his bedchamber with purpose in his step. It would be freeing to have his life as his own again, to not be worrying about her, what she might discover or remember when he wasn’t around, how frightened—or angry—she might be.
He was halfway to the kitchen when the aromas assailed his senses. The dinner she was preparing for him. He had thought to humble her by having her catering to his wants and desires. Yet he was the one being humbled, that she would strive so hard to please him. He had expected her to instinctually complain the entire time, to ignore her duties, and sit around twiddling her thumbs. He hadn’t expected her to step into the role with enthusiasm, to embrace the challenges of learning to care for his household.
Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he decided he would reveal the truth after they’d eaten. It would be unkind to allow this evening’s efforts to be wasted.
He walked into the kitchen in time to see her removing a dish from the oven. Straightening, she gave him a warm smile that arrowed through him, from his head to his toes.
“Perfect timing,” she said, setting the dish between two burning candles on the linen-covered table. White wine filled two glasses, waiting for them. “It’s a chicken pie. Not fancy, but I made it all myself. Well, with Mrs. Pratt providing the direction, but she didn’t do a thing, not even cut the vegetables. I did it all.”
She sounded so remarkably pleased with herself. He wanted to add to her joy, her sense of satisfaction.
“It smells delicious.” And it did. Steam was rising through holes in the crust.
Reaching back, she untied her apron, removed it, and hung it off a peg on the wall. “I hope you don’t mind that I added the cloth and candles to the table. It just seemed wrong to eat on a bare table. Of course, once your dining room is furnished, it’ll all be moot.”
Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 22
