“He took his own life?” Somerdale was standing in the front parlor in his nightclothes, dressing gown, and slippers, his blond hair sticking up at odd angles.
Phee had been rather surprised to find him home and not out carousing. It would have been easier had he been up to his usual escapades. She might have avoided having to explain Drake’s presence.
Her brother narrowed his eyes and gave Drake a pointed look. “And how was it you happened to be there?”
“As I tried to explain,” Phee began, “Auntie wasn’t improving and Wigmore wouldn’t allow me to bring her to London. I thought Drake could manage to convince him otherwise.”
“Uncle said you’d run off.”
“I suppose he wanted drama. I don’t know. I did leave for a few days, but I hardly ran off. I went to the local village, because he was being quite impossible to deal with and I was frustrated. Then it occurred to me that I simply needed some muscle, so I sent for Drake.”
“Why not send for me?” Somerdale sounded peevish and hurt. She was really too weary to deal with his pride.
“When have you ever stood up to Uncle?”
Somerdale scowled. She had him there and he knew it. “But why would Darling care what you wanted? Why would he traipse out in the middle of the night?”
“Because she is Grace’s friend,” Drake said. “Stop trying to analyze everything, Somerdale. You’ll only give yourself a headache.”
“It’s just odd that you were asking after her no more than a week ago, and now when she needs you, here you are. I fear something else might be afoot here. Did you take advantage of my sister?”
“He did not,” Phee said. “Now will you please send for Dr. Graves so he can examine Auntie? Or shall I have Drake do that as well? She’s quite ill.”
Somerdale scrubbed his hands up and down his face. “No, no need to involve Darling further. I shall see to it.”
As soon as he left the room to search out a footman, she turned to Drake. “I’m grateful for your assistance tonight. But you need not stay any longer.”
His gaze slowly roamed over her face as though he was striving to etch every line and curve into his memory. “He’s going to keep asking you questions.”
“I can handle Somerdale. I have since I was born.”
He nodded. “I shall miss having you in my residence.”
She almost confessed that she was going to miss being there, but the wound of his betrayal was still fresh and she was confused regarding her feelings toward him. Where he was concerned, a whirlwind of emotions rocked her: gratitude for his assistance, anger at his betrayal, passion, desire, hurt. She didn’t know if she had the wherewithal to sort it all out.
“I never—” he began, halted, shook his head. “I was going to say that I never meant to hurt you, but of course that’s a lie. You always thought I was beneath you and I proved you right. I’m sorry, Phee. Sorry for more than I can say.”
He walked out of the room, out of her life. Tall, strong, proud.
And she, who had never wept during the most horrendous moments of her life, sank into a chair and wept, feeling bereft and confused.
“Arsenic,” Dr. Graves said. Phee, Somerdale, and Graves were standing in the hallway outside the room where Auntie Berta slept. “Definitely signs of slow arsenic poisoning.”
“Will she recover?” Phee asked.
“Quite possibly. It depends on how much he was giving her and for how long, what damage may have been done to her organs. We’ll need to keep a close watch over her.”
“Wigmore said she’d begun to improve.”
Graves shrugged. “Perhaps guilt began to get the better of him and he stopped.”
Phee wondered if there had ever been a more reprehensible friend than Wigmore.
“Why would Wigmore kill his wife?” Somerdale asked. “He already had her dowry, her money. What would he gain?”
“A younger wife, a chance for an heir?” Graves speculated. “I don’t understand the workings of the mind, only the body.”
“But he was wretchedly old,” Somerdale said. “Could he have even performed?”
“Does it matter?” Phee asked.
Somerdale’s face burned a bright red as though he’d forgotten his sister was there to hear the conversation about performance. “Apologies. Of course it doesn’t matter. I just find this entire circumstance odd. You and Darling traipsing about in the middle of the night. Poisoning. Suicide. Skullduggery. My God, the next thing I know I’ll discover a madwoman in the attic.”
Laughing lightly, she rubbed his arm. “I think that’s highly unlikely.” She turned to Graves. “We appreciate your coming in the middle of the night like this.”
“I’m sorry my services were needed, but I’m glad that it’s something from which she will most likely recover. I’ll come by to check on her tomorrow.”
While Somerdale saw Graves out, Phee went to look in on her aunt one more time. She looked so peaceful sleeping there. Then her eyes fluttered open.
“He was trying to kill me, wasn’t he?” she asked.
“We think so,” Phee replied.
“I married him because my father wished it. Marry for love, Phee, as your mother did.”
“Love is not so easy to find.”
“Recognizing it, that’s the tricky part. A man worthy of you is even harder.”
Being worthy of a man, that was the most difficult. Drake knew her secrets now, and while he might have thought he’d miss her, she suspected as time passed, he would be very glad that she was no longer in his life.
She was sullied. After Wigmore she’d never again wanted a man to touch her. Yet Drake had. From him she’d welcomed what she’d thought she’d never be able to tolerate. Now she wasn’t certain how she would carry on.
During the week since Phee’s return, Somerdale, bless him, tried to ascertain exactly what had transpired between the moment she’d walked from his library with the understanding that she would travel to Stillmeadow with their uncle, and the moment she had returned to his residence, but his questioning was frightfully ineffectual and she suspected he really didn’t want to know the truth of it. So she provided vague answers, muttered, and sighed, and he seemed content that he had at least done his brotherly duty and looked into the matter.
While she wandered through the residence striving to recall what she did with herself all day when she didn’t have to polish boots, or furniture, or banisters. She wasn’t up to making morning calls, not just yet, and looking after her aunt provided her with the perfect excuse to avoid all the gay affairs that were being hosted. She wasn’t receiving, which was completely understandable for a woman who had lost an uncle—not that she offered that excuse. Society, as its way, simply assumed, for which she was grateful. She was having difficulty erecting the walls that she needed to move about within polite circles.
Her aunt was recovering nicely. That afternoon she took her tea in the garden.
“You’re looking quite spry,” Phee told her aunt as she took a chair at the linen-covered table near the roses.
“Oh bosh. I’m years past spry, but I am feeling more myself.”
“I’m glad.” She prepared a cup of tea and passed it over to her aunt.
“Thank you, dear. Tell me, whatever became of that handsome fellow who helped us escape from Stillmeadow?”
Her stomach tightened. “Drake Darling? He’s quite busy.”
“Too busy to come see a girl he’s sweet on?”
“He’s not sweet on me.”
“Oh, I thought perhaps he was. But I was never good at it.”
“Good at what, Auntie?”
“Figuring out who the fellows were keen on. I thought Wigmore fancied me. I think he did in the beginning. But what did I know? I was only seventeen.”
Her heart lurched. Yes, the devil would have liked her aunt very much when she was seventeen.
“We never had much in common, and after I had the three miscarriages, well, I became more an ornament than a wife.” Reaching over, she patted Phee’s hand. “Don’t become an ornament, dear. It’s dreadfully lonely and boring as hell.”
Squeezing her aunt’s fingers, Phee smiled tenderly. “We’ll have to see that you attend some parties.”
“Oh, I’ve no time for that. Did Somerdale inform you that I had a letter from Wigmore’s solicitor?”
“No, he didn’t.” She stirred sugar into her tea. “Good news, I hope.”
Her aunt leaned toward her. “Wigmore left me a considerable sum. Of course, his cousin Bartlett and his wife will be moving into Stillmeadow as he is next in line for the title. Fine fellow. I like him very much. He’ll be a good earl. They’re packing up my things so I don’t have to go back there. Ever so nice of them, I say.”
It was nice of them. She’d once met Bartlett. He seemed a decent enough fellow, certainly better than the man he was replacing. “We shall have to find you a residence in London.”
Her aunt’s eyes widened. “Oh no, I’m not staying, dear. I’m going to travel once I’m strong enough. Somerdale assures me that I can see quite a bit of the world on the money that has been left to me.”
Phee couldn’t help herself. She grimaced. “Auntie, I’m not certain I would take financial advice from Somerdale. He means well, but as I understand it, he hasn’t seen after his own inheritance very well.”
“What about this handsome fellow then? I wouldn’t mind clapping eyes on him again before I leave.”
Phee released a small laugh. God, it felt good. The last time she’d laughed . . . had been with Drake. Before she’d remembered everything, before she understood the depth of his betrayal. “He’s a commoner.”
“Ahhh.” She nodded sagely. “I see.”
Her words, few as they were, carried a measure of disappointment. “What do you see?”
“Your father believed a man was born to his place in this world and should never seek to move beyond it. I daresay you believe the same.”
Phee did wish she’d already drunk her tea so she could busy herself by pouring another cup. She didn’t like the earnestness with which her aunt was studying her, waiting for an answer. “Perhaps once. Now I . . . I don’t know any longer.” She thought of the long hours Drake put in, all the things he oversaw. He’d earned his success, earned respect from those who had trusted their business to his care.
“What does he do, this Drake Darling? He didn’t dress like a commoner, so he must engage in some sort of worthwhile business.”
“He manages—no, he’s the owner of a gentlemen’s club.”
“Indeed. A businessman. Perhaps I should write to him and see if he can advise me regarding my inheritance.”
Phee shook her head. “No, as I mentioned earlier, he’s exceedingly busy.”
“Pity.” Her aunt looked out onto the gardens. “I feel up to a walk. Care to join me?”
“I’d like to very much.” And she wanted to be there to provide her aunt with support should she discover she wasn’t as strong as she assumed. Helping her aunt from the chair, Phee offered her arm.
Their steps were slow and small, but they were steps. Phee was grateful her aunt seemed steady.
“Your father loved my sister very much,” Auntie Berta said, “and I am thankful for that. But he was a hard man who was resistant to change, believed in the old ways. However, I say if the old ways were so good, no one would come up with new ways.” She leaned against Phee. “Invite that handsome gent to dinner.”
“It’s complicated, Auntie.”
“Most things worthwhile are, dearest.”
It was not the proper time for a morning call, but then she wasn’t calling on the aristocracy, although she was attired as though she were. She stood on the stoop of a townhome waiting for the door to be answered. Her gaze was locked on the residence next door. She wondered if Drake were asleep, if he were even there. Perhaps he’d gone to the club. It was best to end their association quickly and cleanly. No lingering. No more apologies or questions or regrets.
The door finally opened.
“May I help you?” Marla asked.
Phee knew that clothing could make a person look very different, be perceived differently. Still she thought she would be identifiable. “Marla.”
Marla’s eyes widened, her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Cor. Phee? I didn’t recognize you.”
Because she hadn’t looked closely. Because she’d seen a fine dress and hat, gloves. Blond hair without a strand out of place. Lady Ophelia Lyttleton’s hair did not fall across her face, did not have to be blown back with an odd twist of her lips and a quick breath.
“Did you remember who you are?” Marla asked.
“Yes. Lady Ophelia Lyttleton.”
“Nobility. I knew it. You was too proper.”
“Marla, I wanted to thank you.”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“You taught me to manage Mr. Darling’s residence. You taught me how to shop for asparagus. You became my friend.”
“You don’t thank someone for being your friend. You just be their friend in return. I know that’s not possible now—”
“I was hoping it would be. I know Mrs. Turner is elderly and I don’t wish to upset her routine or her household, but when you find yourself in need of a position, I hope you will call on me. There will always be a place for you within my household.” She extended her card.
Marla took it with reverence. “I don’t know what to say.”
“If you ever need anything, anything at all—” Then in spite of her best intentions, she shifted her gaze over to the other residence.
“He’s not there,” Marla said. “Hasn’t been for a couple of days now. But if you want to have a look-see, for old times’ sake . . .” She reached into her apron pocket and removed a key.
“He gave you a key?”
Marla nodded. “He asked me to keep a watch out. I’m not sure for what, though, unless it was for you.”
Phee looked back at the residence. She’d been in a frightful state the morning she’d left. Did he think she’d return for her things? What things? was her next thought. Someone else’s cast-off clothing, books that belonged on his shelves, a silver brush, comb, and mirror? Why would she want any of those items? They weren’t really hers, just props for his farce.
Yet she was drawn toward it. Wanted to see it again: the floors she’d scrubbed, the mantels she’d dusted, the banisters she’d polished. She snatched the key from Marla’s fingers. “I won’t be but a minute.”
Marla gave her knowing grin. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
She’d descended two steps before Marla called out, “By the by, it’s to the back door.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Phee smiled. “Thank you.”
She hurried down the narrow path between the houses until she came to the mews and the back gate. Opening it, she was disappointed not to see Daisy about. Even though she knew the beast was being cared for at a very fine stable, it didn’t seem right that she not be here. Then her heart soared at the sight of Rose on the porch. The large dog lifted his head, shoved himself to his feet, and lumbered toward her in an uneven gait, tongue lolling out. When he reached her, he circled her three times before jumping onto his hind legs, placing his front paws on her chest, and releasing an enthusiastic bark.
Phee laughed as she ran her hands over the dog. “Look at you! You’re still here, and you’ve put on weight. Aren’t you a handsome fellow with a little meat on your bones? I daresay if I didn’t know better, I’d think someone had been brushing your coat as well.”
He barked again before dropping to all fours and loping along beside her as she walked to the terrace. She couldn’t refrain from reaching over and petting Rose from time to time. She wondered how Somerdale would feel about having a dog at his residence, if Drake would give him up.
Leaving Rose to nap on the terrace, she went inside, halfway expecting to find Pansy lounging on the wooden table where she’d shared meals with Drake, but all she found was a very tidy kitchen. She supposed he ate at the club now. She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t kept the cat. She wondered if she roamed the neighborhood if she would find it. Probably not.
She wandered the familiar hallways. Nothing had changed except now a light sprinkling of dust seemed to have settled in everywhere except his desk. Did he work there from time to time? Did he think of her when he did?
In the entryway was the hideous table she’d purchased. Atop it was the vase she’d knocked over her final morning here, pieced back together, evidence that it had once shattered clearly visible. She ran her finger along one of the jagged lines. Strange how the imperfection didn’t detract from its beauty. Nor did the absence of flowers. She was half tempted to snitch a few roses from Mrs. Turner’s garden to brighten the entryway. Perhaps she would so Drake would know she’d been there. Where had that thought come from? What did she care if he realized she’d stopped by? She didn’t want him making any more of her visit than a simple journey through nostalgia. And why in God’s name was she nostalgic about the place?
It wasn’t as though it had ever truly been hers to see after.
Peering into the parlor, she came up short.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her lips. Astonished, she stepped into the room.
The black and gold wallpaper, exactly as she’d sketched and described it. On the walls. Black draperies at the windows. And the furniture, black velveteen, edged in mahogany. The shape of each piece—sofa, chairs, tables—exactly as she’d sketched it, arranged in the room precisely as she’d laid it out on paper. Just as elegant as she’d envisioned it would be.
Curled on the corner of the sofa set near the fireplace was Pansy, watching her, just watching her, with slow, slow blinks.
“No enthusiastic greeting from you?” Phee asked as she sat on the sofa and ran her fingers through the soft fur. Pansy purred deep in her throat. “That’s better.”
Feeling a nudge against her skirts just as she heard a mewling, she glanced down to see a small white kitten weave itself between her ankles. Laughing, she lifted it up. “And who are you? Drake Darling was most insistent there not be a menagerie in his home, so how did you come to be here?”
She stroked behind its ears, and it purred. “You like that, don’t you? I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”
Setting the kitten down, she rose and walked from the room. One more place she wanted—needed—to see.
She took the stairs slowly, one step at a time. Her heart sped up and she forced it back into calm with long deep breaths, a trick she’d learned so no one could tell when she was anxious or nervous. It was the reason Somerdale had not realized she dreaded leaving with Wigmore that night, the reason he and her father had never known how much she disliked going to Stillmeadow. Wigmore had convinced her that her wickedness must be hidden from everyone. She’d become quite adept at creating a façade to hide the ugliness she experienced in life.
It was her shame, her humiliation to bear. She had come to believe that somehow she was at fault, she brought Wigmore’s attentions on herself. She was unworthy, she was impure, she deserved—
She shook off the thoughts. No one deserved what she had endured. She understood that now. Because of Drake. Strange that as much as he’d hurt her, he’d helped her as well.
Stepping into the bedroom was like stepping into a cocoon of safety. The room was tidy, no clothing scattered on the floor. It smelled of him: dark, masculine, strong, powerful. She wandered over to the bed. The covers weren’t rumpled. She saw no evidence that he’d slept there. No evidence that she’d ever been curled in that bed, nestled against his side.
Would she have been there if he’d told her who she was? Had he spoken the words, “You are Lady Ophelia Lyttleton” would she have remembered anything? Would it have made a difference? Or would she have thought it was all simply preposterous?
Hearing the creak of a floorboard, she turned her head to see Drake standing in the doorway, dressed to perfection, neck cloth knotted, waistcoat buttoned, jacket snug across his broad shoulders. Dark hair curling, dark eyes penetrating.
“Marla told me you weren’t here,” she said flatly, striving not to let him know how her heart was thundering, her nerves quivering.
“I wasn’t. But I needed to put out some coins for Jimmy. Today is one of the days he cleans up after Rose. And I just—” He shook his head. “The residence felt different, smelled different when I stepped inside. I knew you were here.”
He seemed to be measuring his words as though he thought if he spoke the wrong ones, she would run off. When in truth she despised the distance separating them. But the thought of him being closer terrified her. She wanted to run her hands over his shoulders, across his chest, through his hair.
“You’ve acquired another cat, I see.”
“Her name is Orchid.”
She couldn’t help but smile with the realization that he was keeping with her tradition of naming them after flowers. “It’s my favorite fragrance.”
“I know.”
The solemnity of his words tore at her heart. Of course he knew. He knew everything about her, all her darkest secrets. But then she supposed that was only fair, as she knew his as well.
“How is your aunt?” he asked.
“Recovering quite nicely, considering Wigmore had been poisoning her.”
“Bastard. He wanted you back that badly.”
Her heart lurched. “I don’t think it had anything to do with me.”
“You said you were close to her and you’d not been back since your father died.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach roiling. Drake was right. The only thing that would cause her to return was her aunt’s ill health. Wigmore had known. Then to cover his sins, he would have continued to poison her until she died so she couldn’t contradict his tale that Phee arrived at Stillmeadow and then ran away. She opened her eyes. “I’m glad he’s dead. We can’t really ever know everything about a person, can we?”
“No, not everything.”
But one could know enough, she thought, enough to fall in love. All those various emotions she felt toward Drake were still swirling about. She didn’t know what to do with them, so she ignored them and turned the conversation to something that had pleased her. “I couldn’t help but notice that you took my advice regarding your front parlor.”
He took a step toward her. “Why are you here, Phee?”
So he wasn’t going to let her lead them into casual banter. She should have known. He always asked far too many questions, always needed answers. She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know.”
Her gaze darted to the center of the bed, to where she had been happiest. “I keep thinking about the night we were together.”
“Had I known of your past, I’d have gone more gently.”
She peered up at him. He was only inches away now. “But you still would have gone.”
“Yes.” He lifted his hand and very slowly, as though giving her a chance to move away, to step beyond reach, he cradled her cheek. “But I should have told you who you were. I should have told you everything.”
“You didn’t know everything. And had I known everything, what transpired between us never would have happened. I’ve been thinking about that. Quite a bit, actually. Losing my memories for a short time was a blessing.” She placed her gloved hand on his jaw. “With them, I never would have known how it should truly be between a man and a woman. I never would have—”
Taking her hand, he began loosening the buttons of her glove. Her heart thudded. “What are you doing?”
“If you’re going to grace me with a touch, I don’t want you wearing gloves.”
“I’m not going to touch you, I’m not—”
He peeled off her glove, tossed it aside, and returned her palm to his jaw. “Much better,” he said, raising his eyes to hers.
The desire smoldering in his gaze arrowed straight through her, down to her toes, causing them to curl. And he was right. It was so much better to touch, skin to skin.
“How can you want me, knowing what you know about me?” she asked.
“The ugliness was in him, not you,” Drake said. “You are brave and courageous. Even as a child, you carried on when many would have crumbled. What passed between us in my bed had nothing at all to do with him.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I try to convince myself of that, but it’s so hard. I wish I’d never seen him again. I can’t get him out of my mind. I think I came here because I wanted the memories with you to be stronger. I need them to wash the ones with him away.”
Taking her other hand, he bent his head and gently began removing her remaining glove.
“Drake—”
“I can make you forget him.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “Allow me to do that for you.”
She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know if I can, not now that my memories have returned, not now that I know everything I’ve done.”
“Everything he did. You did nothing. I know I have no right to ask this of you, considering how we came to be here. But trust me.”
“I’m afraid.”
He skimmed his thumb along her cheek. “It will be like walking in the park that night. You thought there was something to fear but you stepped out of the cab anyway, and there was nothing to cause you harm. He can never hurt you again, Phee. He has no power over you, with or without your memories. Let me show you.”
She realized she hadn’t come here to see the floors she’d scrubbed or the wood she’d polished. She’d come here to be closer to him, to let memories of him usurp the ones with Wigmore that were threatening to take hold. But Drake in the flesh, here with her now, was so much better, so much stronger than any memory. What he was offering . . . she didn’t know if she had the courage to accept it.
“What if I can’t . . . what if—”
He stroked his thumb over her lower lip. “You can say no at any time and I’ll stop.” He freed the button at her collar. “Anytime you become uncomfortable. Whether it be the releasing of a button, the untying of a ribbon, you need only say no or wait or stop. Your command is mine to obey.”
Another button loosened. Another. Another. She didn’t say no or wait or stop. She simply watched as his nimble fingers made short work of the line of pearls. Her nerves tingled. She feared she might swoon. Breathe, she ordered herself, breathe.
Kneeling on one knee, he patted his thigh. Placing her hand on his head to steady herself, relishing the feel of the silken strands curling around her fingers, she set a foot on his leg. More buttons freed before he removed her shoe. His clever hands slipped beneath her skirt and rode over ankle, calf, knee, and thigh until they encountered ribbons to be loosened. Then he was rolling her stocking down so incredibly slowly that she thought she might go mad.
He moved on to the next shoe, the next stocking. No haste, no fumbling fingers. Each action was sure, deliberate. Each made her feel treasured, appreciated. Each made her anticipate the next.
In one smooth movement, he stood, took her hand, and led her over to the side of the bed. Continuing with his ministrations, he removed her dress, her petticoats, her undergarments. As more flesh was revealed so his hands briefly skimmed over it, causing shivers of pleasure to course through her. His touch was as she remembered: intoxicating. With each stroke of a finger over her skin, her body yearned for another.
When she stood before him completely bared, she thought she should have felt a measure of shame or unease, but how could she experience any sense of embarrassment when the appreciation that lit his dark eyes warmed her far more effectively than any fire might?
The pins came next, the ones holding up her hair. Clink, clink, clink. They hit the floor, setting the curls free, not in a tumble, but in a leisurely unfolding over her shoulders and back.
Scooping her up, he eased her onto the bed, before backing away. Rolling slightly to the side, she watched as he removed his boots, his gaze never leaving her. As he removed his clothes, his movements were slow, provocative, and she found herself almost begging him to hurry. She loved watching him being unveiled, loved the way his muscles bunched and relaxed. He was no strutting peacock. Rather, he was some sort of untamed jungle cat, moving lithely toward her. He had yet to remove his trousers, which for some reason made him appear all the more dangerous—not in a frightening way, but in a manner that excited her, that made her think her heart might burst free of its moorings.
The bed dipped as he placed a knee on it, as he stretched out beside her. He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he rasped. “You will be as well when I am done.”
She already was. She needed this, needed him. While she could not say that she had forgiven him completely, she couldn’t deny that she was drawn to him as she’d never been drawn to another man, as she hadn’t believed she could be drawn.
He nibbled on her ear and her body curled against him. He trailed his mouth along her neck, nipped at her shoulder. She scraped her fingers up into his hair. This was a memory she would cherish, that she would take out and reminisce about on long, lonely wintry nights when in the company of dogs, cats, and bunnies. These sensations—the rumbling in his throat, the vibrations in his chest—she noted them, locked them away, never to be forgotten.
Each caress, each kiss, each stroke of his tongue was unforgettable. Wedging himself between her thighs, he pressed his lips to the hollow between her breasts. Wrapping her legs around him, combing her fingers into his hair, she held him near, relishing the intimacy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said.
She’d never felt beautiful, not really. Not until her memories had been lost. When they had returned, the ugliness of her life had risen to the fore. But now with him, worshipping her as he was—
“You make me feel beautiful.”
“Never doubt,” he whispered as he turned his head to the side and closed his mouth around her nipple, his tongue stroking and teasing, shooting glorious pleasure to the apex between her thighs. She lifted her hips to meet his, seeking some sort of surcease.
He chuckled low, the wicked sound its own aphrodisiac. She scraped her fingers over his back, over the dragon, imagined she could feel its muscles within his. He scooted lower, kissing her stomach. Lower still, licking at the hollow of her hip. Lower still, spreading her, blowing a gentle breeze over the curls.
“Drake.” His name was a benediction, a plea, a question.
His eyes held hers, boldly, irrevocably without any doubt.
“Every aspect of you is beautiful,” he said, before dipping his head. The first caress of his tongue nearly had her coming off the bed.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders, pressed her head back against the pillows as he nibbled and nipped, stroked and suckled. Insistent, determined. The pleasure escalating until only this moment, only he, only raw sensation existed. No memories, no other man, no ugliness.
Only beauty. Only his adulation. Only joy. Only want. Only desire.
No shame in any of it. Only acceptance.
She allowed herself to embrace it, fall into it, be consumed by it until her back was arching, her body trembling, her voice crying out his name in wonder. She was lost, lost in the bliss of it, he her only anchor—and even that added to the enjoyment of it. She had soared to new heights of awareness, had experienced incredible splendor.
A memory that put all others to shame, but still not enough.
He kissed the inside of her thigh, then eased up until he was gazing down on her, a quiet satisfaction in his eyes. How did she tell him it wasn’t enough?
“I want you,” she whispered.
He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Today is for you.”
She shook her head. “I need you.” She slipped her hand between them, felt his burgeoning hardness and wondered that he wasn’t doubled over in pain. “I need you inside me.”
“Phee—”
“You promised to obey my commands, so take me.”
He cursed harshly, growled low. His mouth came down on hers, hungry, without finesse or gentleness. She relished his eagerness, relished the notion that she could drive him to such madness. There was no shame to be found in true, honest desire. She understood that now, understood it completely.
She almost laughed at the haste with which he removed his trousers. He rose up over her, held her gaze, and plunged swift and deep as she lifted her hips to welcome him. He stilled, his eyes sliding closed, his groan echoing between them. “I love the way you feel,” he said.
Slowly he opened his eyes. She ran her hands over every aspect of him that she could reach. “I love the way it feels when you’re inside me.”
Words she’d never thought to say, words that made her entire body grow warm, but she would not retract them. She loved the weight of him, the fullness of him nestled within her.
Holding her gaze, he began to rock against her, slow but sure, long and deep, resparking the sensations that only moments before had nearly undone her. She wondered if it all felt as marvelous to him as it did to her, and she found herself grateful that she could give him this, that she could share it with him—openly, without remorse, without long-ago memories intruding.
It was only they, here in this bed, touching, kissing, sighing, moaning, rocking against each other. Pleasure building until they reached the summit together. Until they were both soaring. Until there was nothing except each other.
Drake thought he might have died. For a brief second at least, when the pleasure had ripped through him with an incredible force that he’d never before experienced. He had planned to give to her, and not to take, but he supposed there was a sort of giving even in the taking.
Lethargic, not certain he’d ever be able to move again, he rested on his side, facing her, his hand draped over her hip. He didn’t fool himself into believing that anything had changed between them, that he would have anything more than today. When they had made love before, she had not known who they were.
Now she knew. She wasn’t here because she loved him. She was here because she needed to put the past with her uncle—and perhaps her past with Drake—behind her. She was staring at his chest more now than she was looking into his eyes.
“It’s somewhat of a relief,” she said quietly, “to feel free of him. I didn’t expect to ever know what it was to willingly be with a man. I wasn’t certain I’d even be able to be so close to a man.” Laughing lightly, she finally lifted her gaze to his. “I seem to have overcome my doubts.”
“Does this change your position on marriage?”
“I suppose I’m not categorically opposed to it any longer, but it would have to be a true love match, based on trust.” She studied him for a moment. “Why did you tell me I was your servant?”
Slamming his eyes closed, he sighed.
“Because I was always calling you boy and asking you to fetch things for me? Because I never failed to give you a cut direct whenever our paths crossed?”
He opened his eyes. “I was being petty.”
“I apologize for the way I treated you before. It was wrong of me.”
He’d never expected an apology from her, especially as he owed her one. “I’m sorry as well. I should have taken you home straightaway.”
“You should have, yes. But if you had, I never would have had this.” She circled her hand over the bed. “I can’t regret it exactly, but I wish the circumstances had been different. And I do appreciate your efforts today.”
It took everything within him not to curse. She was building the walls again. Not that he blamed her. She was Lady Ophelia Lyttleton and he was the owner of a gentlemen’s club.
“Perhaps in the future, we’ll be friends,” she said. She rolled out of the bed.
He couldn’t be angry that she’d used him. He’d offered. He got out of the bed, snatched up his trousers, and drew them on. Then he assisted her with her clothing.
“This isn’t nearly as much fun as taking them off,” he said.
She laughed, the sweet sound that he loved. “I never thought to be comfortable with all this. I thank you for that.”
“For God’s sake, stop thanking me.”
Nodding, she drew on her gloves. “How are things going at the club?”
“I’m going to close it down for a couple of weeks, modernize it. By the way, I decided to take your advice. I’m going to open it to women.”
Her green eyes widened until he was drowning in them. She smiled brightly. “Marvelous. I might have to get a membership.”
“You shall always have a membership there, with my compliments.”
“Well, then, I shall definitely stop by sometime.”
“I look forward to it.” But he hated the increasing formality between them. “I meant what I said that night at Lovingdon’s. I fell in love with you.”
“No, you said you fell in love with the woman in your residence. We both know she wasn’t me.”
“I think you’re wrong there.”
“I don’t think so.” Edging past him, she headed for the door.
“Phee?”
Stopping, she turned, peered over at him, one blond eyebrow finely arched. “Yes?”
“I also meant what I said about if you should find yourself with child. Or if you are ever in need of anything, I’m here for you.”
“I shall keep that in mind. Good-bye, Drake.”
Then, once again, she walked out of his life. And he, being the fool he was, let her go.
Phee stared out the carriage window, fighting not to cry because Drake had not tried to stop her from walking away. It seemed of late she spent a good deal of time staring out windows and warding off tears.
In a manner of speaking, her loss of memory had been a blessing, had allowed her to experience something quite remarkable, even if deception had been involved. If she were to be honest with herself, she might even admit that she deserved it a little bit, a very tiny little bit.
Dammit. She had deserved it, all of it. Her treatment of Drake had been obnoxious. If their situations had been reversed, if he’d been the one without a memory, she’d have done the same thing. Only she’d have made him a stable boy shoveling manure.
She smiled. He’d always pricked her temper, sharpened her tongue. She wished she had been the lady who lived in his residence, but one couldn’t change one’s stripes.
On the other hand, maybe one could.