It was ludicrous to yearn for her touch when he knew what a spoiled, bored miss she truly was. But this woman wasn’t spoiled. She was something he didn’t understand. She affected his judgment, made it questionable. She had him doing things he didn’t normally do. She had him doubting his little act of revenge. She had him wanting what he couldn’t have, not for the long term. When her memories returned, so would the woman he could scarcely stomach. But for now she was nowhere in sight, for now her breasts were flattened against his chest and she didn’t protest. Her bandaged hands rested on his shoulders, her eyes searched his. She didn’t flinch at his touch. She merely waited.
She would have been better served by protesting.
He lowered his mouth to hers. She welcomed him, parting her lips, giving him access to the honeyed depths. She tasted the same, the shape of her mouth was as he remembered, but the eagerness of her tongue as it parried with his was new. The sweet sigh, the low moan, the rising up on her toes as though she couldn’t get enough, as though she craved more—that was new. Her fingers scraped along his scalp, her arms tightened around his neck. He deepened the kiss, exploring each nook and cranny with a freedom that had been lacking before. He took his time, reveling in every aspect. Her enthusiasm matched his. She wasn’t shy or repulsed or horrified.
He knew she wouldn’t exhibit any of those emotions when he pulled back, but he wasn’t quite ready to end the kiss, not just yet. It was wrong of him; he was taking advantage, but he couldn’t quite care that he was exhibiting not only bad behavior, but horrendous judgment. Surely, eventually, her memory would return. She would remember this kiss. He was determined that she would remember it.
That she would recall her tongue sweeping through his mouth, her body moving against his as though she could crawl inside him, the tightness with which she held him near. She would know that his mouth had been latched on to hers for long minutes, devouring, possessing, conquering. She was willingly taking what he was offering. No slapping this time. No fury. No cutting words.
He should have felt triumphant. Instead he questioned who was truly winning here.
Drawing back, he fell into the green depths of her eyes, marveling as the wonder reflected there slowly evolved into suspicion.
“You kissed me before,” she said quietly. “I remember. Is that the reason I ran away?”
Slowly he released her. It hadn’t occurred to him that kissing her would cause her to remember him or at least something she’d shared with him.
“I don’t know why you ran away.” Truth. Or even if she had run away. Although it seemed more likely that she had—from either Somerdale or Wigmore. Neither had reported her missing, so her disappearance was going to reflect badly on one of them. But which one?
“But we have kissed before,” she said, more statement than question.
“Yes.”
“Is there something between us?”
How did he answer that? Dislike, distrust, pride—his, perhaps hers—was between them. “Anything between us would be inappropriate.”
“Of course. You’re a gentleman; I’m a servant.” She angled her chin, squared her shoulders. “Thank you for rescuing me from the tumble.”
“I’m certain you would have caught your balance.”
“Why do you never take credit for your kindnesses?”
Because I’m not kind and you’ll realize that soon enough. She brought out the worst in him. She surely did.
A hard knock on the door saved him from having to answer. Thank goodness. Not that he would have, but a distraction from her questions was in order and he welcomed this one. He opened the door to a bulk of a man.
“Mr. Darlin’? We’ve got yer furniture, sir.”
Through the gate, he could see the large wagon in the mews. “Bring it in.”
Stepping back, he glanced at Phee. “They shouldn’t be here long, if you’d rather be elsewhere in the residence.”
“I can see to it if you like. Besides, I’m rather curious as to whether I was correct in my assessment regarding the type of furniture you would select.”
“I had this furniture specially made.”
A corner of her mouth eased up, teasing in her eyes. “Heavy wood. Dark. Mahogany, I’d wager. Dark fabrics. Burgundy. Perhaps forest green.”
He didn’t much like that she was spot-on with her assessment. Ophelia never would have known him so well. Or had she? Was that the reason that she’d always known how to rattle him?
“Very astute, Miss Lyttleton.” He realized his mistake too late, when her eyes widened and her mouth—that very kissable mouth that was still swollen from his kiss—formed a slight O.
“Lyttleton. I never thought to inquire regarding my surname. Phee Lyttleton. Do you know what the Phee is short for?”
It might assist her in regaining her memory, in recalling what happened that night. And with her memory, she would know him for the bastard he was. “Ophelia.”
She scowled. “A character from Shakespeare. I can remember something insignificant but not recall my name. It is the oddest thing.”
A bang sounded as one of the deliverymen misjudged the width of the door opening.
“Careful there,” Drake barked. He’d paid good money for that sofa.
Phee squeezed his arm, her face a wreath of delight. “Burgundy. I knew it. I’ll remember everything I know about you before long.”
Dear God, he hoped not.
Ophelia’s assertive nature had always irritated Drake, but as he stood off to the side in the library allowing her to be in charge, he could not help but be impressed and to see the benefit of having at his disposal a lady who was not a wallflower. The duchess and Grace were equally confident but they were tempered with warmth and softness that he’d always found lacking in Ophelia.
But Phee was not overly cocky. She simply knew exactly how the furniture should be arranged and was intent on having the deliverymen set it in place to her satisfaction. What amazed him was that she correctly identified which pieces belonged in which room, which gave him the unsettling thought that they had similar tastes. The furniture for the sitting area in his bedchamber had already been carted upstairs. Now they were arranging a sitting area in front of the fireplace in the library.
Phee pointed, here, there. She gave orders, the tone of her voice allowing for no disobedience. She might not remember who she was but what she was reverberated through every fiber of her being, and for once he admired it.
He imagined her sitting in one of the chairs that she’d had set before the fireplace, he in the other, carrying on a discussion in a civilized manner with no tartness in her voice, no upturn of her nose as though she’d caught scent of a ghastly smell. He imagined her laughing, making him laugh.
From the moment he’d learned the treasures that a woman’s body held, he’d never contemplated extending the pleasure into something more permanent, had never considered taking a wife. He liked the solitude of his life, liked not having to share the dark thoughts that sometimes troubled him. He savored the decision to not carry on the heritage his father had passed on to him. He’d grown up in a family where births, deaths, marriages were recorded. On cold winter nights, they would gather before a fire in the parlor and the Duke of Greystone would wax on about his ancestors and their accomplishments. He had instilled in his children an appreciation for those who had come before them.
Drake had no such tales of his ancestors to share. He had known only his father, his mother. His father brutal, his mother weak. One did not tell children about large hands wrapped around a slender neck. Sometimes when he looked down at his own large hands, he wondered if a woman would be truly safe from them. What if he was more like his father than he realized? What if his temper flared, what if he struck out with his fists?
What if he couldn’t control his anger?
He’d once threatened to kill Lovingdon if he hurt Grace. He’d meant the words. He knew he was capable of destroying a man. Others knew it as well. It was the r
eason that he managed Dodger’s with such success. No one wanted to have a confrontation with him. Although he suspected one was waiting when he discovered who was responsible for Phee’s dip into the river. He thought it very unlikely that it had been her choice.
She came to stand beside him. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Perfect.”
She smiled up at him, clearly pleased by his word. Those smiles were an addiction. Having seen one in its true form, he wanted to see a thousand, a million. He wanted to be the reason for them.
Obviously he was overwrought and overtired. He’d not had a good day’s sleep since he’d found her. His thinking was off-kilter. He saw the driver and his assistant out. When he returned to the library, he found her sitting in the chair, a book on her lap, her eyes closed.
“Taking a holiday today?” he asked.
Slowly she opened her eyes. Even more slowly her lips curled up into a smile that nearly dropped him to his knees.
“Simply testing it out. It’ll be much lovelier with a fire this evening.”
For the first time since he’d begun working at Dodger’s more than a decade earlier, he regretted that his nights were spoken for, that he couldn’t give them to her.
Straightening, she moved to the edge of chair. Her smile withered, her features settled into somberness. “You said anything between us would be inappropriate, but you didn’t exactly say nothing was between us.”
Were they back to that now? He thought they’d ended the unwanted conversation.
“Are we lovers?” she continued.
“No. We’ve only kissed twice and in both circumstances, I took advantage of an opportunity. It won’t happen again. You’re safe here, Phee. I would never force myself on you.”
“I’m not quite sure it’s you I’m worried about in that regard. I rather liked it.”
He didn’t know what to say. This woman, her candor. She had to represent Ophelia’s very soul. How had he never seen beneath the surface? How had he never understood what a complicated creature she was?
His original lie, implying she was a servant, was a travesty. He needed to tell her the truth now. He would live with the consequences. He needed to help her remember, needed to assist her in determining what had happened that night. He was halfway to the chair opposite hers when he heard the ringing of the bell signaling someone at the front door.
“That’ll be Marla,” Phee said, coming to her feet in one smooth movement.
“Marla?”
She gave him an exasperated look. “Do you not pay attention to my words? She’s the housemaid across the way.”
“Right, with the cook who is going to prepare our dinners.”
“Better. She’s going to teach me how to prepare them. I decided this morning that you hired me to cook your meals so I must have known how to do it at one time. I should think it would come back fairly quickly.”
Perhaps if there were something to come back. “Phee—”
He’d never seen such anticipation in her eyes before. He wanted it to stay there, didn’t want to be the one to douse it.
The ringer sounded again.
“I must get that before she gives up and goes on without me. We’re going to the market. I’m looking quite forward to fresh tomatoes and asparagus.”
He doubted she had a clue regarding what fresh tomatoes and asparagus should look like. She was accustomed to having it served to her, not selecting it from a bin.
“But I don’t know how much I’m allowed to spend,” she continued.
“I’ll get you some coins while you open the door.”
She smiled brightly. “Thank you.”
Then she was rushing by him, their discussion regarding the kiss apparently forgotten. Her step contained a lightness he’d never before seen. So much about her was a revelation. He went to a shelf, pressed the wall behind it, releasing a door that matched the woodwork. Withdrawing a key from his pocket, he opened the safe and removed some money. He wasn’t concerned that anyone in this area of London would recognize her. Certainly no one would look into the happy face of a servant and see a lady of quality.
She was back in a flash, her apron gone, her braid wreathing her head. She needed a hat. Ladies didn’t go out without a hat.
He handed her the pouch. “It’s a goodly sum. If you require personal items, purchase them.”
“I shall be frugal.”
He was surprised she knew the word. “Buy what you need. I’m not a pauper.”
“You’re irritated with me again.”
“No, I just—” Fear I’ve done you a disservice. “Do be careful.”
“I shall stay clear of the river.” That smile again, the one she’d given him from the chair, the one that made him want to take her in his arms and ensure no harm ever came to her.
He escorted her into the hallway where a young woman with dark hair and startling blue eyes bobbed a quick curtsy as soon as she saw him.
“No need to curtsy for me, girl,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll wake you for your bath,” Phee said, before brushing by him and leading—Marla, was it?—out the door.
In three quick strides, he was at the entryway window gazing out. The ladies were walking toward the street. Marla said something, Phee smiled. She would be fine. No one would accost her, no one would recognize her. All would be well.
He was exhausted. He needed his sleep. He had the club to worry over. And his own future should the partners indeed decide that it had outlived its usefulness. He’d taken three steps toward the stairs before turning on his heel, retrieving his hat, and heading out. He wasn’t going to interfere, but he intended to follow them. She was his responsibility.
He was beginning to wish he’d left her in the bloody Thames.
Chapter 16
“He is a handsome devil,” Marla said as they walked along the street. “Much better to see him up close, rather than looking at him through the window. So large. I don’t know if I’ve ever known anyone as tall as him.”
“I barely noticed,” Phee lied. She hadn’t expected Marla to be so enamored of Drake. He was all she’d spoken of since they left the house. She wondered what Marla would think if she confessed that he kissed her. But she knew that kisses were not to be talked about. Like everything, she didn’t know how she knew, but she knew it would put her reputation at risk. But who was there to care?
“He seems rather dark and brooding, though,” Marla said. “Like Heathcliff.”
Wuthering Heights. Phee almost shouted out the title. She knew the character. She knew the book. She had feared she’d appear to be somewhat of a nitwit on this outing. But she decided she could hold her own. More, though, she wanted to shop. Had this intense yearning to purchase something.
Now she had coins jangling in her pocket—she needed a reticule. And a hat. And gloves. Good Lord, she was out in public without gloves.
“Before we get to the market, will we pass any shops?” she asked.
“Yes, just over there.” Marla pointed, although houses prevented Phee from seeing any shops. “I like to look in the windows.”
“Don’t you go inside?”
“Hardly ever. No point in it when I won’t be buying.”
“Why don’t you purchase things?”
“I have to put away my money for a rainy day.”
“You shop when it rains? Are the prices better then?”
Marla laughed. “No, it’s an expression. Do you just not remember it?”
“I don’t recall saving my coins. It seems if I want something I should purchase it.”
“We have to hoard our pennies. When Mrs. Turner passes, where will I be? I have to find other employment and I don’t know how long that will take.”
“Drake Darling isn’t going to die anytime soon. He’s young.”
“And strong. And virile,” Marla said on a sigh. “You are so fortunate. I read a novel just last week where the girl in it was a maid. She f
ell in love with her employer. Terribly romantic.”
“But it was all made up. It wasn’t real. Maids don’t marry the masters of the house.” Even if he did kiss her in the kitchen until her knees turned to jam.
“Somewhere they might.”
Phee felt badly for what she’d said. Apparently Marla was hoping to marry a gentleman, but it seemed so unlikely. “Perhaps I’m wrong. I hear every story is based on a bit of truth.”
“Where did you hear that?”
Phee released a bubble of laughter. “I haven’t a clue.”
“That must be so odd not to remember things.”
“It was at first, terribly odd, unsettling, but I’ve resigned myself to the notion that I might never know. Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.” Maybe Darling had the right of it, that she had forgotten for a reason.
“I have to admit I’d prefer to forget some things in my life. M’dad lost in drink mostly. Bein’ in service is not such a bad thing.”
Perhaps not such a bad thing, but Phee wanted to do more with her life. While the specifics eluded her, she did know that she wanted to make a difference in some manner. “Have you always wanted to be in service?”
“It’s better than working the farm. The vicar helped me. I was only twelve but I was sweet on him. I used to imagine that when I grew up I’d meet someone like him, someone to take me away from all my chores.”
Did everyone yearn for a different life—the wealthy, the aristocracy, the royals? What did she yearn for? Independence flashed through her mind. She wanted to be free to do as she pleased, not that Drake was a harsh taskmaster, and she was beginning to enjoy caring for his house, but something was lacking. She wanted something. “Have you a beau now?” she asked.
Marla released a light chuckle. “No. Few domestics marry. Seeing to our chores is supposed to be our life’s work, our priority. You have forgotten a lot, haven’t you?”
Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 18