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 driver 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.
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 reason 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.