“I laugh.”
With a wry smile, she peered up at him. “No. Your throat rumbles but you don’t laugh. I’m talking about the sort that causes your belly to ache and makes it difficult to draw in breath. The kind that brings tears to your eyes and lasts forever. It makes you feel so good that you don’t want it to stop. When someone hears you laugh they start laughing. They don’t even know why you began chuckling in the first place. It’s the best sort of contagion. Better than gossip or snide remarks. It makes you glad to be alive. I’ve not heard you laugh like that.”
He wasn’t certain if he ever had, not to that extent. Oh, he’d certainly joined in laughing with his family from time to time, but tears in his eyes? Tears were not for men. Even tears of mirth. But he would laugh when her memory returned and she realized all she’d done in his company. He’d laugh then.
But he doubted it would make his sides ache, or his breath catch, or his eyes water. It wouldn’t be joyful. It would be revengeful.
Phee didn’t deserve it. But when her memories returned, she’d fade away and leave Ophelia standing there. And Lady O deserved a bit of time in his company. He would not feel guilty about it, and he’d keep telling himself that until it became true.
However, before her memories returned, he hoped to God he heard her laugh like that. He thought it might very well be a sound he’d carry with him until the day he died. But once she recalled everything he’d certainly never hear it again. He imagined looking at her across a room, catching her gaze, reminding her that he knew her laugh. That once she’d given it to him freely. It might hold more value than her washing his back.
“What would make you laugh?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not something you can force. I fear you know nothing at all about laughter if you think you can.”
He knew dark and dangerous things. Laughter was far removed from his world. Laughter had been part of the Mabry family. His father had laughed, but it had been a cruel sound. He almost told her about his father. Almost. But the risk was too great that she would use the knowledge against him. That she would catch his eye across a crowded ballroom and give him a look that said, I know your darkest secrets.
She stopped walking, half of her lost in shadows. He wondered if he was all shadow to her. He needed to remain an enigma. Needed to maintain the upper hand. Releasing her hold on him, she faced him. “I need to confess something.”
“You remember?” He didn’t know why he was at once disappointed, but relieved.
“No, I think this exercise as you call it is going to prove futile. However, you should know that I didn’t prepare the pheasant. Mrs. Pratt did.”
“Who the devil is Mrs. Pratt?”
“Mrs. Turner’s cook.”
“And who the devil is Mrs. Turner?”
“The widow who lives next door,” she said. “I asked her cook to prepare the pheasant.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that earlier?”
“Because I’ve not been able to do much correctly, not anything that you’ve noticed at least, and I just wanted something I did to impress you, something that didn’t have you grumbling at me.”
“I don’t grumble.”
“Of course you do. I prepared you a lovely bath. You didn’t even bother to thank me for it. You simply snapped at me because I hurt my hands doing it.”
Had he? He had. Was he no better than she?
“So I took the credit for dinner,” she continued, “because I liked the way it felt to do something right. Although of course I’m not the one who did it.”
“The cook prepared the pheasant with no recompense?”
She lifted her shoulders up to her ears, dropped them back down. “I shall beat rugs for her tomorrow.”
“The bloody hell you will. You can’t hold a broom with those hands.”
“Of course I can.”
“Don’t be stubborn about this, Phee. Talk to her, find out what her services are worth, and I’ll pay her.”
“But you shouldn’t have—”
“It’ll come out of your salary.”
“Oh.” That stopped her protests cold, but she didn’t seem particularly happy about it. “If you would hire a cook you would pay her and it wouldn’t come out of my salary.”
“No, it wouldn’t. You’re quite right. I’ll pay her out of my pocket.” Which he would have done anyway since he wasn’t really giving her a salary. The argument was moot but quite fun. He shook his head. He didn’t want to have fun with her.
“Perhaps we should have her prepare all our dinners,” Phee mused. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind the extra income. It was tasty pheasant. You said so yourself.”
“All our dinners? And what will you do with your day?”
“According to Mrs. Beeton, quite a bit. I shall talk with Mrs. Pratt on the morrow. And you need not worry. I shall ensure the terms are fair.”
As though she’d know what terms were fair. Narrowing his eyes, he couldn’t help but believe she’d manipulated him somehow. But he didn’t care. He wouldn’t take this victory from her. He liked too much the way triumph lit her eyes. They held no arrogance, but a spot of teasing. She had manipulated him. He was rather sure of it.
The question was: Why wasn’t he angry about it?
She was quite right. The exercise had proven futile. She knew buildings: Buckingham Palace, Parliament, the Clock Tower. She recognized the clanging of Big Ben. But beyond that, she recalled little.
“Perhaps it would be different if we went during the day,” she said as they entered the foyer. He’d ordered the hansom cab driver to wait, so she knew he was going to head to his club, to see to his duties there. She wished he’d stay here, that he’d ward off the nightmares she feared were lurking in the shadows of her mind, ready to spring as soon as she drifted into slumber. Turning, she faced him. “But I don’t think so. I appreciate your efforts, though. I know my situation is quite bothersome. You hired a competent servant, and find yourself burdened with one who can’t even recall how to properly polish furniture.”
“You’re not a burden. You’re safe here in this residence. You know that, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes. It’s one of those odd things I know by instinct. I knew the moment I opened my eyes and saw you. Even though I didn’t remember who you were.”
“Phee …” It appeared he intended to say more, but he merely shook his head. “I must return to the club. Sleep well, sleep late.”
“According to Mrs. Beeton, a body is supposed to arise early. It is the only way to accomplish anything of worth.”
The dimple formed in his cheek. “You’re truly reading that book?”
“I must earn my keep lest you let me go.”
“I’m not going to let you go.” He seemed startled and bothered by his words. He settled his hat on his head. “I must be off.”
He left then. She locked the door, leaned her back against it. She’d seen larger houses tonight, fancier ones, palaces. During odd moments, she’d envisioned herself inside them, waltzing. She imagined being courted by nobility. No doubt a dream shared by all housemaids.
Strange how she realized that it wasn’t what she wanted, wasn’t what she’d ever wanted. She’d wanted something … more. Pity she didn’t know what the more entailed.
Chapter 15
As the hansom rattled through the streets, Drake cursed himself. He’d nearly told her everything, everything he knew about her and who she was, everything she’d once known about him. But telling her meant ending the farce. Ending the farce meant her leaving his household.
He’d been quite arrested by her tonight. Her courage, her determination. Her description of laughter. He wanted it. Balling a fist, he pounded it against his thigh. He did not want to be intrigued by her, did not want to get to know this woman who lived in his residence. He wanted to be rid of her. And he would be as soon as he had a better grasp of how she’d come to be in the river.
The dri
ver pulled the cab to a stop in front of Dodger’s Drawing Room. For the first time in his life, Drake was not focused on his responsibilities here. He always worked from dusk until dawn and beyond. Phee was serving as a distraction he could ill afford. His obligations, his life took place within the walls of the gaming establishment. Beyond it, his life entailed eating, sleeping, existing. It was only at Dodger’s that he truly lived.
But he’d never laughed uproariously within those walls.
Suddenly he had an insatiable desire to laugh until his sides ached.
The hatch above his head opened and he handed up the money to the driver, who then released the latch on the door. Drake leaped out, charged up the steps, and crossed the threshold into the building that had the power to destroy and rebuild. Fortunes were lost here. Fortunes were made.
He’d taken only three long strides inside when he knew—knew—he was being watched. Jerking his gaze up to the shadowed balcony, he was unable to make out any form or figure, but he knew Jack Dodger was up there. The man’s presence was so bold and powerful that it could be felt even when he wasn’t visible. In his day he’d managed Dodger’s with an iron fist, and on occasion he returned to stretch his muscles. Tonight was apparently one of those occasions.
By the time Drake reached his office, Jack was sitting behind the desk pouring whiskey into two glasses. Even now, dressed in the finery of a gentleman, Jack had the look of the streets about him. Gray feathered through the dark hair at his temples. His eyes were dark, alert, assessing.
Drake wasn’t about to take the chair in front of the desk, to place himself in a subservient role. He was the overseer here, and while Jack might be the majority partner, the public face behind Dodger’s, Drake was now responsible for its management. Taking the offered glass, he walked over to the window and gazed out. Jack intimidated many, but not him. Like the man at the desk, Drake was a product of the streets. He was not one to be frightened, cowed, or bullied.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Drake said.
“That’s the whole point, to see how things are managed when one doesn’t know that I plan to stop by.”
Drake glanced over his shoulder and held Jack’s gaze. “And how do you find it managed?”
“Quite well. No complaints.” Shrugging, he leaned back in his chair. “Well, one perhaps. Membership to an American? The purpose here has always been to fleece the nobility—as legally as possible.”
Turning, facing the man fully, Drake pressed his shoulder to the hard edge of the window casing. “The nobility is not what it once was. Many are impoverished. Lord Randolph Churchill’s marriage to Jennie Jerome is going to change everything. Others will turn to the Americans to replenish their coffers. It seemed a sound business decision to get a jump on allowing them to replenish ours as well.”
Jack grinned. “So you’re going to allow more in?”
“As many as I can entice. Presently they are an untapped source of revenue.”
“More money in our pockets. I can’t complain.” Jack downed his whiskey.
Drake had yet to touch his. “Then why are you here?”
Jack set his empty glass down deliberately, yet slowly, so it didn’t make a sound. “When I ran the place, I spent a good deal of my time in the balcony, looking out over my fiefdom, feeling like a king. I don’t feel like a king so much anymore.”
“You will when you see the increase in profits. I have other plans I intend to implement. Your coffers will be overflowing.”
Jack narrowed his gaze. “Perhaps, but I’ve been thinking of late that Dodger’s has had a good run, but all runs must come to an end.”
Everything within Drake tightened, stilled. “You’re closing it?”
“You said it yourself: Times are changing.”
Drake took a step away from the window. “Yes, but we can adjust, adapt.”
Jack stood, tugged on his red brocade waistcoat. “I believe a meeting with the partners is in order. My residence. Friday next. Half past two. Bring your ideas. We’ll go from there.”
Drake stood in the balcony and gazed out over his fiefdom. He understood Jack’s sentiments because they so mirrored his. Only he couldn’t imagine any of this going away. He’d given years of his life to it. The majority of the hours of his days. Even after he’d purchased his residence, he usually slept here, ate here—until Phee. He’d been caught up in her and not devoting himself to the management of the club as he had before. Had Jack sensed his loyalty waning? It was only a temporary disruption. He could assure the partners of that without providing details regarding his distraction.
A distraction that even now called to him more than the sound of ivory and cards. He thought about returning to his residence to watch her sleep, but what sort of madness was it that he couldn’t go an hour without seeing her? He would return to his residence when his obligations here were finished. That he managed to get everything taken care of two hours sooner than usual was mere coincidence.
As he walked up the path to the door, he refused to acknowledge the disappointment he felt that his arrival hadn’t heralded Phee’s. She was no doubt still abed. He had not been anticipating her greeting him at the door, smiling at him. Damnation. Of course he had. He might not be completely honest with her, but it was imperative that he remain honest with himself. He could make up all the excuses he wanted for why he hadn’t sat her down and explained everything to her last night, but the truth was that he wasn’t quite ready to have her dislike him once again.
As he inserted his key, he noticed the sheen of the door. When had she polished it? Had the task contributed to the damage to her hands? He hadn’t expected her to embrace her duties.
Stepping over the threshold, he went in search of her. His bed was made, no evidence at all that she’d slept there. Except for her lingering fragrance, the true essence of her. He should purchase her some orchid-scented perfume. He went into the bathing chamber, halfway hoping he’d find her in the tub. He found only her brush, mirror, and comb set out neatly beside his. He realized her bedchamber contained no mirror. He should remedy that.
Why, he chastised himself, when he would be returning her home any day now?
But somehow her brush resting beside his looked … right. An odd thought. It didn’t look right at all. Because it was completely and unmistakably wrong. It didn’t belong there. She didn’t belong here. He would tell her all as soon as he located her. Perhaps the truth would return her memory, and he could determine if Somerdale was indeed speaking true about the blasted uncle and the ill aunt.
Phee wasn’t in her bedchamber. She couldn’t possibly be preparing him breakfast, as he’d arrived earlier than expected. Still he headed down to the kitchen and staggered to a stop in the doorway at the sight that greeted him.
Had Drake ever conjured up images of Ophelia on her knees, he’d have never pictured her as she was at that precise moment with her bottom tilted up in the air, moving forward and back, side to side as she scrubbed the stone floor of the kitchen. He imagined lying beneath her, having her engaged in those same motions above him, her clothing discarded, her breasts filling his hands.
Whatever was wrong with him? When had he ever considered bedding Lady O? The answer was simple. Never. She had never appealed to him—
Yet he had kissed her at the ball and been shaken to his core.
And now he couldn’t deny the enticing picture she made, so hard at work. He had to give her credit: when she set her mind to something, she gave it her all.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” he barked, more to bring himself back from his fantasy than to chastise her. “You’ll damage your hands further.”
Sitting back on her heels, she peered up at him and with a quick breath, blew the hair that had fallen across her brow, sending it off to the side. Why did that small action cause his gut to clench tightly? Then she smiled, and he almost dropped to his knees beside her.
“Good morning to you as well,” she said brightly.
“It won’t be such a good morning if you’re hurt.”
“I wrapped them with extra linen and I’m not putting them in the water, only the brush bristles.” She blew at the wispy strands again. “Shall I prepare you some breakfast?”
“An early luncheon would be better as I’m expecting a delivery of furniture at any moment.”
“Truly?”
“Assume if I tell you something that it’s true.” Even if the majority of what he’d told her thus far were lies.
“I can’t wait to see it,” she said with enthusiasm that unsettled him. “Which rooms?”
“The only ones I’m presently using. My bedchamber and the library.”
“Then I should sweep them, make them ready. I do wish you’d said something yesterday.” Quickly she shoved herself to her feet, but apparently she’d forgotten about the wet stone, because one of her feet flew out from beneath her, she reared back, her arms flailed—
Snaking one arm around her, he saved her from a hard tumble, had her pressed up flat against his body, and was staring into her wide green eyes. Why did they have to be so beautiful, like spring leaves after a bitter winter? If he wasn’t careful they’d seep into his soul, take root there. He’d never rid himself of her.
Ophelia he could gladly drag out of his residence kicking and screaming. But it wasn’t Ophelia in his arms at that moment. It was Phee.
For reasons he didn’t completely understand, he was loath to give her up. This woman possessed a warm smile, always seemed so damned glad to see him. He returned to the residence earlier than normal because he couldn’t stand to go another moment without seeing her, although he’d expected to find her still abed. But here she was scrubbing his floor and delighted by the prospect of the arrival of furniture. He wished he’d purchased enough for every room.
With his free hand, he cradled her cheek and stroked his thumb over the softness. The wayward strands of her hair had refallen across one eye but she refrained from blowing them back. He almost asked her to because he liked watching the movement of her lips, imagined her puffs of air stirring the hair at his temple, on his chest, his belly, lower. He almost growled. This woman in his arms left him in a perpetual state of needing to groan with want and desire.
Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 17