Once More, My Darling Rogue

by Lorraine Heath

  By the time that happened, she’d not be here. She wouldn’t see any of the other rooms furnished or notice the changes he planned to make to the residence.

  “I don’t mind at all,” he said, pulling out her chair.

  With another one of those impish smiles, she sat. He took his place opposite her. She scooped pie into a bowl for him and then for herself.

  While he waited for his to cool, he said, “You seem to enjoy taking care of things.”

  “I do rather. So odd that when I first awoke without my memories I couldn’t imagine myself doing any of this.”

  She fairly glowed. He was not looking at all forward to that glow turning to red rage when he told her everything after dinner. Nor was he anticipating taking her home. His residence would seem empty, lack energy, become bereft. It was a blasted building and he was acting as though it lived and breathed, as though it noticed her presence as much as he did.

  He was mesmerized by the way the light from the flames reflected in her eyes, over her hair. She wore it in a braid circled about her head. Such a simple style, one he would have said wasn’t suited to Lady O, and yet it seemed perfect for Phee. The two distinct ladies were blending into one that he was becoming increasingly taken with. To distract himself from the way she lured him, he said, “I noticed the addition to the foyer.”

  She laughed lightly, and he realized that not being distracted by her was going to be impossible. Every aspect of her fascinated him.

  “I discovered the table at a little shop. I argued down the price because of the chipped corner.” A pleat appeared between her brows. “Did you notice it?”

  He’d been dishonest with her from the beginning. Why stop now? “No.”

  She gave him another one of those brilliant smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. I didn’t think it was too noticeable. Hopefully it will be the flowers that garner attention.”

  She dipped her fork into the pie. He followed suit, noticing that she had yet to place the food in her mouth. So he took a bite, grinned. “Very tasty.”

  And it was. Exceedingly so. The last thing he expected was for her to master preparing food.

  “I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. Something else you would have no doubt enjoyed was watching Marla and me as we struggled to bring that table here.”

  “You carried it yourself?”

  “Only for a bit. Then I stayed with it while she fetched Rob, Mrs. Turner’s footman.”

  “Mrs. Turner?” He held up a hand when she pierced him with her gaze. “The widow.”

  “Yes. I wish you could afford a footman.”

  He could. He could afford a host of servants. Obviously she was a housekeeper who spoke too freely what was on her mind, without mincing words or striving to save her employer’s sensibilities. What the bloody hell was he thinking? She wasn’t a servant at all.

  “I’m supposed to wash the windows,” she said, poking at a piece of chicken with her fork. “But I’ve put it off. I don’t know if I like ladders, don’t even know if you have one. I suppose I could borrow—”

  “You’re not to climb ladders.”

  “But what of your windows?”

  “I’ll hire someone to wash the blasted windows.”

  “I won’t try to talk you out of the expense as I don’t truly want to do them.”

  He had the feeling of being manipulated again. He should be angry. Instead he was rather amused. He was losing count of the number of times she amused him. “Where did you get the roses?”

  “I stole them from Mrs. Turner’s garden.”

  He arched a brow. “So you’re a thief now?”

  “Marla said she wouldn’t notice them missing. She never goes into the garden, no one ever comes to visit. Which I find rather sad. I thought about calling on her, asking her to take tea with me among the roses, but apparently servants aren’t allowed to visit with those who hire servants.”

  Her compassion astounded him. Was this the woman Grace saw, the woman with whom she was friends? Why the cold façade, the distance? He wanted to explore her, not only with his hands, but with his mind, to know and understand every aspect of her.

  The minutes were ticking by. He needed to tell her. Tomorrow. He would find time for it tomorrow. No sense in ruining her enjoyment in a day of accomplishments.

  As Drake sat at his desk in his library, it occurred to him that today he wasn’t doing anything that he was supposed to do. He’d left Phee in the kitchen, tidying up, thinking that he was headed to the club. He’d thought the same thing himself until he walked to the end of the street. Then he’d abruptly turned around, borrowed Mrs. Turner’s footman, and paid him to deliver a message to Goliath at the club, informing him Drake would be in residence this evening. He told himself it was because he could think better here, it was quieter, he was less likely to be disturbed.

  But he knew the truth of it. He was loath to leave her alone with the company of only a cat, knowing this would be her last night in his residence, that following his meeting tomorrow he would tell her everything. This little farce had gone on long enough. It was time to put an end to it. But first he had to concentrate on the meeting.

  Yet it was so silent. Had he ever realized how quiet it was when darkness fell beyond the windows? He heard the occasional crackle of the fire, but that only added to the sense of isolation. And he’d left her here alone, night after night, a woman whose evenings had been filled with balls, dinners, and gaiety. He doubted she’d ever spent an hour completely alone before she’d ended up with him. Not that she remembered all her social obligations, but he knew of them, and that somehow made it all the worse.

  He refused to acknowledge the gladness that swept through him when the door clicked open and she stepped into the library, the cat brushing against her skirts as it sauntered in with her. Surprise lighted her features.

  “I thought you’d gone to the club.”

  “I decided to work here tonight.”

  “Oh.” She hesitated, glanced around, held up a pad of paper. “I was going to sketch for a while. Do you mind if I do it in here?”

  “No, of course not.” It wasn’t as though she had an abundance of choices, so he couldn’t very well be selfish about sharing the room.

  She closed the door, which created an intimacy that he hadn’t expected in a room as large as this one. It was silly really when they’d been in his bedchamber together, been in his bathing chamber. It was the laughter in the garden, he thought. It had changed things between them, knocked down walls he’d strived so hard to keep erect, opened windows he would have preferred remain shut tight.

  Coming to stand before the desk, she gazed at the paper before him, the pen in his hand as though she expected to be privy to some great discovery. “What sort of work can you do here that doesn’t require you be at the club?”

  “I have a meeting with the partners tomorrow. I’m trying to organize my thoughts.”

  “What are they? Your thoughts?”

  “I’m not quite sure as I’ve yet to organize them.”

  Blinking, she stepped back. “I’m sorry.”

  “No.” He held up his hand, cursing himself for his terse words earlier. “I stayed here because I expected it to be quieter than the club, and I need to concentrate.”

  “Perhaps I should go elsewhere.”

  “No, I—” I want you here. “I’ve already built a fire, and it’s cozy over there with the new chairs. You should enjoy them.”

  “I shall be as quiet as a dormouse.”

  She took the chair that was turned so it faced the desk. If he leaned forward slightly, he could see her clearly with her legs tucked beneath her, the pad on her lap, the pencil moving across the paper with a speed that should match that of his pen.

  Then she stopped, looked up, opened her mouth, and snapped it shut. He wasn’t near enough to see her blush, but he suspected it was there, a faint pink that hinted at warm passions. Perhaps a measure of embarrassment, because she’d been on the brink of d
isturbing him with a comment or a question. She returned to her drawing.

  He tried to return to his notes, but he was acutely aware of her, of each of her movements, of her soft sighs, the faint scratch of her pencil, its falling into silence. Discreetly he would peer over to see her looking in his direction, gnawing on her lower lip. Sometimes it appeared she was carrying on a conversation with herself, in her mind, and he found himself yearning to know the thoughts that visited her.

  The cat that was supposed to keep her company had made itself a berth on a lower shelf. Not such a friendly creature after all, although he’d never favored cats. Dogs were more to his liking, even when they were big and clumsy and toppled him over. He hadn’t planned to dump Phee into the trough. Only carry her over, pretend his intentions were sinister, have her shriek for him to stop, and at the last moment set her feet on the ground. Instead, Rose had ensured he got what he wanted—Phee’s laughter wafting around him. It didn’t matter that he’d been soaked and made to look the fool. Her eyes had sparkled, her smile bright. He thought he could fall in love with this woman. Only what a disaster that would be.

  Scraping back his chair, he stood.

  “Are you finished?” she asked.

  He hadn’t even begun, but suddenly he wanted this time with her. He walked over to the table in the corner, poured whiskey into two glasses, wandered over to where she sat, and handed her one before taking the chair opposite hers.

  “Careful,” he warned. “It can burn going down if you’re not used to it.”

  She brought it to her nose, inhaled deeply, took a small swallow, smiled the smile he was coming to love. “It’s very familiar. I’ve had it before. Was I wicked once, do you think?”

  Where she was concerned he didn’t know what to think any longer. “Perhaps.”

  She took a sip of the whiskey, licked her lips in a manner that made his throat go dry.

  “Did you get your thoughts organized?” she asked.

  They were more scattered than ever. “You were too distracting.”

  “I wasn’t talking.”

  “You were fidgeting.”

  With a sigh, she rolled her eyes. “I kept thinking of things to tell you, but I knew you wouldn’t appreciate it.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “I shouldn’t bother you with it.”

  Nothing about her was a bother. When had that happened? So slowly, so irrevocably. “I’d like to know what you’re drawing.”

  “All right then. I’ve been designing your front parlor.”

  Leaning back, he stretched out his legs. “My parlor?”

  She nodded with enthusiasm, but he was beginning to realize she did everything with enthusiasm. “I don’t know why but when I walk into one of the empty rooms, I can envision how it should look. So I thought if I sketched it out that it might help you when it came time to furnish the room.”

  “What should my parlor look like?”

  “At first, I thought it should be bright—yellow or lavender—but that’s not you. It needs to be dark, yet elegant. Black and gold, I think. Here, I’ll show you.” Setting aside her glass on the table beside the chair, she rose, walked over to him, leaned in, and held her pad in front of him.

  The front parlor she’d sketched was a remarkable likeness to the room in his residence. But it had furniture, a large mirror above the mantel, designs over the wall. She was explaining things but he was only catching fragments—black velvet, edged in wood, black and gold paper on the walls—because most of his attention was focused on her breast pressed against his shoulder. Soft and pliant. She wasn’t wearing a corset. Only thin material guarded her flesh from his touch, and he could dispense with it easily enough. If he reached up, cupped her breast, she would feel the heat of the fire that she built within him so easily. She was a temptress who didn’t know she possessed the power to turn him into a mindless dolt.

  When she was near, he couldn’t concentrate on anything save her: her fragrance, alabaster skin, flaxen hair. He wanted to unravel her braid, comb his fingers through the long strands. She didn’t need a silver-handled brush. His fingers would suffice. Over and over. A hundred strokes. A thousand if she wished it.

  Sometimes when he let his guard down, he would have flashes of images of the night he’d undressed her, when he had strived to be a gentleman. But the scoundrel within him had looked. He knew her long legs and narrow hips. He knew the flatness of her stomach. Or he thought he did. He’d been quick about removing her clothes, had taken no liberties, but he knew she was comprised of glorious satin.

  “Drake?” Her tone was terse, impatient. He lifted his gaze to her face, so near his, her brow deeply furrowed. “What do you think?”

  That I should like to carry you up to my bed again, only this time I would take long moments, hours, to undress you.

  Clearing his throat, he directed his attention back to the drawing. “It’s very nice.”

  Scoffing, she stepped away, and his tormented pleasure came to an end. Thank God. He’d come close to doing something they would no doubt both regret.

  “You’re only saying that to be kind. I’ve bored you with my prattling.” She returned to the large plush chair that had been made for a man’s comfort, and brought up her feet, tucking them beneath her. Curled as she was, she reminded him of a cat, with her oval green eyes, exotic in the way they captured the flames from the fire and glittered.

  “No, I do like it. I can see it quite clearly. You’ve put a lot of thought into it.”

  She angled her head, studied him, sipped the whiskey. He didn’t want to admit that he could see himself doing this every night, being with her, whether with words or without. She was turning his world, his expectations upside down, inside out.

  “It’s not really my place, I suppose. Your wife will no doubt want to decorate the rooms to her taste.”

  “I’ve told you that I don’t have a wife.”

  “But you will one day.”

  “No. You and I are alike in that regard: I have no intention of marrying.”

  “Why ever not?”

  It was such a simple question with such a complicated answer.

  “My bloodline needs to end with me.”

  “That seems a rather drastic reason.”

  But there was more to it than that, and he could tell by the arching of her delicate brow that she suspected as much. For once, she wasn’t questioning, poking, prodding, insisting that he provide information. She was merely waiting, giving him time, giving him room. It was so easy to forget who she was, the true nature of their relationship. He could ignore her if she were nagging at him, harping, tilting up that bent little nose and staring down it at him.

  But she was looking at him levelly, equally. Not a servant to her master, not a highborn lady to street-born man. Almost a friend to a friend, or perhaps something a little more. He wasn’t quite certain how to define what was between them anymore. Perhaps it defied definition because much of it wasn’t real, but was simply a farce, a ruse, a deception.

  He should tell her the truth of who she was now while whiskey warmed her blood, relaxed her thoughts. But he’d held so much in regarding his own truth for so long, a burden he’d not dared speak about to anyone, a weight beneath which he sometimes felt he might suffocate. For who would truly understand? Perhaps she who was now almost a blank slate.

  Leaning forward, he dug his elbows into his thighs and held his glass between both hands, noting how the liquid paled and darkened, depending how the light from the fire hit it. Life was comprised of the same shadows, weaving in and out. He’d spent too much time with the shadows.

  He shifted his gaze to the shelf, to the box that contained his heritage. “You asked me about Robert Sykes.”

  “The murderer.”

  He brought his attention back to bear on her. He wanted to trust her, wanted to believe that this woman residing in his residence was the true Lady O. That the other had been a fabrication of Society. Steadily holding her gaze, h
e spoke the words he’d never uttered aloud.

  “He was my father.”

  Phee fought not to show any reaction, but she was fairly certain she’d grown pale because her skin suddenly felt cold and clammy. “How old were you when he … died?”

  “I was eight when he was hanged.”

  He said the words so casually, as though he’d just informed her of his age the last time his father went out for a walk.

  “I overheard the servants talking about the hanging that was to take place the following day. I collected newspapers for days and hoarded them away. I couldn’t read, but I knew that one day I would and if there was anything about my father in the paper, I wanted it. It was perhaps a year and a half later when I clipped that article”—he jerked his head toward the shelves where he’d placed the box after she’d discovered it—“hid it away. I never wanted to forget from whence I’d come, never wanted to forget that I came from brutish stock.”

  “What of your mother?”

  Leaning back, he took a long swallow of his whiskey. “He killed her.”

  She was horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

  He met her gaze. “It wasn’t your doing. I’m the one who failed her.”

  He was so damned calm about the whole thing. She wanted to get up and shake him, make him show some reaction, but then she noticed the hand holding the glass, the knuckles so white from his grip that she could see the outline of his bones. She was surprised the glass didn’t shatter. He wasn’t at all unaffected by the tale.

  “How could you have possibly failed her?”

  “He would hit her.” He shook his head. “No, hit is too tame a word. Beat her. He would beat her. His hands balled into meaty fists.” He held up one of his hands, turned it over, turned it back, examining it. “I have his hands.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Those are your hands. They’ve nothing at all to do with him.”

  He lifted his gaze to hers, and she could see anguish within the dark depths. “You hurtled yourself at a man for mistreating a horse. I should have done the same to my father when he took his fists to my mother, but I cowered in a corner, afraid that if he remembered I was about, those massive paws would land on me next.”