She awoke disoriented on sheets that weren’t quite as soft as those to which she was accustomed. The pillow was harder, the mattress firmer. She tried to latch on to what she could barely recall, but it was like trying to capture fog and it slipped through her grasp. Everything had slipped away, all of her memories, and yet …
The man was familiar. His scent, the strength in his arms. He was sitting in one of those awful hard chairs, his head tilted to one side, his eyes closed, long lashes resting on sharp cheekbones. His legs were outstretched, crossed at the ankles, his arms folded across his chest. She marveled that he hadn’t toppled to the floor. His neck would no doubt ache when he awoke. She would massage it when she washed his back.
Because he hadn’t left, because he’d kept watch as he had promised.
He shouldn’t have returned until after dawn, and yet he’d arrived last night when she needed him. It seemed he was always there to rescue her: when she was drowning, when she was cold and frightened, when dreams terrified her. How many other times had he been there? How many other times might he have consoled her and eased her fears?
He opened his eyes, and she found herself staring into the dark depths. So black that they should have been unsettling. Blacker than his hair, darker than the shadow on his jaw. Nothing about him was light or carefree. Everything had a dangerous edge to it, and yet she knew she was safe with him. Had she always known that or had she once been afraid?
He didn’t say anything. He simply studied her as though he wasn’t quite certain who she was or how she might respond to his presence.
“I’m rather embarrassed about the spectacle I made of myself last night,” she began.
“You shouldn’t be. Dreaming of monsters can be upsetting. Do you recall anything else?”
She was lying on her side, one hand beneath the pillow, the other curled around the blankets. She considered sitting up, but she thought any movement might break whatever spell was presently between them, creating an intimacy she didn’t understand. He hadn’t moved either, as though he sensed it as well.
“A man. He was trying to hurt me, and I was fending him off.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. He was shadow, dark, foreboding, sinister. No features. But he loomed over me. I was suffocating. I couldn’t move, and I wanted to. Desperately. I screamed but no sound escaped no matter how hard I tried to make the noise, so no one could hear me. I was terrified that this time he’d have his way.”
“This time?”
She sensed the alertness in him, as though his entire body had suddenly awoken. She rubbed her brow. “I must have had the dream before. Something about it was familiar. Or perhaps that was simply part of the dream, thinking that it had happened before. Perhaps a dream within a dream.”
“I want you to tell me if you remember anything else about it, about the attacker.”
She couldn’t help but form a smile. “Are you a dream slayer then?”
He was looking at her as though he’d never seen her before. He blinked, looked down at his bare feet. His shirt was as it had been yesterday, loose and unbuttoned. But now she knew the corded muscles he hid beneath it, the ink that resided just below the surface.
A corner of his mouth finally curled up. “I’m not but the dragon on my back is.”
“Is that why you had him inked? You had nightmares as well?”
He was studying her intently again, and she thought he might not answer. Yet she wanted him to, badly. She wanted to know everything about him, everything she’d forgotten. While she understood—but could scarcely accept—that she worked for him, she couldn’t help but believe a bit more existed between them. They had some sort of history. She was certain of it, because why else would she not be alarmed that she was in his bed, with his linen shirt gathered at her hips, her legs bare while he was sitting there completely comfortable with half his clothing gone? It involved more than the fact that she bathed his back. While that had created a startling closeness, she knew the familiarity wasn’t foreign to them.
In spite of their lack of attire, her bare legs, his bare feet, he wouldn’t suddenly pounce onto the bed, he wouldn’t take advantage. She knew that, but how the devil did she know?
It was so frustrating to know only pieces of him when she wanted to know the whole.
He unfolded his arms, leaned forward, planted his elbows on his thighs, and met her gaze. “During my time on the streets, I witnessed horrors that still sometimes visit my dreams. When I was younger, I did have the rather juvenile thought that the dragon would fend them off.” His lips formed a self-deprecating smile that caused her chest to tighten. “But I’ve come to believe that only we can conquer our demons.”
“Have you conquered yours?”
“Not to my satisfaction.”
“Are we not also our own worst critics?”
“Perhaps.”
“We always want something different from what we have.” She furrowed her brow. “Why do I think—no, why do I know that with certainty? I wanted something different, but what did I want?”
He didn’t say anything, only held her gaze as though he had the power to draw the memory, the truth, from her. She trusted those eyes, the depths of them, the sincerity. He was not a man who ridiculed or taunted.
“I believe I may have unraveled the mystery of my clothes,” she said.
One dark brow shot up. “Oh?”
She didn’t know if he was reacting to her sharp change in topic or was truly interested in the answer. “I must have packed everything into a valise that night, all except the most hideous of my clothing. I must have lost it in the river. That’s why I have no apron or nightdress. Although I don’t know why I didn’t leave the apron behind, because I think I was striving to escape this life. As I see no value in it.”
“The life of a servant?” he asked, as though she could possibly be speaking about something else.
“Yes. I can’t imagine awakening every morning and knowing that my day would be naught but dealing with dust and dirt.”
“The value in it is a salary, satisfaction in a job well done. Ensuring a residence is pleasant to live in. The family with whom I lived—they were well off. One must eat. They could have prepared their meals. Instead they hired someone to do it for them. While that person cooked, they were out doing good works. The cook, while preparing nourishment for them, allowed them to have the time to do their good works. It’s all interconnected, it all has value. If you’re not seeing it, it’s because you’re not looking at it properly.”
His words were laced with passion, his voice teeming with it.
“I spend long hours providing entertainment for gentlemen,” he continued. “Having a servant means that I’m not distracted by household concerns. I can concentrate on increasing profits. More profits means we can hire more employees so more men can provide for their families. They purchase more meat for their table so the butcher has more income. He buys more meat. The farmer has more income. I could go on but I believe I’ve made my point. It may seem but a small drop, but it ripples out and affects so many. You may not see it, but even the lowliest servant has value, purpose, worth. Everyone has a place and none of those places should be diminished.”
As though suddenly embarrassed, he closed his eyes, shook his head, and leaned back. She wondered if she’d been aware of all the points he’d made, if she’d agreed with them. But if she had why would she have been running away?
Although in truth she didn’t know if she had been. She was only speculating about her clothing. It was the only explanation that made sense.
“I suppose I should get to it then, shouldn’t I?” she asked.
“I’ll prepare breakfast for you while you dress.” He unfolded his long, sinewy body, and an image of him prowling toward her flashed through her mind, kicking her heart against her ribs. It was an incongruous thought that didn’t fit with the man before her, the man she knew, but then how well did she really know him? A day o
f memories was hardly sufficient to create a complete picture, and yet he’d been patient and understanding. Quite remarkable when in essence he’d lost his housekeeper.
He strode from the room, his movements neither stiff nor formal, but relaxed. He was in his element here, although she suspected he was within his element everywhere. He wore confidence like a cloak.
Tossing aside the covers, she scrambled out of bed. While it was disconcerting to know no more than she did, it was also reassuring to consider that he valued her, that she could lighten the load he carried.
As Drake slammed pots around the kitchen, he soundly cursed himself, wondering what the devil had possessed him to utter such nonsense about value, and purpose, and worth. He believed it of course, absolutely. But to wax on boringly about it was beyond comprehension. It was as though he was striving to beat the sentiment into her, to make her understand that her pedestal only remained upright because of the work of others. Ironically, she didn’t know she’d placed herself on the blasted pedestal.
To make matters worse he was preparing the damned creamed eggs for her. He’d spoken to the cook at Dodger’s about them and received the directions. They weren’t all that difficult to make as he whipped them around the pan, adding cream, butter, and seasoning. But still, she was supposed to be cooking for him. That had been the plan. To have her waiting on him.
But when she looked at him so innocently, so trustingly, with her hand tucked beneath the pillow, the collar of his shirt turned up against her neck, lying all snug in his bed, he felt this irrational urge to protect and care for her. The ludicrousness of all this was not lost on him. Yet he couldn’t return her home, not yet, not until he heard from his man, until he was certain that he wasn’t leading her to the lion’s den. Nothing made sense, especially his desire to please her at breakfast. He should feed her nothing except toast and water, should make her realize that not everyone had the luxury of creamed eggs—of any sort of eggs.
“Creamed eggs?”
The wonder in her voice had him glancing back. She looked positively delighted. Her face was still pink from the morning scrubbing she’d no doubt given it. Her plaited hair draped over one shoulder. She wore the other dress he’d found in the missionary bin. It draped off her like a sack. He fought back the notion that she deserved better, that she deserved morning gowns that outlined every dip and curve. That she deserved clothes sewn just for her figure.
“I thought after the night you had that a little treat was in order. Don’t get used to it.” He poured the mixture over the toast he’d prepared earlier and set the plate on the table.
“Aren’t you joining me?” she asked.
“No. I’m going out for a bit to see to some matters. I expect you to begin managing your chores while I’m gone.”
“You are quite the tyrant, aren’t you?”
Teasing laced her voice and he didn’t like the way that it made his chest feel tight and uncomfortable. “I’ve been lax because of your situation but understand that I expect an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”
She pleated her brow. “I suppose all that is subjective.”
“My subjectivity is all that matters since I’m the one paying for the services. Now, enjoy your meal and then see to the dishes.”
He charged up the stairs and into his bedchamber. Of course, the bed linens were still askew, the pillow had yet to be fluffed, so it carried the imprint of her head. He was tempted to cross over and straighten everything, but it was her job. He’d leave it to her.
In the bathing chamber, he found water in a bowl, none in the pitcher, so he used the water she’d used to wash up. He reached for his brush, halted, his fingers only inches away from it. Long blond strands were woven throughout the bristles, just as they’d been yesterday. The intimacy of it was unsettling. Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he decided that would do for now. He donned fresh clothing. It wouldn’t do to arrive at Mabry House untidy, to give the appearance that his life was suddenly unsettled.
Chapter 11
The first time Drake entered Mabry House, it had been through the chimney flue. He’d been Peter Sykes that night. His father hoisted him up into a tree, and then as nimbly as a little monkey, he scrambled up the branches until he was able to leap onto the roof, where he made his way to the chimney, and down he went.
The duke, in residence at the time, had caught him. While he hadn’t managed to unlock the door to let in his father, he had enjoyed a feast of meat pies and been introduced to Frannie Darling. Because of her and the duke his life had taken an unexpected turn.
Now he walked boldly through the front door without knocking. He had a room within the residence, had grown up within these walls as well as at the duke’s numerous estates.
“Master Drake,” the butler said. “They’re already in the breakfast dining room.”
Of course they were. He was late for his weekly morning visit. “Thank you, Boyer.”
He wandered down the familiar hallways, stopping once to gaze on the portrait that featured the duke and duchess and all their children. Drake stood at the end, a head taller than the others. They had never differentiated between him and their true children, had never made him feel as though he wasn’t part of the family. They had given him a great gift; he understood that readily enough. They had embraced him. Yet when he studied the painting, he saw himself on the outer edge, included but holding himself separate.
He marched on. The doors to the breakfast dining room stood open. Only a few steps in after crossing the threshold, he was enveloped by the duchess, who had come out of her chair before anyone could assist her. For as long as he’d known her, she always greeted children—her own and every orphan who crossed her path—with a hug. Whether they were returning from a term at school or a jaunt to the park. Her arms wrapped tightly around him as though she wanted to hold him forever, but as always, she eventually let him go. Let them all go, even though he knew how difficult it was for her.
“I was beginning to worry,” she said, her blue eyes scanning his features, striving to determine if something was amiss.
“Just running a tad behind this morning.”
“Rexton said you left the club last night.”
Looking over her shoulder, he glared at the Greystone heir, who merely shrugged. “I went to see you after the game ended, and you weren’t about.”
“Just some business. Nothing to worry over.”
“Then prepare your plate,” the duchess insisted, “and join us at the table.”
If she wasn’t hugging them, she was stuffing food into them. Like him, she was not a stranger to hunger. The sideboard was laden with all sorts of offerings, the aromas wafting around him. Quite suddenly he realized he was famished. He refused to feel guilty because he’d left Ophelia with nothing more than creamed eggs and toast. Hadn’t she said it was what she preferred? No sense in giving her an assortment of choices when most would be discarded. Although he knew that whatever was left over here would be taken to a mission to be served to the poor.
After heaping an assortment of selections onto his plate, he took his usual chair beside the duchess. Andrew, the spare, sat across from him. The duke sat at the head of the table, with Rexton to his left, beside Drake. The chair to the duke’s right was Grace’s. It was odd to see it empty.
“Have you heard from Grace or Lovingdon?” Drake asked.
“No,” the duchess said, “and I doubt we will until they return in a fortnight, which is the way it should be.”
“They’re so disgustingly in love,” Andrew said.
“With any luck you will be as well one day,” the duke said.
“I don’t need an heir, so I’ll never marry. Drake and I are going to be bachelors until our dying days, aren’t we, Drake?” he asked.
“That’s the plan,” he admitted.
“We swore to it,” he said. At twenty-one he was young and full of himself. Drake couldn’t recall ever feeling that young. He’d always bee
n older in experience as well as years.
“That’s a silly thing to swear to,” the duchess said. “You can’t control your hearts.”
“Your mother has the right of it there,” the duke said, smiling softly. “Love will have its way.”
In the beginning, Drake had marveled at the kindness the duke had shown his wife. He never yelled at her, never raised his fist to her, never strove to intimidate her. They discussed issues; her opinion was as important as his. For no reason at all, he plucked flowers to give to her, bought her gifts, and spent an amazing amount of time kissing her. Drake appreciated the softness that lit her eyes whenever the duke walked into a room, the sweetness of her laughter. He had no memory of his own mother’s laughter. He knew her tears, her pleading, her screams. Under the duke’s influence, it hadn’t taken him long to come to the realization that his father had been a brute. And that a man treated his wife better than he himself wanted to be treated.
A niggle of guilt regarding Ophelia pricked his conscience but he ignored it. Unlike the duchess, she didn’t treat people kindly, she didn’t engage in good works, she didn’t put others before herself. He’d caught her berating servants, knew she was easily displeased. Patience and appreciation of others were strangers to her. She cared only for her own wants, comfort, and pleasure.
She cried out in her sleep.
“So how goes business at Dodger’s?” the duchess asked, interrupting his thoughts, thank God.
“Profits are up ten percent this month,” he said, digging into his eggs Benedict. “I approved the membership of an American.”
“American?” Rexton repeated. “Good God, does Dodger know?”
“I didn’t seek his permission before making my decision, if that’s what you’re asking,” Drake said. “The American is embarrassingly wealthy, enjoys gambling now and again, and increases our profits. From what I understand, more Americans are beginning to spend their time in London as they strive to marry their daughters off to the peerage.” He gave Rexton a pointed look. “Perhaps you’ll even marry one. I hear they rather like dukes.”
Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 11