Their meetings were always held at a square table in a corner of Jack’s library. Drake assumed it was their rendition of a round table. No head. No foot. They each had a side. They were all equals. From the moment he’d become the manager of Dodger’s, he’d had a place at this table. When he was seventeen, he’d thought he’d be here forever.
Jack Dodger sat across from him. Frannie Mabry was to his right. The Earl of Claybourne to his left. More than thirty years had passed since they opened Dodger’s. Not much had changed in all those years. A few games added. Women no longer worked on their backs. But for the most part, it was as it had begun, and that, Drake realized, was the issue at hand.
After Phee had left him the night before, he’d returned to the club, stood in the balcony, and organized his thoughts among the clatter and clicking of vices being enjoyed by men of quality. He couldn’t see Dodger’s going away, not when business was thriving. But he did believe some adjustments were in order.
Jack lifted his glass of whiskey, beginning the meeting as he always did: with a salute. “To Dodger’s and the life it has given us.”
They clinked their glasses together. Dodger’s had given Drake a good life. He wasn’t a partner, but his income was derived from the profits, and they were extremely handsome.
“I called this meeting,” Jack began, “because times are changing and I don’t know that I’m willing to change with them.”
“That would be foolish,” Drake said. Within this circle, he’d never hesitated to give his opinion on matters. They listened to him. They didn’t always agree, but they listened.
Jack arched a dark brow. “Would it?”
“If you want your profits to continue to increase, you must be willing to adapt.”
“Dodger’s has had a good run. Besides, adapting has never been my strong suit.”
Drake felt his stomach drop to the floor with the finality of Jack’s tone. “However, it is mine. Dodger’s caters only to the aristocracy. But more of our members are struggling. For many of them, the family coffers are not what they once were. Industrialization is changing everything. Those with the wealth now are not titled. They are visionaries. They are in manufacturing and railways and land. They are architects, inventors, builders. They are looking for validation, because for all their wealth, their blood is not blue, and that matters here. We open Dodger’s to them.”
Jack leaned back. “You’re rather passionate about this.”
“Yes, I am, because I understand it.” He glanced around the table. “You all should. We have an opportunity here to expand our resources, to perhaps make a difference and knock a few bricks off the wall that separates the aristocracy from the common man.”
“Don’t you desire something more than managing a gaming hell?” the duchess asked, her blue eyes earnest. He’d always loved the way she met his gaze head-on.
“I’m suited to it, and I enjoy it. The only thing I would want more is to actually own one.”
“Then why don’t you?” the Earl of Claybourne asked.
Drake glanced around the table. “Because I owe each of you for the chance you gave me to better my life. I’m not going to show my appreciation by going into competition against you.”
Claybourne gave Jack a pointed look. Jack merely shrugged. “I told you.”
Drake furrowed his brow. He didn’t have a good feeling about this. He liked even less the sense that something more was going on here than he’d thought. “Told him what?”
The duchess reached across the table, placed her hand over his, and squeezed. “Jack thought you were sacrificing your own dreams for what you perceived to be ours.”
“I’m not sacrificing anything.”
“Then you won’t mind that we’re ending the partnership,” Jack said.
The words contained finality. “You’ve already discussed it, made your decision?”
“We have.”
“You’re closing Dodger’s?”
Jack nodded. “I suspect it will cease to exist.”
Drake thought of all the hours he’d poured into it, all the labor, the effort. The plans he had hoped to implement. “I’ll purchase it from you. I have money set aside. Name your price.”
Jack looked incredibly pleased. “You owe me five quid, Claybourne. I told you he’d want it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Drake asked. “Unless your own sons would rather have it.”
“What would they do with it? They’re not from the streets,” Jack said. “They have no interest in the work it takes to run a place like this. Besides, we were all in agreement, from the moment you took over the reins, that if you had a knack for managing the place, someday we’d offer it to you. You have a knack, boy, and then some.”
“Then this meeting—”
“Was to see if you’d have it.”
“You couldn’t have been a bit more direct?”
“You should know me well enough to know I wouldn’t give it up without putting you through a little gauntlet. You’ve managed it well, but still I needed to be reassured you had the passion for it. You convinced me.”
Drake felt his chest expand with relief, his thoughts explode with possibilities. “What’s the price?”
“My share goes to you free and clear. Consider it your inheritance,” the duchess said with a smile.
It was too much, far too much. He wasn’t worthy. He needed to explain that to her, but then he heard Phee’s insistent tone, You’re not your father. Still, he shook his head. “I can’t take from your own children.”
“You’re my child.”
“The law does not recognize me as such.”
She glowered at him. “Do you think I give a fig about what the law recognizes? I was a thief and a forger long before I was a duchess.”
“And stubborn,” Claybourne said. “Accept her gift with grace, lad.”
Drake looked at the duchess. “You’ve given me so much.”
She smiled softly. “You’ve given me more.”
“Then I welcome your generous gift with more gratitude than I can ever express.”
He negotiated with Claybourne and Jack for their shares. They seemed surprised by his shrewdness, but part of his preparation for the meeting had involved anticipating that he would make an offer for the business.
Whiskey was poured to seal the deal. Drake stood. “I am quite overwhelmed. I had hoped to convince you not to close Dodger’s. It has a reputation tied to you. I will change it to fit the times. If you’ve no objection, I’d like to change its name in order to truly make it my own.”
“You are now its owner,” the duchess said. “You are to do with it as you please.”
“I’ll make you proud,” he promised her.
“My darling son, you have made me proud since the moment you became mine.”
It was silly for Phee to sit on the edge of the windowsill in the parlor and gaze out on the street waiting for Drake’s return. He’d said he would come to the residence after the meeting, but she had no idea how long it would take or how soon after he would come. For all she knew he would stay at the club to work for a spell, to see about his business there.
She wasn’t his wife, his lover, his friend. She was his housekeeper, his servant, his laundress, his boot polisher, his back scrubber. Even if she’d only had the pleasure of doing the last once. Her hands were healed enough that she could wash his back again. Although maybe she would wash a tad more: his hair, his arms, his chest. She would probably stop there. The remainder of him far too intimate, but maybe . . .
She’d braved a park that for some reason terrified her. Why would she not brave exploring him? She thought it would be a far more pleasant task.
Sighing, she pressed her forehead to the glass. She had chores that needed to be attended to, although at the moment she couldn’t recall a single one; cooking lessons to be attended to, although at the moment she didn’t know if she would ever eat again, her stomach was such a knot of nerves.
She didn’t want them to rebuff him or scold him or make him think he couldn’t accomplish what he most certainly could. She didn’t want them to hurt him, undermine his confidence. She wanted to be in that room and shake anyone who made him feel less.
Not that he needed her to stand as his champion. He was perfectly capable of handling the matter on his own. It was simply that she wanted to be his partner, wanted to be involved in his life, his plans, his dreams.
Good God, she sounded like Marla with her romantic tale of servants and masters of the house. The next thing she knew she would be imagining Drake declaring undying love for her.
Silly, foolish girl.
She saw a hansom cab pull to a stop in front of the residence, saw him leap out—
She rushed to the door, opened it, and nearly rammed into him when she darted outside. His quick reflexes, folding his hands over her shoulders, were the only things that saved her nose, his chest. She looked up at him, studying him as she tried to decipher the answer in his eyes but he was closed up as tightly as shutters during a storm.
“Well?” she demanded.
“You’re looking at the new owner of Dodger’s.” Laughing, picking her up, holding her tightly, he swung her around until she was dizzy.
When he finally set her down, she asked, “But how?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later. We’re going out to celebrate.”
She wished she had something in satin and silk to wear but at least she’d been saving the skirt and blouse that he’d brought her that second morning for a special occasion. The sleeves were long, the buttons of the bodice went to her throat. She felt rather plain and unadorned. No jewelry, no pearl combs for her hair. Even though, with the help of Marla’s attentive hands, the blond locks were pinned up into an elegant style that she thought was befitting any ballroom . . . or tavern.
She couldn’t recall ever being to a place where people were quite so boisterous, but surely she had. She and Drake were sitting at a back table in the corner, each with a tankard of ale, waiting for their shepherd’s pie to be brought out.
“Sorry it’s not very fancy,” he said.
She smiled. “I wouldn’t know if it was or not. I haven’t anything to compare it to, but I adore the joviality here. Do you come here often?”
“For a pint every now and then.”
She wanted to reach out and brush his hair off his brow, hold his hand, hug him. He looked as though he carried no burdens whatsoever. Strong, handsome, sure of himself, the world, and his place in it.
He had told her everything about the meeting, the wonder of them giving or selling him their portions of the club. She was amazed at his humility, how touched he was by their generosity. He took nothing for granted.
“Will you call the club something different? I think you should. It will be yours.”
“I was thinking of calling it the Twin Dragons,” he said.
“I like it, but why twin dragons?”
“Because I want it to represent the old and the new. Presently, you must be part of the peerage to even qualify for membership.” He rolled his shoulders into a shrug. “Well, I did make an exception for an American, because I can see what’s coming. The peerage is not what it once was. There is a new elite forming. Those without titles but with wealth that most can’t even imagine. But we still have a class system, with which I am extremely familiar because I was raised within it. The family who took me in—he is a duke. She is a duchess.”
Phee widened her eyes. “You were raised by nobility?”
She’d always thought he had a polished edge to him, but he also possessed an undercurrent of something rough and dangerous. It was odd that she found herself attracted to both aspects of him.
“I was. They treated me as one of their own, but beyond their walls, their sons are lords, their daughter a lady, and I am Mr. Darling. In spite of the fact that they never made me feel less, Society never accepted me as being equal. I don’t resent it. I’m not angry about it. But I understand it. All these newly wealthy gentlemen are standing with their noses pressed to the window wanting in . . . and I want to give them the way in.”
“By taking their money at cards.”
“In a game of chance everyone is equal. Fate cares not one whit about rank, title, or class.”
“What of women?”
He stared at her, clearly confused. “I’m only interested in managing gambling, not prostitution.”
She gave a caustic laugh. “I’m not certain whether to be irritated or unsurprised to discover that’s the direction your mind would take. I was referring to women gambling in your establishment. Surely they stand with their noses pressed to windows. Why not let them in as well?”
“Radical notion. I’ll consider it as I’m renovating.”
“You’re going to renovate it?”
He nodded. “I want to modernize it a bit. I want to give it its own character. It’s my dream, and I want it to reflect my values, my beliefs.”
She could see that he would make it someplace special.
“I’m glad you shared your plans. It’s a wonderful dream, owning your own place, making a difference to so many. It’s much grander than mine.”
“All dreams are equal. They can’t be measured or weighed against someone else’s. They’re too personal. Their value rests with the person who owns the dream.”
“You very much believe in things and people being equal don’t you?”
“Yes, I very much do. At least for others.” A shadow crossed over his features. Reaching out, he took her hand and stroked his thumb over her knuckles. She’d worn her kidskin clothes but removed them to eat. She was glad they were tucked away and that his skin was touching hers. “Sometimes I envy you not remembering your past.”
“You mustn’t let memories of your father ruin this night or taint your accomplishments. The original owners of the club entrusted you with something they built from nothing. They have faith in your abilities. I do as well.”
He slammed his eyes closed, shook his head. “Phee—”
Her heart lurched. “Don’t ruin it.”
He opened his eyes, and she squeezed his hand. “Don’t tell me that when my memories return I won’t like you. Because I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. I know what I feel for you now at this very moment, and I know deep within my heart, to the depths of my soul that I will never care for anyone as I care for you. Let us have tonight to celebrate the realization of your dream. Dance with me.”
A band of three was playing fiddles. People were swirling around in another corner of the tavern.
“It’s not a waltz,” he said.
“But it looks like a great deal of fun.”
He pulled her to her feet and led her into the midst of the dancers. While the music was wrong, completely wrong, they waltzed. Or tried to. There was no room to be swept over the floor or to be circled about. But he was grinning, that dimple winking. She loved that smile, loved that dimple. Loved the way his eyes glinted.
He was a man striving to let go of his past, while she had none. She no longer cared about what had come before. She only cared about now, about being with this man. This man who knew what it was to press his nose to the glass, a man who was opening the door for others. Who weighed all his actions against a past she had only glimpsed.
A remarkable man with so much good in him, good he failed to recognize.
As the crowd pushed them together, she rose up on her toes and kissed him. Maybe it was the ale she’d drunk, the music, his broad smile, but she wanted his mouth moving over hers. She didn’t care that he was her employer and it was wrong. She didn’t care that she was his servant and nothing permanent would come of anything between them. She didn’t care about his past or her lack of one.
He pressed her closer as his mouth greedily welcomed hers. She was aware of whistles and cheers. When he drew back his eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, smoldering with desire, burning for her.
She needed memories, craved them. She wanted tonight to leave her with ones she would never forget.
With his arm around her, holding her near, he was quiet in the hansom cab that returned them to the residence. He was quiet as he unlocked the door and led her inside. He was quiet as he prepared a bath. He was quiet as he lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs.
It was only when they were outside the bathing chamber that he said, “I’ve dreamed of bathing you.”
His eyes held hers. She saw the earnestness there. Warmth swirled through her. She nodded.
“I’ve dreamed of much more than bathing you,” he said quietly.
Her heart was thrumming like some mad thing, but she seemed incapable of doing little more than nodding again.
“If at any time we are going further than you want, you need only say no.”
“I don’t think that word will be in my vocabulary tonight.” Words at last, words that encouraged, gave permission.
With a low feral growl, he took her mouth. She ran her hands up into his thick black hair. He was a man of many talents, it seemed. He held her, kissed her, carried her into the bathing chamber as smoothly as a skater moving over ice.
An image flashed of her skating over a frozen pond in the dead of winter with snow-laden branches overhead, but she shoved it back into the farthest recesses of her mind to be examined later, much much later. This wasn’t a time for memories to intrude. This was a time for memories to be made.
Slowly, slowly, her body unfurling and gliding against his, he lowered her feet to the floor and drew back from the kiss. “We’ll leave your hair up so it doesn’t get wet,” he said.
“I should like for you to wash it sometime.”
“Tomorrow.” He began undoing her buttons. “I tried very hard not to notice what you looked like as I undressed you the night I found you in the river.”
“Did you meet with success?” she asked breathlessly as he parted her bodice.
“Your legs were my undoing. You are not tall and yet they are incredibly long, and I very much like long legs.”
“Yours are long as well. I noticed that right off about you.”
He laughed, deeply, richly. “They aren’t all that’s long.”
She felt the heat suffuse her face, because she was fairly certain, based on the wicked glint in his eyes, that he was being naughty. Leaning in, she buried her face against his chest. “I don’t know if I can joke about this.”
Cradling her face, he tilted it up. “I want you very, very badly, Phee. But I won’t force you and I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
“I know. I’m not uncomfortable, I’m not even hesitant. I want you as well. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“I won’t be.”
He removed her clothes slowly, provocatively. Shoes, stockings, silk underthings that he pressed openmouthed kisses to before removing, coating her skin in dew. Then he was crouched before her, looking up at her. “It’s like seeing you for the first time.”
“Except for my legs.”
He grinned. “Except for your legs.”
He skimmed his large hands, warm and rough, up them, sending shivers of delight through her. Unfolding his body, he took her hand and helped her into the tub.
As she sank into the water, she smiled. “A shade past warm.”
With his eyes never leaving hers, he removed his jacket, waistcoat, and neck cloth. He unbuttoned three buttons of his shirt and his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and she wondered why that last action seemed so remarkably sensual, more so than if he’d stripped himself of his shirt.
Kneeling beside the tub, he slipped a hand into the water and glided it over her toes, her arch, her ankles, up her legs, her thighs and back down. Up again, a little higher, and back down. “You’re silk,” he rasped.
“You’re velvet.”
“More like sandpaper.”
She shook her head. “No.”
His hand went higher, brushing over a hip, dipping in at her waist, gliding over her ribs, higher still until he was cradling a breast as the water lapped at it. Leaning over, he circled his tongue around her nipple, and once more her hands were in his hair, holding him near. With his hand kneading, he closed his mouth around light pink.
She was grateful these hadn’t been memories to lose. They could not have done this before if he thought it was like looking at her for the first time. They had kissed, yes, but they could not have gone farther. Surely this would all feel familiar, surely there would be flashes of memory.
But there was nothing except the wonder of the sensations, as though she were only now being introduced to them. He trailed his mouth up to the curve of her neck, nipped at the delicate flesh with a satisfying growl, and she wanted to curl in on herself even as her head dropped back to give him easier access.
His hand skimmed back down, lower, lower, until his fingers were parting her and pleasure speared her. She released a little cry that was part moan, part sigh.
“Not yet,” he grumbled, and she didn’t know if he was talking to her or himself, but his fingers and lips left her.
She opened her eyes to see strain in his features as he reached for the soap. He concentrated on rubbing it over his hands. Lifting her foot from the water, he worked the soap between her toes, over her heel. Rough silk over smooth satin. The soap added a texture that delighted, yet she longed for his bare hands.
He washed her slowly, every line and curve, every nook and cranny, taking his time, exploring every aspect of her as though it were truly the first time he’d laid eyes on her. She watched the appreciation lighten his eyes, the passion flow in to darken them. Once more, she reached out and sifted her fingers through his hair. She wanted to touch him, needed to.
“Join me,” she said.
He peered over at her. She flung some water droplets at him. “In here. I can wash you while you wash me.”
Leaning in, he blanketed her mouth, his tongue exploring with the same intensity that his hands did, as though he could unearth something new about her. Their relationship would change. She knew that, but then it had already changed.
She didn’t do her chores around the house because they were her duties. She did them because she wanted to please him. She wanted him happy. She wanted him to want to come home to her. She wanted to greet him with a smile and a kiss. She wanted him to take her into his arms. She wanted him to return at midnight, slip into bed beside her, and cradle her. She wanted him to sleep beside her, his breaths matching hers.
It all seemed right. From the moment she had awoken in his bed, some things had seemed correct and others had felt wrong. He had felt right. He had always felt right. Her feelings for him were the only thing she truly trusted. They were real, they were absolute. They carried with them no doubts.
Drawing back, he stood and pulled his shirt over his head. Although she’d seen that chest before, she still marveled at it. And the flatness of his stomach. He removed his boots and then his trousers. Oh yes, he was a man comprised of astonishing lengths.
He stepped into the tub, his feet on either side of her. Lifting her feet, she placed them on his chest as he lowered himself into the water, which rose and threatened to spill over. Taking her foot, he kissed her toes, her ankle, her calf.
The devil was in his eyes. How she loved that devil.
Locating the soap near her hip, she picked it up and rubbed her hands over it. She rose up on her knees and began washing him. “I think I was a silly girl to only ever wash your back,” she said, skimming her hands over his chest, his arms.
“I was the fool for not insisting you do more.” He braced his hands on either side of her ribs, his thumbs grazing the underside of her breasts as he brought her nearer and peppered kisses over her.
“You’re distracting me from my purpose here,” she told him.
“Concentrate.”
But how could she when he was eliciting such marvelous sensations? Lowering her hands into the water, she stroked them over his hips. He stilled.
“Oh, I have your attention now,” she said.
“You’ve always had my attention.”
She moved her hands around, wrapping her fingers around the heat of him. He growled low in his throat and she felt the vibrations going through him.
He came up out of the water, pulling her with him. He stepped out of the tub, then assisted her out. He dried her, his actions tender but quick before he roughly ran a towel over himself.
When he was done, he lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the room, took her to the bed, tumbling her onto it, following her down, once again exploring her as though he’d never set eyes on her before.
He worshipped her with hands, mouth, tongue. He nibbled on her lobe, her neck, her shoulder, her breasts, lower.
He was right. If he’d done this with her before, she’d have not forgotten. She’d have not forgotten the heat, the passion, the groans. She’d have remembered the feel of his skin gliding over hers as he moved lower, the sensation of velvet rasping over her as his tongue swirled over her most intimately. She’d have remembered crying out as he took her on a journey of pure, unadulterated pleasure. She’d have remembered the smug look of satisfaction on his face when he rose above her, a look that should have angered her, but only endeared him all the more.
A man who made promises and kept them.
Yes, if she’d ever been with him before she’d have remembered.
She’d have remembered him filling her inch by slow inch. The weight of him, the fullness of him, the way her body closed so tightly around him. The deep groan he uttered as he buried his face in her hair.
Yes, she’d have remembered.
He lifted himself up, captured her gaze, and began to rock against her, long, slow, deep thrusts. Until the pleasure once more began to mount. She could see the strain on his face, the strain in his arms. He lowered his head, took her mouth, the tempo of his movements never faltering. His taste was somehow darker, richer now. He was darker, more passionate.
Breaking off the kiss, he began to move faster. Rubbing her hands over his back, over the dragon, she lifted her hips, met him on equal terms. Their breathing became labored, their skin slick. Pleasure exploded through her. She cried out his name, heard him growl hers as he slammed into her one last time, his body trembling, his jaw clenched.
Keeping his weight off her, he pressed his forehead to hers, their breathing calming, even as tremors of pleasure continued to undulate. Lethargy crept in, and she thought she might never move again.
She also knew that she would never ever forget this night.
Rolling to his back, bringing her up against his side, Drake knew he would never forget this night. The fire in her, the passion. Dear God, she was his dragon.
Hearing her soft snoring, he realized she had gone to sleep. Reaching down, he managed to snag the blankets, pull them up, and tuck them around her.
Never in his life had he known a woman like her. Never in his life had he wanted a woman as much as he wanted her.
Closing his eyes, he relived the sight of her as she was revealed to him, a gift to be unwrapped and savored. The feel of her in the water, the wonder of her touching him. The journey to the bed. The madness that followed.
The taste of her, the scent of her.
The readiness of her when he had slid into her . . .
She was tight, God she was tight.
Yet he had slid into her unimpeded. The truth dawned sharply and without doubt.
Lady Ophelia Lyttleton had not been a virgin when he took her.