It was late morning by the time she awoke, while he’d not been able to sleep at all. Various scenarios regarding his discovery had run through his mind. One being that she was in love with someone, that Drake had taken her when she had given her heart to another. Perhaps she’d been running off to be with him, eloping even. Maybe there had been a tragic accident. Somerdale had said she had numerous suitors. Had one caught her fancy?
She smiled at him, the impish smile that he loved, that caused his chest to tighten. “Good morning,” she said sweetly.
“Morning.” There was no point in asking her, because she wouldn’t remember if she loved someone else. It was more imperative than ever that she regain her memories.
She rolled to her side, flattening her breasts against his chest, reached up, threaded her fingers through his hair, and guided him down until her mouth could capture his. His resolve threatened to dissolve like sugar encountering a cup of hot tea. He loved the straightforwardness with which she came to him, the feel of her sleek skin pressed to his. He loved her sighs and moans, the way she shifted and eased her knee between his thighs.
Dear God, but he ached to toss her onto her back, slip inside her, and stay there for the remainder of the day, the week, his life. It was possible she might never regain her memories. He could move her to the country, let her shelter animals there, visit her as often as he could—
But it wouldn’t be enough. He wanted her every day, every night. He could not settle for scraps, although it was quite possible that he already had. He never should have taken things this far. He never should have given in to temptation. He thought he knew everything about her, when in reality he knew nothing all.
Pulling back, she studied him as she trailed her fingers over his face. “Why are you scowling?” she asked. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, God no.”
“Don’t you want me anymore?”
With an anguished groan, he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, inhaled her unique fragrance now laced with the musky scent of sex. “If at all possible, I want you more.”
“Then what’s the matter? Something is. I can tell. And you’re frightening me.”
Drawing back, he moved strands of her hair from her face. He wanted to do that every morning, tuck strands behind her ear. He skimmed his finger across her collarbone.
“Drake?”
“I’m not ready to give you up, and I know it’s wrong of me.”
She smiled at him. “How can it be wrong when I’m not ready to give you up either? Shall we stay abed all day?”
Knowing what he knew, he couldn’t in all good conscience take her again, no matter how tempting she was. They needed to talk, but not yet. “Let’s go to the seaside,” he said.
Her eyes widened, green pools in which he thought he might drown. He didn’t know why it seemed imperative that they have one more day together before he told her the truth. Especially as tomorrow he would no doubt think the same thing.
“On the railway?” she asked.
They would travel in the least expensive seats. No one would know her. Anyone she knew would be traveling at the front of the train, waiting for their servants to bring them refreshments when the train stopped. Only he didn’t want her sitting at the back of the train. He didn’t want to hide her. He cradled her jaw, could feel her pulse thrumming against his fingers. “We need to talk first.”
“Yes, all right.”
Where did he even begin? With his discovery last night? With his discovery of her in the river? Before that, with the kiss she almost remembered, the kiss in the alcove.
He heard the door chime. Phee gave him a questioning glance. “Are you expecting someone?” she asked.
“No.” He rolled out of bed, walked to the window, and glanced out. The Duke of Lovingdon’s coach was in front. Dammit. The timing could not have been worse. What the devil was he doing here? He should not have returned for another week. Drake could ignore his friend—
The bell chimed again. Or perhaps he could seek counsel from Lovingdon.
“I’ll get it,” Phee said, climbing out of bed in all her naked glory.
“No, I’ll see to it,” he told her. He strode quickly into the bathing chamber and snatched up his trousers and shirt from last night and hastily donned them.
Then he was out of the room and pounding down the stairs. He opened the door to find Grace standing there. Apparently, things could get worse.
“Lady Ophelia Lyttleton has gone missing,” she announced, before she swept over the threshold, causing him to step back.
“What?” He stared at her with incredulity. How had she come to discover that?
She faced him. “She was supposed to be caring for her aunt, but when Somerdale went to Stillmeadow to see her, Wigmore told him that she’d run off. He thought she’d returned home, which is why he didn’t notify Somerdale of her leaving. But I find it all very odd.”
Very odd, indeed. Somerdale had been telling the truth, which meant he was innocent in all this. But what of the uncle?
“As she hadn’t returned home, Somerdale wrote me to see if I knew where she might go, but I haven’t a clue. So Lovingdon and I returned straightaway. We arrived only this morning. He’s gone to find Avendale, because God knows the company he keeps these days might come in handy. I thought you might help as well.”
“Grace—”
“I know you don’t like her, but Somerdale is trying to keep this as quiet as possible to protect her reputation. You know the darker elements of London.” She rubbed her brow and began to pace with agitation. “I don’t know why she would run off. Not willingly. She didn’t fancy anyone, so it’s not an elopement. The only thing I can imagine is that Vexley kidnapped her as he kidnapped me, and Wigmore was too lazy to pursue the matter. I’ve never liked him.”
He hadn’t even considered that Lord Vexley would be involved. Vexley had tried to force Grace into marriage in order to gain her dowry. Had he succeeded with Phee, consummated the marriage? Rage shot through Drake with the thought. It would explain things. At her first opportunity, she would have run away from Vexley. But it might have come too late.
Grace stopped her pacing and grabbed his arm, her eyes imploring him to put aside any ill feelings he might have toward Phee. “You will help, won’t you? We’ll start with Vexley’s estate.”
“Grace.” He couldn’t have them traipsing over the country when Phee was here. He would have to explain everything to Grace, and if she didn’t kill him first, perhaps she might help him reveal everything to Phee.
“Please, Drake, she is my dearest friend in the entire world. If he is involved—”
“Grace!” Phee exclaimed from her midpoint on the stairs. She was in the clothes from last night. Apparently they were easy to don quickly. She looked so positively happy, so delighted, while his chest was caving in on itself. How did she recognize Grace? “Oh my God. It’s you who’s come to see us.”
“Ophelia?”
In spite of Grace’s stunned expression, Phee hurried down the stairs and embraced Grace heartily. “It’s so wonderful to have you visit. I was so hoping you’d come. I’ve missed you terribly. Oh my God!” She held Grace at arm’s length. “I know who you are. You’re Lady Grace Mabry. No, no. You were. But you married the Duke of Lovingdon. You’re a duchess. I saw you and I just knew who you were. No one has your shade of red hair. And I am Lady Ophelia Lyttleton.” She released a bubble of laughter. “My brother is the Earl of Somerdale.”
Spinning around, she gave Drake the brightest, most joy-filled smile he’d ever seen, and it nearly tore him in half. “I remember. I remember everything. The wedding, the ball, my Season. Oh my God, I’m not a servant.” Turning back to Grace, she grabbed her hands. “I don’t have to scrub floors or prepare meals or polish boots. And I have clothes. Dozens of gowns and shoes and hats. I have servants! I don’t have to do anything. I remember! I remember it all. This calls for a celebration. Boy, fetch us some champagne!”
He didn’t know it was possible to remain standing when possessed of a heart that no longer beat. Grace was obviously stunned and confused to discover her friend here, to listen to what sounded like the mad ravings of a lunatic. But Phee, the look on her face was pure devastation as she slowly turned to him again.
“I remember everything,” she whispered, clearly horrified. “I remember you, who you are, what you are.”
“Phee.” Holding out his hands, he searched for adequate words, but none existed to explain the horror of what he’d done.
“You told me I was your servant. You made me clean your house, wash your . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her gaze darted up the stairs. “Oh my God!” she rasped. “Oh my God.”
Her hand covered her mouth as tears welled in her eyes and she stumbled back.
How could he explain the unexplainable? How could he articulate how he had come to care for her? “Phee, I swear to you that I never meant for things to go as far as they did.” He held out a hand imploringly.
“No! Don’t you dare touch me.” She scrambled back, hit the table, causing the vase to wobble and topple over. With a crash, it shattered and spilled its contents of water and roses over the floor. “I remember everything. Everything. Every touch, every squeeze, every ugly whisper.” She made a gagging noise. “I think I’m going to be ill.”
“Sweetling,” Grace said, taking a step toward her, but Phee held up a hand to stay her actions, her eyes never leaving Drake.
“You knew who I was all this time. You didn’t tell me. You took me to your bed.”
“You wanted to be there,” he said.
She shook her head. “How could you believe that when you knew everything that I didn’t remember? I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know who you were. You could have told me everything. You could have helped me remember.”
“Phee—”
She released a sad, heartbreaking laugh. “You made me your whore.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. You must believe me.”
She pressed her hands to her face. “I want to forget again. I want to forget everything.” She turned to Grace. “You mustn’t tell Somerdale. He must never know what happened.”
Grace shook her head. “No, we won’t tell him. But your uncle told Somerdale that you ran away. He’s searching for you so we must tell him something.”
“I have to think about it. He can’t know that I was touched, that I’m . . . wicked.”
“You’re not,” Drake said, stepping forward. “Phee—”
“Don’t you call me that. Don’t you ever call me that. Not after what you did. To you I am Lady Ophelia Lyttleton. You’d do well to remember that.” Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, and then another. Her spine straightened, her shoulders went back.
He realized he was watching a transformation. When she opened her eyes, he found himself staring into icy green. She tilted up her nose, lifted her chin, and suddenly Lady Ophelia Lyttleton was standing before him.
“You were trying to teach me a lesson, like at the ball when you kissed me, trying to bring me to heel.”
“Maybe at first, but things changed. You changed. You were different.”
Slowly she shook her head. “While you were who you have always been.”
No, I changed, too. You changed me. But he held tight to the words because he knew she was too wounded to listen, to believe him.
“I trusted you,” she said. “I trusted you with . . . everything. You took advantage, you betrayed me. All I wanted for you was wonderful things.”
“I wanted to share those wonderful things with you.”
“You must forgive me if I don’t exactly believe you. What you did is . . . unforgivable.” Angling her head haughtily, she said, “Grace, can you please take me away from here?”
Then he watched as Lady Ophelia Lyttleton strode from his residence, from his life.
And it took everything within him not to drop back his head and howl. As a boy on the street he’d been beaten savagely, starved, come close to dying a time or two, but never in his life had he been in as much agony as he was now, because he’d hurt Phee—thoughtlessly and irrevocably. Revenge was a double-edged sword, and at that moment it was slicing his heart to ribbons and he regretted deeply that it was slicing hers as well.
Lady Ophelia Lyttleton did not look out the coach window, did not glance back to watch the residence disappear from sight. She simply stared straight ahead at the leather that lined the inside of Lovingdon’s coach, while everything inside her screamed at Drake’s betrayal. He had taken her to his bed, knowing who she was. He had touched her, kissed her, joined his body to hers . . . made her cry out his name with pleasure. She had wanted what he offered, wanted him. She was as she’d once been told by another: wicked. She tempted men into wickedness. While Drake had not hurt her physically, she was still devastated emotionally because she would have never gone to his bed if she had remembered who she was. He had to have known that, and he kept the truth from her in order to seduce her. She had no doubt.
“Where would you like to go?” Grace asked gently, kindly.
She didn’t know, she couldn’t think. Her head was beginning to hurt. She desperately wanted a bath, needed to wash away his touch, scrub away his caresses. “Could I stay with you until tomorrow? I have to give some thought to what I’m going to tell Somerdale. I’ve been alone in a bachelor’s residence, a scoundrel’s residence, for days, nights. I won’t marry him, Grace.”
Leaning across the expanse separating them, Grace took Ophelia’s ungloved rough, scarred hands in her gloved ones. Ophelia felt soiled without the trappings of a lady. They had always provided her with a measure of protection. With them she could pretend that she wasn’t what she was.
“No one would expect you to,” Grace said. “I shall send word to Somerdale that I think I know where I can find you, and that I shall have you home tomorrow. To lessen his worry.”
Phee nodded. As much as she loved Somerdale, he was not one for taking charge. He would accept Grace’s letter with relief, leave the matter to her, and return to his club.
Grace continued, “I believe I’ve pieced together what might have happened between you and Drake, but I’m confused regarding how you came to be there.”
“I don’t wish to talk about it. Not yet.” Not ever.
She’d been happy, blast him. For a while she’d been truly happy. But it had all been only an illusion. None of it had been real, and now she would have to deal with it.
She’d welcomed his touch, encouraged it. She wanted to curl into a ball and weep for all that she’d allowed, for everything that he’d done. Instead she kept her spine straight and stiff. She fought not to reveal the depth of her hurt. She had become quite skilled at hiding pain. Her proficiency at it would come in handy now. It would protect her, ensure that no one knew what she’d suffered.
More importantly, it was imperative Drake Darling never realize how he affected her. She would not allow him to have power over her. She would not let him destroy her completely. She would find a way to piece herself back together, to carry on.
She’d done it before. She would do it again.