Once More, My Darling Rogue

by Lorraine Heath

  “What does he do, this Drake Darling? He didn’t dress like a commoner, so he must engage in some sort of worthwhile business.”

  “He manages—no, he’s the owner of a gentlemen’s club.”

  “Indeed. A businessman. Perhaps I should write to him and see if he can advise me regarding my inheritance.”

  Phee shook her head. “No, as I mentioned earlier, he’s exceedingly busy.”

  “Pity.” Her aunt looked out onto the gardens. “I feel up to a walk. Care to join me?”

  “I’d like to very much.” And she wanted to be there to provide her aunt with support should she discover she wasn’t as strong as she assumed. Helping her aunt from the chair, Phee offered her arm.

  Their steps were slow and small, but they were steps. Phee was grateful her aunt seemed steady.

  “Your father loved my sister very much,” Auntie Berta said, “and I am thankful for that. But he was a hard man who was resistant to change, believed in the old ways. However, I say if the old ways were so good, no one would come up with new ways.” She leaned against Phee. “Invite that handsome gent to dinner.”

  “It’s complicated, Auntie.”

  “Most things worthwhile are, dearest.”

  It was not the proper time for a morning call, but then she wasn’t calling on the aristocracy, although she was attired as though she were. She stood on the stoop of a townhome waiting for the door to be answered. Her gaze was locked on the residence next door. She wondered if Drake were asleep, if he were even there. Perhaps he’d gone to the club. It was best to end their association quickly and cleanly. No lingering. No more apologies or questions or regrets.

  The door finally opened.

  “May I help you?” Marla asked.

  Phee knew that clothing could make a person look very different, be perceived differently. Still she thought she would be identifiable. “Marla.”

  Marla’s eyes widened, her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Cor. Phee? I didn’t recognize you.”

  Because she hadn’t looked closely. Because she’d seen a fine dress and hat, gloves. Blond hair without a strand out of place. Lady Ophelia Lyttleton’s hair did not fall across her face, did not have to be blown back with an odd twist of her lips and a quick breath.

  “Did you remember who you are?” Marla asked.

  “Yes. Lady Ophelia Lyttleton.”

  “Nobility. I knew it. You was too proper.”

  “Marla, I wanted to thank you.”

  “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “You taught me to manage Mr. Darling’s residence. You taught me how to shop for asparagus. You became my friend.”

  “You don’t thank someone for being your friend. You just be their friend in return. I know that’s not possible now—”

  “I was hoping it would be. I know Mrs. Turner is elderly and I don’t wish to upset her routine or her household, but when you find yourself in need of a position, I hope you will call on me. There will always be a place for you within my household.” She extended her card.

  Marla took it with reverence. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “If you ever need anything, anything at all—” Then in spite of her best intentions, she shifted her gaze over to the other residence.

  “He’s not there,” Marla said. “Hasn’t been for a couple of days now. But if you want to have a look-see, for old times’ sake …” She reached into her apron pocket and removed a key.

  “He gave you a key?”

  Marla nodded. “He asked me to keep a watch out. I’m not sure for what, though, unless it was for you.”

  Phee looked back at the residence. She’d been in a frightful state the morning she’d left. Did he think she’d return for her things? What things? was her next thought. Someone else’s cast-off clothing, books that belonged on his shelves, a silver brush, comb, and mirror? Why would she want any of those items? They weren’t really hers, just props for his farce.

  Yet she was drawn toward it. Wanted to see it again: the floors she’d scrubbed, the mantels she’d dusted, the banisters she’d polished. She snatched the key from Marla’s fingers. “I won’t be but a minute.”

  Marla gave her knowing grin. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She’d descended two steps before Marla called out, “By the by, it’s to the back door.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, Phee smiled. “Thank you.”

  She hurried down the narrow path between the houses until she came to the mews and the back gate. Opening it, she was disappointed not to see Daisy about. Even though she knew the beast was being cared for at a very fine stable, it didn’t seem right that she not be here. Then her heart soared at the sight of Rose on the porch. The large dog lifted his head, shoved himself to his feet, and lumbered toward her in an uneven gait, tongue lolling out. When he reached her, he circled her three times before jumping onto his hind legs, placing his front paws on her chest, and releasing an enthusiastic bark.

  Phee laughed as she ran her hands over the dog. “Look at you! You’re still here, and you’ve put on weight. Aren’t you a handsome fellow with a little meat on your bones? I daresay if I didn’t know better, I’d think someone had been brushing your coat as well.”

  He barked again before dropping to all fours and loping along beside her as she walked to the terrace. She couldn’t refrain from reaching over and petting Rose from time to time. She wondered how Somerdale would feel about having a dog at his residence, if Drake would give him up.

  Leaving Rose to nap on the terrace, she went inside, halfway expecting to find Pansy lounging on the wooden table where she’d shared meals with Drake, but all she found was a very tidy kitchen. She supposed he ate at the club now. She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t kept the cat. She wondered if she roamed the neighborhood if she would find it. Probably not.

  She wandered the familiar hallways. Nothing had changed except now a light sprinkling of dust seemed to have settled in everywhere except his desk. Did he work there from time to time? Did he think of her when he did?

  In the entryway was the hideous table she’d purchased. Atop it was the vase she’d knocked over her final morning here, pieced back together, evidence that it had once shattered clearly visible. She ran her finger along one of the jagged lines. Strange how the imperfection didn’t detract from its beauty. Nor did the absence of flowers. She was half tempted to snitch a few roses from Mrs. Turner’s garden to brighten the entryway. Perhaps she would so Drake would know she’d been there. Where had that thought come from? What did she care if he realized she’d stopped by? She didn’t want him making any more of her visit than a simple journey through nostalgia. And why in God’s name was she nostalgic about the place?

  It wasn’t as though it had ever truly been hers to see after.

  Peering into the parlor, she came up short.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her lips. Astonished, she stepped into the room.

  The black and gold wallpaper, exactly as she’d sketched and described it. On the walls. Black draperies at the windows. And the furniture, black velveteen, edged in mahogany. The shape of each piece—sofa, chairs, tables—exactly as she’d sketched it, arranged in the room precisely as she’d laid it out on paper. Just as elegant as she’d envisioned it would be.

  Curled on the corner of the sofa set near the fireplace was Pansy, watching her, just watching her, with slow, slow blinks.

  “No enthusiastic greeting from you?” Phee asked as she sat on the sofa and ran her fingers through the soft fur. Pansy purred deep in her throat. “That’s better.”

  Feeling a nudge against her skirts just as she heard a mewling, she glanced down to see a small white kitten weave itself between her ankles. Laughing, she lifted it up. “And who are you? Drake Darling was most insistent there not be a menagerie in his home, so how did you come to be here?”

  She stroked behind its ears, and it purred. “You like that, don’t you? I’m sorry I can’t stay
longer.”

  Setting the kitten down, she rose and walked from the room. One more place she wanted—needed—to see.

  She took the stairs slowly, one step at a time. Her heart sped up and she forced it back into calm with long deep breaths, a trick she’d learned so no one could tell when she was anxious or nervous. It was the reason Somerdale had not realized she dreaded leaving with Wigmore that night, the reason he and her father had never known how much she disliked going to Stillmeadow. Wigmore had convinced her that her wickedness must be hidden from everyone. She’d become quite adept at creating a façade to hide the ugliness she experienced in life.

  It was her shame, her humiliation to bear. She had come to believe that somehow she was at fault, she brought Wigmore’s attentions on herself. She was unworthy, she was impure, she deserved—

  She shook off the thoughts. No one deserved what she had endured. She understood that now. Because of Drake. Strange that as much as he’d hurt her, he’d helped her as well.

  Stepping into the bedroom was like stepping into a cocoon of safety. The room was tidy, no clothing scattered on the floor. It smelled of him: dark, masculine, strong, powerful. She wandered over to the bed. The covers weren’t rumpled. She saw no evidence that he’d slept there. No evidence that she’d ever been curled in that bed, nestled against his side.

  Would she have been there if he’d told her who she was? Had he spoken the words, “You are Lady Ophelia Lyttleton” would she have remembered anything? Would it have made a difference? Or would she have thought it was all simply preposterous?

  Hearing the creak of a floorboard, she turned her head to see Drake standing in the doorway, dressed to perfection, neck cloth knotted, waistcoat buttoned, jacket snug across his broad shoulders. Dark hair curling, dark eyes penetrating.

  “Marla told me you weren’t here,” she said flatly, striving not to let him know how her heart was thundering, her nerves quivering.

  “I wasn’t. But I needed to put out some coins for Jimmy. Today is one of the days he cleans up after Rose. And I just—” He shook his head. “The residence felt different, smelled different when I stepped inside. I knew you were here.”

  He seemed to be measuring his words as though he thought if he spoke the wrong ones, she would run off. When in truth she despised the distance separating them. But the thought of him being closer terrified her. She wanted to run her hands over his shoulders, across his chest, through his hair.

  “You’ve acquired another cat, I see.”

  “Her name is Orchid.”

  She couldn’t help but smile with the realization that he was keeping with her tradition of naming them after flowers. “It’s my favorite fragrance.”

  “I know.”

  The solemnity of his words tore at her heart. Of course he knew. He knew everything about her, all her darkest secrets. But then she supposed that was only fair, as she knew his as well.

  “How is your aunt?” he asked.

  “Recovering quite nicely, considering Wigmore had been poisoning her.”

  “Bastard. He wanted you back that badly.”

  Her heart lurched. “I don’t think it had anything to do with me.”

  “You said you were close to her and you’d not been back since your father died.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach roiling. Drake was right. The only thing that would cause her to return was her aunt’s ill health. Wigmore had known. Then to cover his sins, he would have continued to poison her until she died so she couldn’t contradict his tale that Phee arrived at Stillmeadow and then ran away. She opened her eyes. “I’m glad he’s dead. We can’t really ever know everything about a person, can we?”

  “No, not everything.”

  But one could know enough, she thought, enough to fall in love. All those various emotions she felt toward Drake were still swirling about. She didn’t know what to do with them, so she ignored them and turned the conversation to something that had pleased her. “I couldn’t help but notice that you took my advice regarding your front parlor.”

  He took a step toward her. “Why are you here, Phee?”

  So he wasn’t going to let her lead them into casual banter. She should have known. He always asked far too many questions, always needed answers. She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know.”

  Her gaze darted to the center of the bed, to where she had been happiest. “I keep thinking about the night we were together.”

  “Had I known of your past, I’d have gone more gently.”

  She peered up at him. He was only inches away now. “But you still would have gone.”

  “Yes.” He lifted his hand and very slowly, as though giving her a chance to move away, to step beyond reach, he cradled her cheek. “But I should have told you who you were. I should have told you everything.”

  “You didn’t know everything. And had I known everything, what transpired between us never would have happened. I’ve been thinking about that. Quite a bit, actually. Losing my memories for a short time was a blessing.” She placed her gloved hand on his jaw. “With them, I never would have known how it should truly be between a man and a woman. I never would have—”

  Taking her hand, he began loosening the buttons of her glove. Her heart thudded. “What are you doing?”

  “If you’re going to grace me with a touch, I don’t want you wearing gloves.”

  “I’m not going to touch you, I’m not—”

  He peeled off her glove, tossed it aside, and returned her palm to his jaw. “Much better,” he said, raising his eyes to hers.

  The desire smoldering in his gaze arrowed straight through her, down to her toes, causing them to curl. And he was right. It was so much better to touch, skin to skin.

  “How can you want me, knowing what you know about me?” she asked.

  “The ugliness was in him, not you,” Drake said. “You are brave and courageous. Even as a child, you carried on when many would have crumbled. What passed between us in my bed had nothing at all to do with him.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “I try to convince myself of that, but it’s so hard. I wish I’d never seen him again. I can’t get him out of my mind. I think I came here because I wanted the memories with you to be stronger. I need them to wash the ones with him away.”

  Taking her other hand, he bent his head and gently began removing her remaining glove.

  “Drake—”

  “I can make you forget him.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “Allow me to do that for you.”

  She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know if I can, not now that my memories have returned, not now that I know everything I’ve done.”

  “Everything he did. You did nothing. I know I have no right to ask this of you, considering how we came to be here. But trust me.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  He skimmed his thumb along her cheek. “It will be like walking in the park that night. You thought there was something to fear but you stepped out of the cab anyway, and there was nothing to cause you harm. He can never hurt you again, Phee. He has no power over you, with or without your memories. Let me show you.”

  She realized she hadn’t come here to see the floors she’d scrubbed or the wood she’d polished. She’d come here to be closer to him, to let memories of him usurp the ones with Wigmore that were threatening to take hold. But Drake in the flesh, here with her now, was so much better, so much stronger than any memory. What he was offering … she didn’t know if she had the courage to accept it.

  “What if I can’t … what if—”

  He stroked his thumb over her lower lip. “You can say no at any time and I’ll stop.” He freed the button at her collar. “Anytime you become uncomfortable. Whether it be the releasing of a button, the untying of a ribbon, you need only say no or wait or stop. Your command is mine to obey.”

  Another button loosened. Another. Another. She didn’t say no or wait or stop. She simply watched as his nimble fingers made short work of the line of
pearls. Her nerves tingled. She feared she might swoon. Breathe, she ordered herself, breathe.

  Kneeling on one knee, he patted his thigh. Placing her hand on his head to steady herself, relishing the feel of the silken strands curling around her fingers, she set a foot on his leg. More buttons freed before he removed her shoe. His clever hands slipped beneath her skirt and rode over ankle, calf, knee, and thigh until they encountered ribbons to be loosened. Then he was rolling her stocking down so incredibly slowly that she thought she might go mad.

  He moved on to the next shoe, the next stocking. No haste, no fumbling fingers. Each action was sure, deliberate. Each made her feel treasured, appreciated. Each made her anticipate the next.

  In one smooth movement, he stood, took her hand, and led her over to the side of the bed. Continuing with his ministrations, he removed her dress, her petticoats, her undergarments. As more flesh was revealed so his hands briefly skimmed over it, causing shivers of pleasure to course through her. His touch was as she remembered: intoxicating. With each stroke of a finger over her skin, her body yearned for another.

  When she stood before him completely bared, she thought she should have felt a measure of shame or unease, but how could she experience any sense of embarrassment when the appreciation that lit his dark eyes warmed her far more effectively than any fire might?

  The pins came next, the ones holding up her hair. Clink, clink, clink. They hit the floor, setting the curls free, not in a tumble, but in a leisurely unfolding over her shoulders and back.

  Scooping her up, he eased her onto the bed, before backing away. Rolling slightly to the side, she watched as he removed his boots, his gaze never leaving her. As he removed his clothes, his movements were slow, provocative, and she found herself almost begging him to hurry. She loved watching him being unveiled, loved the way his muscles bunched and relaxed. He was no strutting peacock. Rather, he was some sort of untamed jungle cat, moving lithely toward her. He had yet to remove his trousers, which for some reason made him appear all the more dangerous—not in a frightening way, but in a manner that excited her, that made her think her heart might burst free of its moorings.