“If you truly loved me, you wouldn’t have done what you did.”
“I didn’t love you when it began. Christ, I didn’t even like you.”
Her mouth gave the slightest twitch, and he saw the barest of nods, as though she’d made up her mind about something. With her posture, her stance, emerged the woman he’d never been able to tolerate.
“The truth? Yes, I was going to the country with my uncle. But in the carriage he described my aunt’s condition in detail. We were in the midst of the Season and I was going to endure the stench of a sickroom to bathe my aunt, feed her, read to her, and hold her hand. No more dancing, no more strolls through the park admired by gentlemen, no more flirtation. Just drudgery and boredom and tedious tending to an ailing old woman. I didn’t want it. I wanted balls, fine dinners, and theater. I wanted to have fun. I wanted to be sought after. So when the carriage slowed to turn onto a bridge, I leaped out. Uncle sent his footmen after me. Ghastly long legs they have. Why does everyone value tall footmen? Anyway, I knew they would catch me, so over the railing I went. I wasn’t too far along on the bridge, the plunge not such a great distance that I couldn’t survive it. I doubted they would follow. Better to be wet for a bit than to miss the Season. I would worry about dealing with Somerdale later.” Her tone was haughty, cold, and calculating. It sent a shiver down his back.
“You’re not that selfish.”
“Perhaps the woman who lived with you wasn’t, but the one before, the one you didn’t even like? Admit it, that’s precisely how selfish she was. And is. Now that I have my memory back and understand what is my due.”
“Why didn’t your uncle notify your brother straightaway?”
“I assume he thought I was going home so he saw no need. He no doubt expected I would explain to Somerdale that I’d changed my mind about going on to Stillmeadow.”
“He didn’t think it important to ensure you were safe? What sort of man is he?”
“One who cares only about his own convenience. Are we done here?”
Maybe if they were truly two different women with different hearts and different souls he’d have been convinced. But he knew and understood the woman he’d rescued. When she’d hit the water, her façade had shattered. Now she was desperately striving to reerect it. Why?
For the same reason that he had built a barrier around himself: to keep hidden something ugly from his past, something he wanted no one to ever know. But he’d shared it with her, opened himself up to her. Trusted her.
He’d betrayed her. She wouldn’t trust him with it now. But he knew there was something so hideous and dark …
Something that gave her nightmares …
Something that touched her, that she fought against …
Something Grace said she feared in the night when at Stillmeadow …
Not something. Someone.
“Your uncle didn’t force himself on you that night,” he said.
She jerked up her chin. “Did I not just say that?”
“He raped you when you were a child.”
Chapter 23
Phee wanted to remain standing, tall, erect, confident. She wanted to brazen this out, but she couldn’t. Not with him, not with the sympathy and understanding in his dark eyes. Not with the certainty there. He knew her too well. When her guard was down, she’d let him in. When she’d had no memories with which to shore up walls.
Not when she found herself sinking to the sofa, her legs too weak to support her. She should have never come down here, should have never agreed to meet with him. She should have known he’d poke and prod until he got to the tarnished truth. Until he’d uncovered her deepest shame and mortification.
What Drake had done to her paled in comparison.
But his actions hurt her heart much worse because she had fallen for him. Had known his love. It was an experience she’d never thought to have, knew herself to be unworthy of. Something about her was evil. Her uncle had told her that often enough.
Whenever he came to her.
Drake knelt beside her. She couldn’t look at him. Refused to. “Can’t you please let this go?”
“How old were you?”
She should have expected him not to ignore her question. She should ignore his, but he was like a rapacious dog gnawing at bone. He wouldn’t leave her be until he got the answers for which he’d come. She had carried the burden of the truth for so long. Perhaps if she released some of it into his care, it would lessen the weight. “Twelve when he first came to my bed in the dead of night. Touched me.” She thought she might be ill. Her jaw tingled. Bile rose. “Made me touch him.”
Daring to lift her gaze to his, she couldn’t miss the revulsion in the obsidian depths.
“You didn’t tell your father?”
She released a shuddering breath. “No. I was too ashamed. And Wigmore—he told me that I was wicked, that it was my fault he was doing these things to me. He told me that if I said anything, my father would send me to a place where they locked wicked girls away. I would be alone in the dark.” Forgotten, fodder for the rats.
“What about your aunt? If you were close to her—”
“She would have hated me, known me to be the wicked girl that I was. I couldn’t tell her.”
“You don’t think she knew?”
“They had separate bedchambers. He always came late at night, after the servants were abed. The clock would strike two and the door would open. Even at home I got into the habit of not retiring until the clock struck two. The two dongs followed by silence always jolted me awake.” Suddenly so cold, she rubbed her hands briskly up and down her arms. Let this be enough, she prayed. Let his inquisition end.
“How old were you when he took things further?” he asked.
The backs of her eyes stung, but she would not give the tears their freedom. If they began, she would be unable to stop them, and she would not humiliate herself further by weeping. She swallowed hard. “I was seventeen before … before he had his way completely. Had I not lost my memories … what happened between you and me never would have happened. I would never have subjected you to someone as defiled as I am, as impure.” She wrapped her hands around her upper arms. She wanted to peel off her skin, wanted to again forget the feel of Wigmore’s thick, pudgy fingers poking and prodding while his hot, wet, panting breath condensed near her ear.
“You think what he did is a reflection on you?” Drake asked quietly.
“How can it not be?”
He reached out, his hand stopping just shy of her cheek, before balling into a fist, and pressing into his thigh. She didn’t know if he was honoring her request that he not touch her or if he was repulsed by the thought of touching her, of how intimately and thoroughly he’d been with her in the wake of another man. Ladies of quality were not supposed to be touched by anyone other than their husbands. But something in her called to the deviant, the sick, the perverted.
“His behavior is reprehensible,” Drake said with conviction. “You are not at fault for his evil deeds. But knowing what he was capable of, why did you go with him?”
“Because I’m stupid. Because I believed he was done with me. Because Aunt is truly ill. But in the carriage, he told me how much he’d missed me. How glad he was that we could have some time together again, and I knew he wasn’t done with me. As much as I love my aunt, I couldn’t force myself to suffer through his touch again. So I ran.” Taking a deep breath, she regained control, straightened her spine, met his gaze. “Are you happy now?”
“I am far from happy, but that will be remedied when Wigmore is dead by my hand.”
He shot to his feet and was striding to the doorway before his words truly registered. She scrambled after him, nearly tripping on her hem in her hurry.
“No.” She grabbed his arm and somehow found the strength to spin him around, he who was so much larger than she, broader, more muscled. She could feel the fury shimmering through him. “You can’t kill him.”
“I beg to differ.�
� He held up his massive hands. “With these wrapped about his throat, I expect I’ll accomplish it quite easily.”
“You can’t do this.”
“You were right all along, Phee. I’m not nearly civilized enough for the aristocracy. You know of my past. You know that the blood of a murderer races through my veins. I am my father’s son. I have his temper, and there are times when I want to explode with it.”
“But you don’t. You haven’t. And you can’t now. They’ll hang you.”
“Not such a loss when you consider how I hurt you. However, I shall go out with a bit more dignity than my father went.”
“You won’t go out at all. I won’t allow it. Don’t you understand what I’ve been striving to explain to you? I’m not worth it.”
He dragged her into his arms, held her near. “You’re worth everything.”
“And if Wigmore won’t cooperate?” Phee asked.
“I shan’t give him a choice.”
She had no doubts there. They were traveling in Lovingdon’s coach. She thought it a testament to the duke’s faith in his friend and Grace’s love of her brother that neither asked for an explanation regarding why they needed to travel to Stillmeadow this hour of the night. They were going to retrieve her aunt so Phee could care for her as she wanted, out from under Wigmore’s shadow.
Within the coach, they hadn’t bothered to light the inside lantern. For some reason, it seemed this journey needed to be made in shadows.
“If my memory hadn’t returned, were you ever going to tell me who I was?” she asked.
“I don’t expect you to believe me, but I was going to tell you the night we celebrated, but I became distracted from my purpose.” She heard a smile in his voice. “Then I was going to tell you before we went to the seaside, but Grace walked in and you remembered everything. Odd.”
She thought she heard disappointment in his voice because Grace had been the one to stir her memories to life and not him. “Perhaps because she was always my haven. I came the closest to being myself when I was with her. When she visited at Stillmeadow I knew I would be free of Wigmore’s attentions for the duration of her stay. When I saw her in your foyer, a floodgate of memories unlocked.”
“That included me.”
“That included you. It was never going to end well between us. You must have known that.”
He sighed. “Unfortunately, knowing how things would end did not stop me from wanting you. Which makes me the worst sort of scoundrel. I quite understand you’re not forgiving me. But you’re to let me know if you find yourself with child.”
Her stomach clenched painfully. She’d not even considered that. To have his child—
She looked out the window. Her dream was freedom, her dream was to care for animals, but another dream nudged at the edge of her mind. A black-haired, black-eyed baby nestled in her arms, staring up at her. It was a dream she wouldn’t consider. How could she ever trust him fully again?
“How is Daisy?” she asked.
“Presently being cared for in a very fine stable until you’re ready for her.”
It was silly to miss a horse, but she did. “I shall probably take her to Somerdale’s estate, so she’ll have room to run. Until I reach the age of thirty and my trust is handed to me, I’m rather limited on what I can accomplish.”
“What of marriage?”
“Even without my memories I knew I didn’t want it. I told you what my dream was. It was strong enough not to get lost. I’ve only been biding my time, pretending to be on the hunt for a husband because that’s what ladies of my station do.” She planned to reject all proposals, all offers until she came of an age when no man would want her, until she was quite on the shelf and could live a life without being under a man’s thumb. “It’s odd. Marla, who as a servant is never expected to marry, desperately wants a husband. While I, the daughter of an earl, am expected to marry and I desperately don’t wish to. It seems we always want what we can’t have.”
“It seems so, yes.” His voice was laced with regret and sorrow. “I’ll loan you the amount of your trust. You don’t need to wait until you’re thirty to have the life you want.”
Her heart gave a little stutter. “You need that money to renovate your business.”
“Renovations can be made at any time.”
She shook her head. “No, I won’t be in your debt.”
“It comes with no strings, no interest. When you become of age and your funds become available to you, all you will pay is precisely what I loaned you. No more than that. I doubt you’ll get a better offer elsewhere.”
She thought about how lovely it would be not to have to go through another Season, to leave behind flirting and pretending interest in gentlemen. No more balls, no more dinners, no more false laughter and feigned suitability.
“I suppose guilt is spurring this offer.”
“Believe that if it makes you more willing to accept it.”
Unfortunately, she didn’t believe it was guilt. She thought it was something much greater. Something she didn’t dare trust in him or herself.
They had not sent word that they would be arriving. Drake knew a surprise visit near midnight would give them an advantage. Not that he needed one. The fury rolling through him as they stood in the foyer while the butler alerted His Lordship—who was in the library—to their presence gave him all the edge he needed. He was fairly bouncing on the balls of his feet ready to hunt down the bastard.
While Phee stood there so calmly, so stiffly, her chin up. The only indication that this was not easy for her was the paleness of her features, as though all the blood had drained from her when they crossed the threshold. He was astounded with the realization regarding the courage and fortitude it must have taken her as a young girl to come here time and again, knowing what awaited her.
“Why did you keep coming?” he asked.
She peered over at him. “My father insisted. A daughter does not disobey her father. The reprieve came when he died. My brother suggested I visit, but his suggestions were not my father’s edict so I could ignore them. Besides, I do love my aunt dearly. She’s my mother’s sister and after I lost my mother, we became even closer. She never had any children. She treated me as a daughter. I could not fault her for her husband’s actions.”
Drake could. He could fault the aunt, the servants, every staff member who failed to notice the horrors being visited upon a young girl. People thought the poor were miscreants of society because so many were arrested. But evil was not determined by the absence of coins.
“Ophelia! You’re alive! God be praised.”
Drake jerked his attention to the hallway where a portly man emerged. His muscle tone and hair had long ago deserted him. His eyes were like two little raisins stuck in a mound of dough. It was obvious the earl thought Phee had died, so he’d never expected the tale he told Somerdale to be disproved. The sick aunt might have been too delirious to know if Phee was ever here. Servants didn’t talk. Arms outstretched, he neared—
Drake’s fist shot out and hit him squarely on the nose; bone and cartilage crunched as it gave way, blood spurted. Phee gasped. Wigmore landed with a thud, his eyes watering, his hand cupping his nose. Stepping forward, Drake towered over him. “Get up and I’ll hit you again.”
Please get up.
“Who the devil are you?” Wigmore whined as blood pooled at the corners of his mouth.
“The man who is going to make you regret that you were ever born.”
“Drake,” Phee said softly, lightly placing her hand on his arm. Strange how she could calm the beast within him so easily. She looked down at her uncle. Drake thought he resembled an overturned turtle. “We’ve come to get Auntie. We’re taking her back to London.”
“No need … do that.” He coughed, sputtered. Started to roll over, but Drake took a step nearer and Wigmore stilled. He glanced up at Phee. “She’s not so ill anymore.”
“Still, I want to look after her until she’s completely we
ll.”
“She’s my wife. I won’t allow it.”
“You don’t have an army large enough to stop me from letting Lady Ophelia do as she pleases,” Drake said, the fury seething through him.
“I’ve got more than two dozen servants here.”
“As I said, you don’t have enough to stop me. Now Ophelia is going to inform her aunt that we will soon be leaving and she will accompany us.” He crouched down. “Meanwhile, you and I are going to have a little chat. I believe I just heard you invite me into your library for brandy.”
“Drake,” she said again in that soft tone that conveyed so much. She was worried about him, worried that he’d do something rash, something that might result in him suffering his father’s fate. After all he’d done to her, his deception, his lies, she still worried about him—and for some reason that hurt most of all. He’d always considered her mean and spiteful. Now he was coming to know the most generous woman he’d ever known—when it was too late.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “As long as he cooperates, we’re only going to talk. I give you my word on that.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Wigmore blurted.
Drake shrugged. “We can talk here if you like. I’m sure your servants are discreet. But talk we shall.” Turning his attention back to Phee, he forced himself to give her a reassuring grin. “Off with you.”
She hesitated. He almost laughed, because he knew she didn’t like being told what to do, especially by him. Eventually she nodded. “Please be careful.”
“He couldn’t hurt me if he tried.”
This time she was the one who smiled. “So arrogant.”
“I’m only arrogant if it’s not true.”
He could see that she wanted to say something else. Instead she turned on her heel and headed up the stairs. He gave Wigmore a hard look. “Here or the library?”
The man was not a complete fool. He led them to the library. He did not offer brandy. He merely stood before his desk glowering, although the impact was tempered by the white handkerchief he held against his nose to stanch the flow of blood.
Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 28