“Where did you take her?” Drake stood in the Duke of Lovingdon’s front parlor. His best friend was nowhere to be seen, but his new wife was not at all happy. Not that he blamed her. He wasn’t particularly happy with himself either. Phee’s face crumpling with the realization of what he’d done would haunt him for the remainder of his life. She believed him worthy. He’d proven her wrong.
“She’s here, at least for tonight. Sleeping. Dr. Graves came to examine her.”
“And she’s all right?”
“Depends on your definition of all right. I’ve a good mind to smack you. What were you thinking, what were you hoping to accomplish?”
Charging over to the fireplace, he pressed his forearm against the marble mantel and stared into the hearth, wishing for a fire so he could envision himself writhing within it. “You’d never understand.”
“Why don’t you try to explain it anyway? I know you, Drake. I love you as a brother. God help me, I love you more than I love the brothers who share my blood. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here but it’s exceedingly difficult when my dearest friend in all the world cried herself to sleep.”
He grimaced, despising himself for being responsible for her tears. “It was childish.”
“I believe that goes without saying. The question is why did you do it?”
He sighed heavily, considered pounding his fist against the marble, but the rage he felt would be behind the blow and so it was likely he’d damage the mantel. “I know you’re not aware of it, but at every opportunity she slighted me.”
“Of course I’m aware of it.”
Dumbfounded, he stared at her. “And yet you remained friends with her, after just telling me how much you love me?”
Grace perched on the arm of a padded brocade chair. “Of course I did. Because I believed I understood what was behind her actions.”
“Insulting me?”
“Attraction to you.”
He felt as though he’d taken a full body blow, as though the house had just toppled down on him. “What? Are you mad? She never had a kind word for me.”
She smiled softly. “I don’t recall you having very many for her either. You two skirted around each other as though you feared if you ever got too close there would be a conflagration.”
God, there had certainly been that. They’d scorched and singed each other with their passion and desire. Unfortunately, in the process he might have destroyed her. “She irritates the devil out of me.”
“Which was her purpose. I think she was frightened—possibly terrified—by what she felt for you.”
“Only because she considers me beneath her.”
“Perhaps. Or mayhap she sought to convince you both of that so she wouldn’t have to deal with what she felt. It’s also possible that she wanted the distance because she didn’t consider herself worthy.”
He laughed at that, a deep harsh bark that reverberated through the room. “I have never known anyone who put herself so high up on a pedestal.”
“When one is that high up, Drake, she can’t be touched. I have always wondered why she put such distance between herself and men. Not only you. I suspect that if word got out about your little ruse, several men would cheer.”
He’d flatten each one who did. “I’m not telling anyone. What happened is strictly between Phee and me,” he ground out.
As though considering, she cocked her head to the side. “I like the way you say her name, as though she’s special to you.”
She was special. Not that he could admit it without coming across as a total ass. Had he known how remarkable she was, he would have treasured her from the beginning.
Grace rose, walked over to a small table of decanters, and poured a splash of rum—her spirit of choice—into two glasses. Hers had been an uncommon upbringing. She swore, cheated at cards, smoked cigars, and drank. She could survive in a man’s world if she needed to. The duchess had seen to that.
Now Grace brought him a glass, then clinked hers against his, before taking a swallow. He was not as delicate. He downed his contents in one gulp. He had an irrational urge to prove he wasn’t a gentleman, to be barbaric, uncouth, uncivilized.
But she wasn’t watching him. She was staring at the amber liquid, tapping her dainty finger against the side of the tumbler. “As close as Phee and I are, I know that she has never shared everything with me. To be honest, there are things I haven’t shared with her, so I’m not faulting her for her discretion. But when she was younger, before we had our coming out, she would spend a good deal of the summer with her aunt. She would always invite me to join her there, would insist upon it actually. I was given my own bedchamber, treated like a princess. After all, I was the daughter of a duke. But without fail, Phee would always slip into my room near midnight, crawl into the bed, and snuggle against me. She would be cold and shivering, no matter how warm the weather. She forbade me to ask questions or to say anything about her presence there. I was young, naive, but I often wondered what it was she feared in the night. To this day, I haven’t a clue. I’ve never pressed. We all have our secrets.”
He needed more rum, a full tumbler this time, because he could not help but believe that something was dark at Stillmeadow, something that had been responsible for her journey into the Thames.
“Did she explain how she came to be in the river?”
Slowly she shook her head. “She doesn’t recall that part. Dr. Graves doesn’t believe that to be unusual. It was no doubt traumatic, and he believes that sometimes our mind strives to protect us from bad memories. He’s treated men returning from wars, survivors of railways disasters. They might remember what happened before or after, but not during.”
“Vexley wasn’t involved,” he said with conviction. Considering when he’d found her, he knew she hadn’t had time to arrive at Stillmeadow, hadn’t had time to be abducted.
“No. Lovingdon went to see him only to discover the man somehow financed his way to America. So what happened that night is still a mystery. Although right now, Phee’s biggest worry is striving to come up with an explanation for Somerdale. She’s quite insistent that he not learn where she spent the past several nights. She fears it would be disastrous.”
“That Somerdale would force her to marry me?”
“There is that possibility. In the heat of the moment you both said things that left nothing to my imagination.”
“I need to speak with her, Grace.”
She nodded. “I assumed that was the reason behind your visit, but I’m not certain she’s yet ready to see you. Perhaps you should give it a few days.”
“A few days won’t lessen how much she despises me. I daresay a year, a decade, a century will not be long enough as far as she’s concerned. But I need to see her tonight, before she talks to Somerdale. And we need to be alone. I won’t go near her, I won’t touch her. If I could think of a way so she wouldn’t have to breathe the same air that I do, I would make it happen. It was never my intention to destroy her, and I know I can’t put things right. But I can make amends.”
Reaching up, she touched his cheek. “You need to know, Drake Darling, that in spite of everything, I still love you as a brother. I trust you. We can only hope that my belief in you is enough for Phee.” She lowered her hand to her side. “Let’s see if I have any luck at convincing her to give you a chance.”
Phee peered from behind the curtain onto the front drive. Why hadn’t he left yet? She’d seen the hansom arrive, had been looking for it actually, although she’d have never confessed that to anyone, but she had known that sooner or later he would come here. He would try to talk with her. She knew so much about him. How much easier it would all be if she didn’t. If she didn’t know the feel of his hands gliding along her throat, over her breasts, across her stomach. If she didn’t know the sensations created when his mouth followed the same path. If she didn’t know what it was to spread her legs for him, to have him rising above her—
She slammed back the memories, wouldn’t recall everything that happened in his bed. But it was so hard not to consider every moment spent with him, every minute detail of her time with him. Unfortunately, she saw it all in a different light, now. It was no longer beautiful and joyful. It was tainted by his deception, by whatever game he’d been playing.
She knew all about games and the ugliness that initiated them.
Still, she’d not been able to look away as he walked from the cab to the front steps. He was properly decked out like a gentleman. Jacket, waistcoat, neck cloth, hat, gloves. So handsome in his rough way. She wanted to rush down the stairs into his strong arms, wanted him to hold her. Everything had seemed right with the world while she’d been with him—until her memories had returned.
All along he’d known who she was, what she was. Had known what she wasn’t. All along he’d lied. He’d led her to believe she was someone other than who she was. That he was someone different.
She could forgive the chores. A very tiny part of her might even acknowledge that perhaps she deserved it, for an hour. But not for days. And no part of her could accept that she had deserved to be seduced by him. With her memories, she’d have never visited his bed. It didn’t matter that he had taken her on a glorious journey. There had been no honesty in it.
At the sound of the door opening, she turned as Grace walked in.
“He hasn’t left yet,” Phee announced as though Grace might not be aware that Drake still lingered in her residence.
“He wants to speak with you.”
“No, absolutely not. You were supposed to tell him I was sleeping.”
“I did, but I don’t think he believes me. Besides, I’m not convinced it would be such a bad thing for you to see him.”
“He’s a silver-tongued devil, that one. I want nothing more to do with him.” She turned back to watching the drive. If she stayed up here long enough, perhaps he would grow weary with waiting and leave. She needed him to leave. When he was here she couldn’t stop thinking about all that had transpired between them. She could find no peace.
The bed groaned as Grace sat on it. “What are you afraid of, Phee?”
Not being strong enough to resist tumbling back into his arms. “He took advantage, did things, unforgivable things, things I did not want . . . ever. If I’d known who I was, if I’d possessed my memories, I’d have never allowed it to happen.”
“Are you saying he forced you?”
She shook her head. But he’d made her want him, damn him. She stared harder at the drive, willing him to appear, to walk out the door.
“He promises not to touch you, not to go near you. He wants only to speak with you. I think you owe it to him to at least hear what he has to say.”
“Owe him? I scrubbed his floors. I polished his boots. I worked.” She could voice all of that, but not the worst of it. The humiliation, the shame, the mortification. The degradation of desiring him.
“I know he has regrets,” Grace said.
“As well he should.”
“I also think he cares about you.”
She scoffed. “If he did, he wouldn’t have done what he did.”
Grace got up off the bed and walked over to her. “Phee, I know we are taught that we are not to be intimate with a man before we marry, but if it makes you feel any better, I shared a very special night with Lovingdon before I even realized I would marry him. Desire is not a horrible thing.”
The weight of all that had happened was exhausting. It was taking all her strength not to crumble. Phee turned to her. “But you knew who you were. You knew who he was.”
“Yes, there is that, I suppose. Still, I love you both,” she said solemnly. “I think you’re both hurting. Perhaps a small chat will ease some of the pain.”
“It’ll only make it worse.”
“He’s stubborn and prideful, Phee. He’s not going to leave without seeing you. You know that as well as I do.”
“I can be equally stubborn and prideful.”
“But what is to be gained?”
As he stood by the fireplace, staring at the boots she’d recently polished, the minutes dragged by one after another. The only reason he didn’t give up hope was because Grace had yet to return to inform him that Phee would only consent to see him when he was rotting in hell. He doubted she would accept that he was there now.
Hearing the soft footfalls, he glanced up. Nearly doubled over with relief. She stood in the doorway in a light green satin dress with dark velvet striping. Velvet circled the collar, the cuffs, her waist, outlined the ruffles and bustles of the skirt. It had been made for her, he had no doubt of that. It didn’t matter how she’d come to have it here. Her hair was gathered up into a chignon. No loose wisps to be blown away with an enticing twist of her lips and a quick breath.
She was regal in bearing. Proud. But her stance was accented by an undercurrent of hurt, betrayal, and the definite mien that she wished to be anywhere other than where she was. Yet just like that night when she had expressed dread at walking in the park, she had shored up her courage to meet with him. He wondered how often she would humble him before his life was done. No doubt every time their paths crossed.
He straightened, moved away from the fireplace, and bowed slightly. “Lady Ophelia.”
“Grace said you wished to speak with me. Please be quick about it.”
He tipped his head toward the sofa. “Will you sit?”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Will you at least move into the room so I needn’t shout and our words can remain private?”
Hesitating, she glanced around. In his residence, he found her pique amusing. Here, it only served as a reminder that she had every reason to be upset with him. Finally, she wandered into the room, stopping near the before-indicated sofa, folding her hands primly in front of her, and meeting his gaze head-on.
Had he really thought only a short while ago that memories of washing his back would have humiliated her? That he could bring her to heel so easily? How had he not recognized the depth of her pride, the strength of her backbone? How could he have not seen that she could have resided in the filthiest squalor, and she still would have held herself as though she were a queen? How had he not known that he would gladly serve as her most loyal subject?
“I make no excuse for my actions. They were reprehensible.”
Her face a mask of calm, she said nothing. He wanted her to at least tell him he had the right of it, he was a beast. He wanted her to yell, rant, move forward, and pound her fists into his chest. He would wager everything he owned—everything, including his recently acquired club—that she knew precisely what he wanted and so she withheld it as a means to punish him. A lashing would have hurt less, but then he didn’t deserve less.
“Do you remember how you came to be in the Thames?” he asked.
A flicker of emotion at last. Fear. Deep and dark.
“No.”
“Somerdale said you left with your uncle—”
“You’ve discussed this with my brother?” Fury now. Her eyes narrowed, her hands clenched at her side. Her breaths coming harsh and fast.
“No!” He held up a hand. “No. Believe it or not, in the beginning, I only planned to have you serve as my housekeeper for a day.”
“But you were having such a jolly time with it that you decided to prolong it?”
“It was not as I thought it would be.” He gripped the mantel to stop himself from rushing forward and taking her in his arms, comforting her with his touch, with soft whispers, with tender kisses. “It would be much easier if you sit down and allow me to explain without interruption.”
“And you think I care about what is easier for you?” She held out her hands, palms facing him. “My hands are scarred now, not the hands of a lady. And I’m no longer innocent. I won’t be a virgin for my husband.”
“You weren’t a virgin for me,” he said somberly.
“You bastard!” she rasped, before tearing across the short expanse separating them and pummeling his chest, his arms, his jaw. She was a madwoman, her fists flailing about, striking anything they could.
He didn’t try to stop her, not at first. He deserved every bruise, every cut, every scrape. But then he feared she might damage herself. He folded his arms around her, brought her in close, held her tightly. “Phee,” he whispered in her hair. “Phee, it’s all right.”
Her arms went limp as she sagged against him, great wrenching sobs causing her shoulders to tremble, her tears dampening his shirt. It seemed he was always destined to cause her pain. He would leave her if he could, but not yet, not just yet.
“Tell me,” he urged gently. “Tell me what happened.”
Sniffing, wiping at her eyes, she pushed away from him. Without meeting his gaze, she walked back to the sofa. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He wished he didn’t. He hoped he didn’t. He who never prayed, prayed to God that he was wrong. But it was the only thing that made sense, that fit with the timeline, and yet it was incomprehensible.
“The first night after I found you, your brother was at the club, playing as though he hadn’t a care in the world. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t out searching for you. Unless he didn’t know that something had happened to you. Or unless he was the one who tossed you in the river and thought you were dead.”
She rolled her eyes. “Somerdale wouldn’t harm a fly.”
“So it was your uncle. You were going to Stillmeadow with your uncle in order to care for your aunt. But you never got there. Yet your uncle claims you did and then you ran away. Why would he lie?”
“I’ve had quite enough of this.” She turned to go. Lunging forward, he grabbed her arm. Wrenching free, she glared at him. “You promised not to touch me if I met you in here, yet you seem incapable of keeping your promise. I suppose I should not be surprised considering the blackguard you are.”
As much as he didn’t want to do it, he needed to shatter this pretense in order to get to the truth. “Your uncle forced himself upon you that night.”
She heaved a sigh as though he was the most infuriating man in the world and she could hardly be bothered with him. “Let this matter go. You’ve done quite enough damage, don’t you think?”
Oh, he hadn’t done nearly enough if his suspicions were correct. “Look me in the eye and tell me that he did not force himself upon you that night.”
Drawing in air through her gritted teeth, she closed her eyes and balled her fists. He thought it very likely that she was going to hit him again. But when she opened her eyes, he saw determination and steel in them.
“He. Did. Not. Force. Himself. Upon. Me. That. Night.”
Studying her intently, he saw naught but the truth. The absolute, unvarnished truth in her eyes. She meant each word she’d punctuated with conviction. Relief swamped him, and yet he was still troubled. “But you had no barrier for me to penetrate.”
Red crept up her throat, over her face, and he knew his words were shocking, too blunt, but he wanted an explanation. He needed to know that he hadn’t done her an even greater disservice than he’d originally thought. Her reaction in the foyer had been more than anger. He couldn’t quite understand what he’d witnessed.
“Perhaps I wasn’t born with one,” she said. “Or perhaps it somehow broke. I don’t know, but surely not every virgin remains completely intact. Besides, considering how desperately you wanted me last night, were you truly in a position to notice?”
She had a point there. He’d been lost in the passion, the fire of her. Mayhap he was wrong, but something was amiss. She was striving too hard to get him off the path. While he knew he should let it go, let her go, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.
“How did you come to be in the river?”
“I don’t recall.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’ve had quite enough of this, and of you.”
Turning on her heel, she headed for the door.
“If you don’t tell me how you ended up in the Thames, I’m going to confess to your brother what I did.”
Staggering to a stop, she spun around and glowered at him. “You wouldn’t.”
“I daresay, he’ll insist that we marry.”
Hands balled into fists, she marched back over to him, stopping a mere inch from him, glaring, fire shooting from those emerald eyes. “You are a beast.”
“Considering my recent behavior, I believe that’s unarguable.”
“Why does it matter how I came to be in the river?”
“Because in spite of everything, and while I don’t expect you to believe it, I fell desperately in love with the woman who lived in my residence. If someone caused her harm, they will answer to me.”
“If you truly loved me, you wouldn’t have done what you did.”
“I didn’t love you when it began. Christ, I didn’t even like you.”
Her mouth gave the slightest twitch, and he saw the barest of nods, as though she’d made up her mind about something. With her posture, her stance, emerged the woman he’d never been able to tolerate.
“The truth? Yes, I was going to the country with my uncle. But in the carriage he described my aunt’s condition in detail. We were in the midst of the Season and I was going to endure the stench of a sickroom to bathe my aunt, feed her, read to her, and hold her hand. No more dancing, no more strolls through the park admired by gentlemen, no more flirtation. Just drudgery and boredom and tedious tending to an ailing old woman. I didn’t want it. I wanted balls, fine dinners, and theater. I wanted to have fun. I wanted to be sought after. So when the carriage slowed to turn onto a bridge, I leaped out. Uncle sent his footmen after me. Ghastly long legs they have. Why does everyone value tall footmen? Anyway, I knew they would catch me, so over the railing I went. I wasn’t too far along on the bridge, the plunge not such a great distance that I couldn’t survive it. I doubted they would follow. Better to be wet for a bit than to miss the Season. I would worry about dealing with Somerdale later.” Her tone was haughty, cold, and calculating. It sent a shiver down his back.
“You’re not that selfish.”
“Perhaps the woman who lived with you wasn’t, but the one before, the one you didn’t even like? Admit it, that’s precisely how selfish she was. And is. Now that I have my memory back and understand what is my due.”
“Why didn’t your uncle notify your brother straightaway?”
“I assume he thought I was going home so he saw no need. He no doubt expected I would explain to Somerdale that I’d changed my mind about going on to Stillmeadow.”
“He didn’t think it important to ensure you were safe? What sort of man is he?”
“One who cares only about his own convenience. Are we done here?”
Maybe if they were truly two different women with different hearts and different souls he’d have been convinced. But he knew and understood the woman he’d rescued. When she’d hit the water, her façade had shattered. Now she was desperately striving to reerect it. Why?
For the same reason that he had built a barrier around himself: to keep hidden something ugly from his past, something he wanted no one to ever know. But he’d shared it with her, opened himself up to her. Trusted her.
He’d betrayed her. She wouldn’t trust him with it now. But he knew there was something so hideous and dark . . .
Something that gave her nightmares . . .
Something that touched her, that she fought against . . .
Something Grace said she feared in the night when at Stillmeadow . . .
Not something. Someone.
“Your uncle didn’t force himself on you that night,” he said.
She jerked up her chin. “Did I not just say that?”
“He raped you when you were a child.”