Over the next few days they settled into a routine. Or at least she did. He was leaving the club earlier, returning later at night, loath to give up moments with this woman who intrigued him more and more. The hours spent at the club were the longest of his life. Chores he’d once enjoyed—inventorying, receiving goods, marking statements to be paid, discussing strategies with employees, ensuring all was running smoothly—now seemed tedious and time-consuming because they kept him away from Phee. All he could think about was returning to the residence for breakfast, listening as she waxed on about her plans for the day—which more often than not included trips to the market with Marla. He’d made her promise no more altercations or attacking men. While she had given her word quite reluctantly, he needed to sleep sometime and so he trusted her not to get into any trouble. Probably foolhardy on his part.
This particular morning after returning to the residence, he walked into the kitchen to find an urchin who couldn’t have been more than eight sitting at the table munching on bacon.
“ ’Mornin’, guv’ner,” the lad said, jerking his head so the long thick strands of his hair momentarily weren’t falling over his eyes.
Phee turned from the counter where she was pouring milk into a bowl. “Good morning. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or so. This is Jimmy. I’m paying him a shilling to clean up after Daisy.”
He’d yet to make arrangements to move the horse to the stables. He couldn’t make himself deny her the pleasure of the beast. “A shilling? That’s robbery.”
“I suppose you could clean it up,” she said.
He considered reminding her that she was the one who wanted the creature, but what was the point? She knew as well as he did that he wasn’t going to make her shovel manure.
“I’m the best at cleaning up horse manure,” the lad boasted. “I know where to sell it. She says I can keep that.”
“You may indeed,” Drake said.
She set the bowl on the floor and a scrawny white cat crawled out from beneath the table and began lapping at the milk.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“Pansy. Because of her eye.”
When the cat looked up, he saw that one eye had a black marking around it that might possibly—with a good deal of imagination—resemble a pansy.
“Why do we need a cat?” he asked.
“We don’t. She needs us. She showed up at the door the last couple of evenings. I gave her a little milk. Last night I let her in, and discovered she’s terribly sweet and wonderful company.”
He would not feel guilty because she was alone at night.
Picking up a bowl filled with meat scraps, she headed for the door.
“Where are you taking that?” he asked.
“To feed Rose.”
“Rose?”
He followed her out to the terrace. She set the bowl down in front of a dog that was more bone than muscle. She patted its head. “She followed me home from the market.”
“She is a he.”
She peered beneath the dog. “Oh. You’re ever so good at noticing that sort of thing.”
He was amazed she wasn’t, but then ladies were not generally in the habit of peering at an animal’s private quarters. “So I’m not certain the dog will appreciate being called Rose.”
“Short for Rosencrantz,” she said with another beaming smile. “That’ll work.”
She went over to Daisy and petted her.
“We’re not keeping a menagerie here,” Drake told her.
“Of course not.” She walked back over and stood before him. “Kick them out whenever you feel like it.”
The woman was manipulating him again. He wasn’t going to kick these pitiful creatures out and well she knew it. As she opened the door to go in, Jimmy sauntered out, his cap pulled low over his brow, keeping the hair out of his eyes. Drake was surprised Phee hadn’t taken scissors to it. He most certainly didn’t want to remember that he’d been skinny as well at that age. For the briefest of moments he envied Phee her inability to recall the past.
“Be seein’ ye, guv’ner,” the boy said.
“Clean up after the dog as well. We’ll pay you two shillings.”
The boy grinned broadly. “Me pleasure. See you, missus.” He tipped his hat before racing for the gate at the back.
“That was nice of you,” Phee said.
“He’s too thin.”
“I thought the same thing.”
He suspected she’d feed the boy whenever he showed up. Drake couldn’t fault her for that. He didn’t like admitting that over the past few days he’d found very little fault with her. “I suppose he followed you home from the market as well.”
“See, there you are sounding all grumbling again when I know you don’t mind. But yes, our paths did cross at the market this morning. Marla and I went fairly early.”
“I suppose that cost me another fortune.”
She smiled, and he wouldn’t have cared if it had cost him a fortune. “Only went to the market this time.”
She walked into the kitchen. “Give me a few moments to prepare your breakfast.”
Dammit all. He was willing to give her all the time in the world.
He awoke earlier than usual, stared at the ceiling. What was he doing? Why was she still here, a week after he’d discovered her in the Thames? Why was he putting off uncovering the truth? Why was he delaying returning her home?
He needed to redouble his efforts to determine exactly what had happened the night he found her in the river. Oddly, Somerdale had not been in the club for the past two nights. He needed to seek him out, sit him down, and talk with him—get to the bottom of this entire matter.
And he would, after his meeting with the partners on the morrow. He needed to prepare for it. That was the reason he’d awoken with a start. Had nothing to do with guilt over Phee possibly being lonely in the evenings and seeking out a cat for company. Had nothing to do with the unfairness to her.
He had no clock, no pocket watch, but still he knew he’d awoken early. He’d bathe, head to the club, eat there. Reestablish his schedule.
Rolling out of bed, he found himself instinctively listening for the sounds of her moving about the residence—the creak of stairs, the moaning of a floorboard, the closing of a door. The house was more alive with her in it. He would barely notice when she was gone, however, as he would return to his habit of spending most of his time at the club. Everything would again be as it should be. His bed would no longer smell of her. He would sleep without dreaming of her being beneath the covers with him. He wouldn’t fantasize about touching her skin. He wouldn’t think about kissing every inch of her.
After drawing on trousers and shirt, he checked the bathing room to ensure she’d not filled the tub with water. He’d forbidden her to bring up the pails, not that his orders ever seemed to carry much weight with her. She did as she pleased. That part of her character seemed unchanged. Odd how it didn’t irritate him as it once had.
He jaunted down the stairs, came to a stop in the foyer. A narrow black and white marble-topped table was set against the wall. Hideous thing with scrolled iron legs and a chipped corner. A gleaming black vase held a bouquet of red roses.
Where the bloody hell had that come from? She was purchasing furniture for him now, was she? He’d have never selected that particular piece, yet he couldn’t deny that it somehow seemed to belong. He wondered where she’d found the flowers.
Stepping forward, he took a petal between his fingers and rubbed it. He should see about acquiring a gardener. Then she could have flowers all around the house, inside and out.
He jerked back his hand. She didn’t need flowers here. She would be leaving soon. She wasn’t a permanent resident.
Yet as he headed toward the kitchen, he couldn’t deny that he’d become accustomed to having a housekeeper about. He’d have to hire one. But even as he made a mental note to do so, he knew he would find her lacking simply because she wasn’t Phee.
As Phee dragged the brush through Daisy’s mane, she marveled at her own contentment, amused that she had fought so hard against believing she was actually a servant. While none of her cooking lessons seemed to bring forth any memories, she was mastering the task, and she could scarcely wait to serve this evening’s meal to Drake. She was purchasing little odds and ends for the residence, but she wanted to speak with him about purchasing more. She wanted to make his residence more homey—even if it meant more dusting and tidying for her. She didn’t mind it so much, well, most of it, anyway. The windows still needed cleaning and she didn’t fancy the scrubbing and polishing of floors. She would suggest they hire someone to assist her as the chores increased. It seemed only fair.
“Is that your brush you’re using?”
Jumping only a little at the brusque tone, she turned to Drake. His shirt was mostly unbuttoned, his feet bare, his hair tousled, his jaw shadowed. She loved him like this, when he came down to begin preparing his bathwater, before he tidied up. Although if she were completely honest, she loved to look at him just as much when he was tidied up. Scoundrel, rake, or gentleman. He always fascinated her.
“I just finished bathing her,” she told him, “and I wanted to get the tangles out of her mane. I didn’t see that I had any other choice except to use yours and I didn’t think you’d appreciate that at all.”
“It’s silver.” He said the words in a manner that suggested they explained everything.
“Well, yes, I’m quite aware of that. I know it was costly, but—”
“You’re using it on a horse? A horse?”
“Her mane was so snarled. I was feeling badly about it. You’ve set up a trough for her water. You feed her. I wanted to pamper her for a bit.”
“Why didn’t you say something? I could have purchased what you required.”
“You were already abed. I’d finished my chores, and it just hit me that I wanted to do it. Besides, she’s already cost you a fortune. I didn’t want to be a nuisance.”
His eyes widened. “You? Not be a nuisance? That is like saying the sun does not shine.”
“Well, thank you very much for that.”
“You don’t use a lady’s brush on a horse.”
Was he going to rant about it forever? She’d had quite enough of it.
“And your hands. You’re carting buckets of water after I told you not to.”
“They’ve healed,” she said. Rough and a bit callused but healed.
He didn’t seem to be listening to her, he was so caught up in his own fury. “You don’t think things through,” he carried on. And on. And on. As though she’d done something monstrously unthinkable.
She hefted the pail that contained the leftover water she’d planned to use on Rose. Doing exactly as he accused, she didn’t bother to consider consequences or ramifications as she tossed the contents at him.
His diatribe came to an abrupt halt as he jerked back, blinking at her while the water dripped down his face, caught in the stubble at his jaw, soaked his shirt and trousers.
She released a small laugh. “I didn’t mean for it all to hit you. I only wanted a bit—”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re going to pay for that.”
With a low growl, he charged. She shrieked, dropped the bucket, and ran. Or intended to run. She’d barely taken three steps before he scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder.
“I’m not a sack of potatoes!” While she tried to sound indignant, it was a little difficult to do when she was laughing. She didn’t know why it struck her as funny. Perhaps because he was always so somber and serious that she had rather enjoyed catching him unawares and eliciting such an unexpected reaction from him.
“You’re going to be a drenched sack of potatoes,” he said, striding across the grass with purpose in each step.
Pressing her hands to his back, she lifted herself just enough to cast a quick glance over his shoulder, to determine his destination. The water trough? Surely not. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I believe I would.”
His hand came to rest on her bottom. The world suddenly went topsy-turvy, grass, sky—
Rosencrantz leaping up—slamming into Drake.
As he lost his balance, somehow he twisted, released her, tumbled into the trough while she landed on the ground with a soft thud. She scrambled to her knees. “Are you all right?”
Soaked, he sat in the small trough, his legs sprawled over the sides, water dripping from his hair, droplets gathering on his face. He appeared so disgruntled, so . . . adorable. Not a word she would have ever thought to associate with him.
“I’m fine,” he groused.
“Serves you right, for wanting to dump me in there.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Careful, sweetheart, you don’t want to poke the tiger.”
The words, the tone, the menace were familiar. He’d said the words before. Why? In what situation? Because what she did know was that she did want to poke him, did want him to react. She was hoping for laughter, but she thought she would settle for anything other than the politeness, the careful questioning and answering that indicated he always watched his words with her, ever since their kiss in the garden. He was so cautious, distancing himself, and she hated it. It didn’t matter that he seemed to come home earlier and leave later, he was too watchful, too civil.
He started to pull himself up. Rose jumped up, placing his huge paws on Drake’s shoulder, and Drake went down again. Slapping her hand over her mouth, she chortled. She couldn’t help it. When he glared at her, she chuckled all the harder.
Rose began stroking his large tongue over Drake’s face and neck—
Sitting back on her heels, she laughed outright at the sight of the unhappy man and the incredibly happy dog, his tail wagging so forcefully that he was whipping up a wind.
“Help me get out of here,” Drake grumbled.
She swallowed back her amusement. “Yes, all right.”
After shoving herself to her feet, she shooed Rose away. The dog lumbered off, caught sight of a squirrel, and they were forgotten as he raced after it. Drake held up his hand. She wrapped hers around it, expecting to provide him with some leverage. Instead she felt an insistent pull, shrieked, fell forward—
She landed on his belly, water soaking her hips and torso, her legs over the side of the trough, her hands on his shoulders buffering her fall. Deep laughter echoed around her. Rather than protest her position, his ploy, she marveled at the richness of Drake’s throaty laughter, the sight of his head thrown back. She would weather a thousand dunkings for that sound. Smiling broadly, she joined her chortling with his, until her eyes watered, her sides ached. She laid her head on his chest.
His laughter died, hers withered.
Very slowly she rose up. He was so near. His nose nearly touching hers. Whatever mirth he’d been enjoying had dissipated. Within his smoldering eyes, she now saw desire and longing. She could feel the yearning in his tense body, almost quivering like a tightly strung bow with the arrow notched and pulled back—she was an archer, a corner of her mind whispered. But she let the memory go because nothing in her past mattered as much as he did. Nothing was more important than this moment.
He was going to kiss her again. She knew it with everything in her heart. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted to feel the luxurious movements of his mouth over hers. She wanted it desperately, even as she knew another kiss would lead them further into temptation and she didn’t know if she was strong enough to deny them the journey.
“I love your laughter,” she whispered.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard it. I’d forgotten—” He shook his head, swallowed. “We need to get you dry.”
Just like that the spell was broken, and she wondered if perhaps she’d imagined it. Shifting his weight, placing his hands on her hips, he managed to boost her up until she was again on her feet. Her clothing clung to her. She’d have to change into the scratchy clothing she’d first worn upon awakening with no memories, but she didn’t mind.
He worked his way out of the trough. Before he could step away, she cradled his jaw, his cheek. “I wish I remembered everything I knew about you.”
“You wouldn’t like me much if you did.”
“I find that rather difficult to believe, because at this precise moment I like you a great deal indeed.”
He liked her a great deal as well.
Gazing in the mirror as he knotted his neck cloth after his bath, Drake knew that was a problem. She wasn’t supposed to make him laugh. She wasn’t supposed to care so much about a blasted horse that she used her silver hairbrush to groom it. She wasn’t supposed to make him want to kiss her senseless. She wasn’t supposed to make him wish that she never regained her memories, that they could carry on like this forever.
He sank into a chair and lifted a boot that had been buffed to such a shine that he could fairly see his reflection in it. She had done that. She was doing so much more than he had ever initially intended. He couldn’t keep her. He had to tell her the truth, return her to her life.
Shoving his foot into the boot, he decided that he would confess all and take her home before he went to the club. He was fairly certain Somerdale hadn’t meant her any harm. She would be safe with her brother.
As he yanked on his other boot, he wondered if fairly certain was certain enough to ensure her safety. He shook his head. He was striving to convince himself to delay the inevitable. Surely arguing with himself was a sign of madness.
She had driven him to it.
He’d almost kissed her when they were in the water trough. If he took her mouth one more time, he didn’t know if he’d find the strength to stop until he’d taken all of her.
Standing, he stomped his feet to get them situated in the boots the way he liked them. He tugged on his waistcoat. It was time to set the matter right. He needed to prepare for his meeting with the partners and she merely served as a disruption to his life.
“Right, then,” he muttered. “Now is the time.” She would be furious with him, things between them would return to normal, and he could cease having these damned moments of enjoying her. He much preferred the haughty nose-in-the-air Lady O. He knew precisely where he stood with her. The woman in his residence now was far too layered, far too intriguing, far too distracting.
He strode from his bedchamber with purpose in his step. It would be freeing to have his life as his own again, to not be worrying about her, what she might discover or remember when he wasn’t around, how frightened—or angry—she might be.
He was halfway to the kitchen when the aromas assailed his senses. The dinner she was preparing for him. He had thought to humble her by having her catering to his wants and desires. Yet he was the one being humbled, that she would strive so hard to please him. He had expected her to instinctually complain the entire time, to ignore her duties, and sit around twiddling her thumbs. He hadn’t expected her to step into the role with enthusiasm, to embrace the challenges of learning to care for his household.
Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he decided he would reveal the truth after they’d eaten. It would be unkind to allow this evening’s efforts to be wasted.
He walked into the kitchen in time to see her removing a dish from the oven. Straightening, she gave him a warm smile that arrowed through him, from his head to his toes.
“Perfect timing,” she said, setting the dish between two burning candles on the linen-covered table. White wine filled two glasses, waiting for them. “It’s a chicken pie. Not fancy, but I made it all myself. Well, with Mrs. Pratt providing the direction, but she didn’t do a thing, not even cut the vegetables. I did it all.”
She sounded so remarkably pleased with herself. He wanted to add to her joy, her sense of satisfaction.
“It smells delicious.” And it did. Steam was rising through holes in the crust.
Reaching back, she untied her apron, removed it, and hung it off a peg on the wall. “I hope you don’t mind that I added the cloth and candles to the table. It just seemed wrong to eat on a bare table. Of course, once your dining room is furnished, it’ll all be moot.”
By the time that happened, she’d not be here. She wouldn’t see any of the other rooms furnished or notice the changes he planned to make to the residence.
“I don’t mind at all,” he said, pulling out her chair.
With another one of those impish smiles, she sat. He took his place opposite her. She scooped pie into a bowl for him and then for herself.
While he waited for his to cool, he said, “You seem to enjoy taking care of things.”
“I do rather. So odd that when I first awoke without my memories I couldn’t imagine myself doing any of this.”
She fairly glowed. He was not looking at all forward to that glow turning to red rage when he told her everything after dinner. Nor was he anticipating taking her home. His residence would seem empty, lack energy, become bereft. It was a blasted building and he was acting as though it lived and breathed, as though it noticed her presence as much as he did.
He was mesmerized by the way the light from the flames reflected in her eyes, over her hair. She wore it in a braid circled about her head. Such a simple style, one he would have said wasn’t suited to Lady O, and yet it seemed perfect for Phee. The two distinct ladies were blending into one that he was becoming increasingly taken with. To distract himself from the way she lured him, he said, “I noticed the addition to the foyer.”
She laughed lightly, and he realized that not being distracted by her was going to be impossible. Every aspect of her fascinated him.
“I discovered the table at a little shop. I argued down the price because of the chipped corner.” A pleat appeared between her brows. “Did you notice it?”
He’d been dishonest with her from the beginning. Why stop now? “No.”
She gave him another one of those brilliant smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. I didn’t think it was too noticeable. Hopefully it will be the flowers that garner attention.”
She dipped her fork into the pie. He followed suit, noticing that she had yet to place the food in her mouth. So he took a bite, grinned. “Very tasty.”
And it was. Exceedingly so. The last thing he expected was for her to master preparing food.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. Something else you would have no doubt enjoyed was watching Marla and me as we struggled to bring that table here.”
“You carried it yourself?”
“Only for a bit. Then I stayed with it while she fetched Rob, Mrs. Turner’s footman.”
“Mrs. Turner?” He held up a hand when she pierced him with her gaze. “The widow.”
“Yes. I wish you could afford a footman.”
He could. He could afford a host of servants. Obviously she was a housekeeper who spoke too freely what was on her mind, without mincing words or striving to save her employer’s sensibilities. What the bloody hell was he thinking? She wasn’t a servant at all.
“I’m supposed to wash the windows,” she said, poking at a piece of chicken with her fork. “But I’ve put it off. I don’t know if I like ladders, don’t even know if you have one. I suppose I could borrow—”
“You’re not to climb ladders.”
“But what of your windows?”
“I’ll hire someone to wash the blasted windows.”
“I won’t try to talk you out of the expense as I don’t truly want to do them.”
He had the feeling of being manipulated again. He should be angry. Instead he was rather amused. He was losing count of the number of times she amused him. “Where did you get the roses?”
“I stole them from Mrs. Turner’s garden.”
He arched a brow. “So you’re a thief now?”
“Marla said she wouldn’t notice them missing. She never goes into the garden, no one ever comes to visit. Which I find rather sad. I thought about calling on her, asking her to take tea with me among the roses, but apparently servants aren’t allowed to visit with those who hire servants.”
Her compassion astounded him. Was this the woman Grace saw, the woman with whom she was friends? Why the cold façade, the distance? He wanted to explore her, not only with his hands, but with his mind, to know and understand every aspect of her.
The minutes were ticking by. He needed to tell her. Tomorrow. He would find time for it tomorrow. No sense in ruining her enjoyment in a day of accomplishments.
As Drake sat at his desk in his library, it occurred to him that today he wasn’t doing anything that he was supposed to do. He’d left Phee in the kitchen, tidying up, thinking that he was headed to the club. He’d thought the same thing himself until he walked to the end of the street. Then he’d abruptly turned around, borrowed Mrs. Turner’s footman, and paid him to deliver a message to Goliath at the club, informing him Drake would be in residence this evening. He told himself it was because he could think better here, it was quieter, he was less likely to be disturbed.
But he knew the truth of it. He was loath to leave her alone with the company of only a cat, knowing this would be her last night in his residence, that following his meeting tomorrow he would tell her everything. This little farce had gone on long enough. It was time to put an end to it. But first he had to concentrate on the meeting.
Yet it was so silent. Had he ever realized how quiet it was when darkness fell beyond the windows? He heard the occasional crackle of the fire, but that only added to the sense of isolation. And he’d left her here alone, night after night, a woman whose evenings had been filled with balls, dinners, and gaiety. He doubted she’d ever spent an hour completely alone before she’d ended up with him. Not that she remembered all her social obligations, but he knew of them, and that somehow made it all the worse.
He refused to acknowledge the gladness that swept through him when the door clicked open and she stepped into the library, the cat brushing against her skirts as it sauntered in with her. Surprise lighted her features.
“I thought you’d gone to the club.”
“I decided to work here tonight.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, glanced around, held up a pad of paper. “I was going to sketch for a while. Do you mind if I do it in here?”
“No, of course not.” It wasn’t as though she had an abundance of choices, so he couldn’t very well be selfish about sharing the room.
She closed the door, which created an intimacy that he hadn’t expected in a room as large as this one. It was silly really when they’d been in his bedchamber together, been in his bathing chamber. It was the laughter in the garden, he thought. It had changed things between them, knocked down walls he’d strived so hard to keep erect, opened windows he would have preferred remain shut tight.
Coming to stand before the desk, she gazed at the paper before him, the pen in his hand as though she expected to be privy to some great discovery. “What sort of work can you do here that doesn’t require you be at the club?”
“I have a meeting with the partners tomorrow. I’m trying to organize my thoughts.”
“What are they? Your thoughts?”
“I’m not quite sure as I’ve yet to organize them.”
Blinking, she stepped back. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” He held up his hand, cursing himself for his terse words earlier. “I stayed here because I expected it to be quieter than the club, and I need to concentrate.”
“Perhaps I should go elsewhere.”
“No, I—” I want you here. “I’ve already built a fire, and it’s cozy over there with the new chairs. You should enjoy them.”
“I shall be as quiet as a dormouse.”
She took the chair that was turned so it faced the desk. If he leaned forward slightly, he could see her clearly with her legs tucked beneath her, the pad on her lap, the pencil moving across the paper with a speed that should match that of his pen.
Then she stopped, looked up, opened her mouth, and snapped it shut. He wasn’t near enough to see her blush, but he suspected it was there, a faint pink that hinted at warm passions. Perhaps a measure of embarrassment, because she’d been on the brink of disturbing him with a comment or a question. She returned to her drawing.
He tried to return to his notes, but he was acutely aware of her, of each of her movements, of her soft sighs, the faint scratch of her pencil, its falling into silence. Discreetly he would peer over to see her looking in his direction, gnawing on her lower lip. Sometimes it appeared she was carrying on a conversation with herself, in her mind, and he found himself yearning to know the thoughts that visited her.
The cat that was supposed to keep her company had made itself a berth on a lower shelf. Not such a friendly creature after all, although he’d never favored cats. Dogs were more to his liking, even when they were big and clumsy and toppled him over. He hadn’t planned to dump Phee into the trough. Only carry her over, pretend his intentions were sinister, have her shriek for him to stop, and at the last moment set her feet on the ground. Instead, Rose had ensured he got what he wanted—Phee’s laughter wafting around him. It didn’t matter that he’d been soaked and made to look the fool. Her eyes had sparkled, her smile bright. He thought he could fall in love with this woman. Only what a disaster that would be.
Scraping back his chair, he stood.
“Are you finished?” she asked.
He hadn’t even begun, but suddenly he wanted this time with her. He walked over to the table in the corner, poured whiskey into two glasses, wandered over to where she sat, and handed her one before taking the chair opposite hers.
“Careful,” he warned. “It can burn going down if you’re not used to it.”
She brought it to her nose, inhaled deeply, took a small swallow, smiled the smile he was coming to love. “It’s very familiar. I’ve had it before. Was I wicked once, do you think?”
Where she was concerned he didn’t know what to think any longer. “Perhaps.”
She took a sip of the whiskey, licked her lips in a manner that made his throat go dry.
“Did you get your thoughts organized?” she asked.
They were more scattered than ever. “You were too distracting.”
“I wasn’t talking.”
“You were fidgeting.”
With a sigh, she rolled her eyes. “I kept thinking of things to tell you, but I knew you wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“Tell me now.”
“I shouldn’t bother you with it.”
Nothing about her was a bother. When had that happened? So slowly, so irrevocably. “I’d like to know what you’re drawing.”
“All right then. I’ve been designing your front parlor.”
Leaning back, he stretched out his legs. “My parlor?”
She nodded with enthusiasm, but he was beginning to realize she did everything with enthusiasm. “I don’t know why but when I walk into one of the empty rooms, I can envision how it should look. So I thought if I sketched it out that it might help you when it came time to furnish the room.”
“What should my parlor look like?”
“At first, I thought it should be bright—yellow or lavender—but that’s not you. It needs to be dark, yet elegant. Black and gold, I think. Here, I’ll show you.” Setting aside her glass on the table beside the chair, she rose, walked over to him, leaned in, and held her pad in front of him.
The front parlor she’d sketched was a remarkable likeness to the room in his residence. But it had furniture, a large mirror above the mantel, designs over the wall. She was explaining things but he was only catching fragments—black velvet, edged in wood, black and gold paper on the walls—because most of his attention was focused on her breast pressed against his shoulder. Soft and pliant. She wasn’t wearing a corset. Only thin material guarded her flesh from his touch, and he could dispense with it easily enough. If he reached up, cupped her breast, she would feel the heat of the fire that she built within him so easily. She was a temptress who didn’t know she possessed the power to turn him into a mindless dolt.
When she was near, he couldn’t concentrate on anything save her: her fragrance, alabaster skin, flaxen hair. He wanted to unravel her braid, comb his fingers through the long strands. She didn’t need a silver-handled brush. His fingers would suffice. Over and over. A hundred strokes. A thousand if she wished it.
Sometimes when he let his guard down, he would have flashes of images of the night he’d undressed her, when he had strived to be a gentleman. But the scoundrel within him had looked. He knew her long legs and narrow hips. He knew the flatness of her stomach. Or he thought he did. He’d been quick about removing her clothes, had taken no liberties, but he knew she was comprised of glorious satin.
“Drake?” Her tone was terse, impatient. He lifted his gaze to her face, so near his, her brow deeply furrowed. “What do you think?”
That I should like to carry you up to my bed again, only this time I would take long moments, hours, to undress you.
Clearing his throat, he directed his attention back to the drawing. “It’s very nice.”
Scoffing, she stepped away, and his tormented pleasure came to an end. Thank God. He’d come close to doing something they would no doubt both regret.
“You’re only saying that to be kind. I’ve bored you with my prattling.” She returned to the large plush chair that had been made for a man’s comfort, and brought up her feet, tucking them beneath her. Curled as she was, she reminded him of a cat, with her oval green eyes, exotic in the way they captured the flames from the fire and glittered.
“No, I do like it. I can see it quite clearly. You’ve put a lot of thought into it.”
She angled her head, studied him, sipped the whiskey. He didn’t want to admit that he could see himself doing this every night, being with her, whether with words or without. She was turning his world, his expectations upside down, inside out.
“It’s not really my place, I suppose. Your wife will no doubt want to decorate the rooms to her taste.”
“I’ve told you that I don’t have a wife.”
“But you will one day.”
“No. You and I are alike in that regard: I have no intention of marrying.”
“Why ever not?”
It was such a simple question with such a complicated answer.
“My bloodline needs to end with me.”
“That seems a rather drastic reason.”
But there was more to it than that, and he could tell by the arching of her delicate brow that she suspected as much. For once, she wasn’t questioning, poking, prodding, insisting that he provide information. She was merely waiting, giving him time, giving him room. It was so easy to forget who she was, the true nature of their relationship. He could ignore her if she were nagging at him, harping, tilting up that bent little nose and staring down it at him.
But she was looking at him levelly, equally. Not a servant to her master, not a highborn lady to street-born man. Almost a friend to a friend, or perhaps something a little more. He wasn’t quite certain how to define what was between them anymore. Perhaps it defied definition because much of it wasn’t real, but was simply a farce, a ruse, a deception.
He should tell her the truth of who she was now while whiskey warmed her blood, relaxed her thoughts. But he’d held so much in regarding his own truth for so long, a burden he’d not dared speak about to anyone, a weight beneath which he sometimes felt he might suffocate. For who would truly understand? Perhaps she who was now almost a blank slate.
Leaning forward, he dug his elbows into his thighs and held his glass between both hands, noting how the liquid paled and darkened, depending how the light from the fire hit it. Life was comprised of the same shadows, weaving in and out. He’d spent too much time with the shadows.
He shifted his gaze to the shelf, to the box that contained his heritage. “You asked me about Robert Sykes.”
“The murderer.”
He brought his attention back to bear on her. He wanted to trust her, wanted to believe that this woman residing in his residence was the true Lady O. That the other had been a fabrication of Society. Steadily holding her gaze, he spoke the words he’d never uttered aloud.
“He was my father.”
Phee fought not to show any reaction, but she was fairly certain she’d grown pale because her skin suddenly felt cold and clammy. “How old were you when he . . . died?”
“I was eight when he was hanged.”
He said the words so casually, as though he’d just informed her of his age the last time his father went out for a walk.
“I overheard the servants talking about the hanging that was to take place the following day. I collected newspapers for days and hoarded them away. I couldn’t read, but I knew that one day I would and if there was anything about my father in the paper, I wanted it. It was perhaps a year and a half later when I clipped that article”—he jerked his head toward the shelves where he’d placed the box after she’d discovered it—“hid it away. I never wanted to forget from whence I’d come, never wanted to forget that I came from brutish stock.”
“What of your mother?”
Leaning back, he took a long swallow of his whiskey. “He killed her.”
She was horrified. “I’m so sorry.”
He met her gaze. “It wasn’t your doing. I’m the one who failed her.”
He was so damned calm about the whole thing. She wanted to get up and shake him, make him show some reaction, but then she noticed the hand holding the glass, the knuckles so white from his grip that she could see the outline of his bones. She was surprised the glass didn’t shatter. He wasn’t at all unaffected by the tale.
“How could you have possibly failed her?”
“He would hit her.” He shook his head. “No, hit is too tame a word. Beat her. He would beat her. His hands balled into meaty fists.” He held up one of his hands, turned it over, turned it back, examining it. “I have his hands.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Those are your hands. They’ve nothing at all to do with him.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, and she could see anguish within the dark depths. “You hurtled yourself at a man for mistreating a horse. I should have done the same to my father when he took his fists to my mother, but I cowered in a corner, afraid that if he remembered I was about, those massive paws would land on me next.”
“You were a child. Your mother didn’t expect you to protect her. I daresay, it would have broken her heart, caused her more pain had you been hurt as well. You can’t blame yourself for his ugly behavior.”
Taking another long sip, he shifted his attention to the flames. “I went to his hanging.”
“Oh my God. Someone took you? A child? They should be horsewhipped!”
A corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly as his eyes came back to hers. “You don’t believe in whipping horses.”
“I believe in whipping people when they behave badly. You should not have had to witness your father’s death, no matter how horrible he was. You should have been spared seeing him die.”
“No one took me. I went alone. I grew up on the streets, knew my way around, didn’t fear getting lost. Never told anyone.”
“It’s not a place for a child.” Not a place for an adult. She had no memory of ever attending a hanging, but she could well imagine the gruesomeness of it. Her heart ached for him, that he had seen something so horrendous. That it had been his father up there made it all the worse.
“Quarter of a century ago, it served as entertainment. I was only eight, but still I recognized that I should be ashamed. I stood in that crowd and looked up at those gallows and was mortified that the creature up there with the noose about his neck—like an animal—had anything to do with me. And worse, I wept, because I loved him. I hated him, I despised him, knew the brutality he was capable of, knew he had killed my mother, and yet, somehow, to my mortification, I still loved him.”
She couldn’t help herself. Too much distance separated them. She rose, crossed over, knelt before him, and took his free hand. Feeling the tenseness in it, she stroked the long callused fingers, the wide palm. “I believe we can love a person without loving the things he does. He was your father. A bond existed between you.”
“A bond. Yes.” After he downed the last of the whiskey, he set aside the tumbler. Then he cradled her cheek. “His blood courses through me. And that, sweet Phee, is why I will never marry, why I am unworthy of a wife or children or the family who took me in. Because of the legacy he left to me. I can’t impose it on others.”
Tears welled in her eyes. That this man should believe those things was unconscionable. “You’re not your father.”
He laughed low, darkly. “Did you not see the way I went after Morris? I have my father’s hard hands and his harsh temper. I’ve spent my life trying to keep it under control, but it’s always there, seething beneath the surface. I can’t escape it.”
“Morris deserved your temper and your fists. It would have taken me much longer to beat him as he deserved, so I was very grateful you were on hand to handle the task for me.”
He chuckled, a relaxed sound that reverberated through her. She didn’t want him harboring these dark thoughts, going to these shadowed places where his past would haunt him. She wished she had the power to make him forget about his father, all he knew, all he’d witnessed. Perhaps there were some things that a person should not remember.
“You were quite the hellcat,” he said.
“Tempers serve a purpose.” Pressing a kiss to his knuckles, she repeated, “You’re not your father.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
“You can. You must.” She sighed deeply. How could she explain it? “I know I don’t remember you from before, and that you make little cryptic comments from time to time that indicate we might not have been the best of friends—I don’t know why, and I don’t care. Because I know you now. I know who you are. I know how kind you are. You let me keep a horse, a cat, and a dog. You bring me supper and take me on picnics in the garden. You don’t shout at me even though I’m an awful housekeeper. You don’t complain that I purchase things for Marla with your coins. You try to help me remember, and you’re patient with me when I don’t.” Reaching up, she combed her fingers through his hair. “I refuse to believe that there is anything of your father in you. You are your own man. I find you to be quite remarkable.”
With a growl, he pulled her onto his lap, took her mouth as though without it, he might die. It was a sentiment she completely understood because she had not wanted to go another moment without kissing him. She had been so glad to discover he was still here. She thought she would never have enough moments with him. She’d come to despise the moon because when it rose in the sky, he departed. She much preferred the sun because it brought him back.
Pulling away, he gazed into her eyes, and within his, she saw burning desire that sent her heart to galloping. He plowed his fingers into her hair, held her still.
“This between us is so dangerous,” he said, his voice rough and raw.
“You won’t hurt me.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, shook his head slightly. “You should not be here.”
“I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
“I’m on a frayed tether.”
“What does that mean?”
Drawing back, he gave her a wry smile. “That I want to be with you in ways that an honorable man would not. I won’t ruin you. I won’t.”
She thought he was trying to convince himself more than convince her. Was it wrong of her to be flattered that he desired her? Did it make her wanton? Probably, but she didn’t care. She wanted to encourage him to throw caution to the wind, but then she recalled why he was here. She’d promised not to distract him, yet she’d managed to do just that. “Can you tell me about this meeting you’re having with the partners?”
He seemed relieved by her question, that she was willing to change the subject, lead them away from temptation.
“The club that I manage—Dodger’s Drawing Room. Is the name familiar?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Should it be?”
“It’s quite well known. You knew I oversaw it. I just thought—” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, it’s owned by three partners. One of those partners is the woman who took me in and raised me as her own.”
Blinking she released a startled laugh. “A woman owns a gambling hell?”
“She was once the bookkeeper. Thirty years or so ago, London was very different, darker. Before that, more different, more dark. The three partners survived the streets, became successful. I owe her my life. I owe all of them for what I now hold. But I believe the purpose of tomorrow’s meeting is to decide the club’s fate, and I fear that they might decide the time has come to close it.”
“What will you do if that happens?”
“I’m not sure. I hope to persuade them otherwise.”
“And if you can’t?”
“I shall open my own establishment. Begin anew.”
“I can’t imagine all it would take to start over.” She furrowed her brow. “Although I suppose in a way I am.”
“I’ll have an advantage, though, if I must start over. I already know everything involved, everything I’ll need to do. The notion of beginning again rather excites me. I’ve long wanted to own my own place, but my loyalty is to them. That’s why I need to organize my thoughts, to convince them there is still money to be had, and that I can keep them in the flush.”
“You’d sacrifice your own dream for them?”
“I doubt I’d be around to dream at all if not for them.”
How could he possibly think he was anything like his father, a man who had ended his life at the end of a noose? “I know I don’t remember you from before, Drake Darling, but I know you now and I can say with utter confidence that you haven’t a shred of your father in you. Your loyalty to those who have helped you along the way, your kindness to me . . . You are a man who deserves all the good in life. I hope you acquire it.”
“You humble me, Phee.” He cradled her cheek. “You are a distraction I can ill afford.”
“Will you return before your meeting?”
“Afterward.”
Leaning in, she kissed him deeply, thoroughly. When his arms closed around her like tight bands, she broke away and scooted off his lap. “That was for luck,” she told him with a grin. “Whatever you need to accomplish at your meeting tomorrow, you will succeed. I have full faith in you.” I love you, she almost added. Could she love him when she had known him only a short time? Did she need her memories to know him fully? She didn’t think so.
She started to leave him, had only taken three steps when he called out to her. She turned back to him.
“You, Phee, are an incredible woman. I’m not sure I ever realized that before.”
“Perhaps you’ll give me a day off then.”
He laughed deeply, richly. “Perhaps I’ll do more than that and take you to the seaside.”
“I’d like that very much.” Smiling brightly, she walked from the room. Even if she had all her memories, she doubted she’d recall a moment when she’d been happier.