Her eyes widened in horror. Her jaw dropped. For a moment there, he was afraid she might swoon, and he’d have to lunge for her before she hit the floor.
God help him, but it took every bit of control he could muster not to burst out laughing and ruin the moment. The startled look on her face . . . he would have paid a hundred quid to see it. No, a thousand, a million.
He didn’t know what had possessed him to tell her she was the servant. He’d been worried about her as he’d prepared the bath, working as quickly as possible to get it done, so she would be more comfortable, so she could be clean once again, so he could deliver her to her family—
And for his trouble, not even a thank-you. Not a hint of gratitude. Only more demands. Fetch this, fetch that. The water isn’t to my liking. Why are you so slow? I am far too important to have to wait for anything or anyone.
She kept her nose stuck in the air and never looked down long enough to notice the masses, to appreciate that the luxury in which she lived was provided by the hard work of others. She awoke to draperies drawn, fires crackling, heated water waiting. Clothes were pressed, beds were warmed, food was served.
Suddenly he’d had quite enough of her. Spoiled, pampered, entitled. Bored.
Because she might have very nearly drowned earlier, the unkind thoughts now pricked his conscience, but only slightly, certainly not enough to cause him to retract his words. Let her mull on them for a bit, let her rethink her place in this world for a few more hours, until morning, and then he would return her home. It would take that long at least for her clothing to dry sufficiently so she could put it back on.
Although it would be somewhat damp still so she would complain about it. He didn’t have a carriage to be prepared for her comfort so they would have to walk for a bit and find a hansom. She wouldn’t be pleased about that. He doubted she had ever ridden in one. She might not remember who she was, but it seemed, by God, that she remembered what she was.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“It means, sweetheart, that you are my housekeeper.”
She skittered away from him, around the edge of the tub, stopping on the other side as though putting distance between them would change his words. He didn’t want to consider how vulnerable and innocent she appeared with his coat draped around her, that his body would swallow her up as easily. He wasn’t going to think of bare, tiny toes or how he might have rubbed them if she weren’t such a shrew. Shakespeare would have adored her.
Dazed, she shook her head. “That can’t be right. I would know—”
“You don’t even know your name. Why would you know you’re a servant?”
She took in her surroundings, and he could see her striving desperately to remember them. Then her chin came up so quickly that he was surprised she didn’t snap her neck. “Why was I telling you to fetch things if I’m the one who does the fetching?”
“Wishful thinking on your part? Perhaps this entire I-can’t-remember business is your attempt to avoid what you gave your word you would do: see after the care of my residence.”
He didn’t know why he was continuing this charade, only that he was taking perverse pleasure in unsettling her. Not very gentlemanly on his part, but then hadn’t she accused him earlier of being a blackguard and a scoundrel? He was only striving to meet her expectations. She didn’t seem to be suffering physically from her swim in the Thames. As for her memory, she didn’t seem to be suffering from the loss of it either. He was fairly certain it would return any moment. She was suffering from temporary confusion. Nothing more.
“A servant?” she repeated, sounding as though she were on the verge of casting up her accounts at the mere utterance of the word. “Your servant?”
“Quite right. I suggest you carry on with your bath. You may sleep in my bed for the remainder of the night as it’s more comfortable than yours. In the morning we’ll discuss the matter further.” In the morning, I’ll confess to you my wickedness and take you home.
Before he changed his mind and confessed all now, he spun on his heel to leave.
“No, wait!”
Glancing back, he refused to feel guilty at the sight of her distress. He knew she cared only for her own needs, never worried about anyone else’s suffering. He was quite certain he wasn’t the only one she’d abused with that tart tongue of hers. Besides, it wasn’t as though he were taking a lash to her.
With a huff, she shoved up the sleeves of his coat. They fell back into place, which apparently made it extremely awkward to wring her hands, although she managed. “I can’t be a servant.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t feel . . . right. Yes, that’s it. It simply doesn’t feel correct. What are my duties precisely?”
“Everything. You scrub my floors, prepare my meals, polish my boots, press my shirts, make my bed, prepare my bath. Do anything else that I determine needs doing.”
“Little wonder I leaped into the Thames,” she muttered.
“Did you leap in?” he asked, taking a step toward her, wondering if the shock of his earlier words had brought her memory back. “Do you remember it now?”
“No, but I must have. How else might I have gotten in there?”
“An accident. You slipped.”
She rubbed her brow. “It doesn’t matter. That’s the past. It’s now that’s important. This”—she swept out her arms—“can’t be my life.”
“Why not? It’s a good life. As I’m sure you’ll remember once you’re properly rested. Sleep as late as you like. Under the circumstances I’ll not dock your pay. As it appears you need reminding of your duties, we’ll discuss them later tomorrow.”
He walked out, closing the door behind him. He didn’t want to contemplate her removing his coat and climbing into his tub. The water would no doubt be less than warm by now. Perhaps he wouldn’t take her home when she awoke.
Perhaps he would treat her to one day of walking in a servant’s shoes. Only for a day. No reason for her family to suffer overly long, worrying over her absence.
Chuckling darkly, shaking his head, he headed down the stairs. He would have to do what he could to remove the mud from her clothes. He stopped. If he returned her clothing to her, its quality would alert her that she wasn’t a servant. She seemed to recall the basic things. He would have to make a hasty trip out to the missions at first light to locate some appropriate clothing.
Was he really going to continue the farce?
It was ludicrous to even consider it. She was the daughter of an earl. Grace would never forgive him for heaping misery upon her friend. But then no one ever need know. Understanding Lady Ophelia as he did, he knew she would never reveal what had transpired during her absence from Society. Even if her memory never returned full force, once he returned her home and she realized the truth about her place in the world, she would once again embrace it with the arrogance that so characterized her existence.
Where was the harm in giving her a glimpse into another sort of life?
As she lowered herself into the water, Phee discovered it was less than warm now. She regretted that she’d been distracted by Drake’s revelations and delayed her bath.
A servant. She was a servant. Worse, she was his servant. His sole servant apparently. It seemed so terribly . . . not quite right. She couldn’t see herself scrubbing floors and dealing with filth.
Gathering up the long tangled strands of her hair, she wondered how one went about washing it. Shouldn’t it be a task that she would instinctually know how to accomplish? Surely she had washed her hair numerous times. Yet she envisioned hands washing it for her. Perhaps it was merely a dream she had—to be pampered and spoiled. As he’d implied, wishing for a very different life than the one she had.
She immersed herself completely beneath the surface. Water lapping. A roaring in her ears. Panic took hold. Air, no air. She was going to die!
Springing up, she gasped, greedily gulped air into her lungs until they ached, until she couldn’t fill them anymore. Tucking her bent knees against her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs, she fought to squelch the shivering. She wasn’t cold, but she had been. In the water, in the Thames. How had she come to be there? Shouldn’t she know? Had something horrid happened that resulted in her being there? Was that why she didn’t remember, because she didn’t want to remember? Did it have anything to do with Drake Darling?
What sort of name was that anyway? Harsh on the one hand, soft on the other. A name that rather seemed to describe him. He was gentle and concerned one moment, harsh and unyielding the next, as though she’d done something to anger him, or at the very least irritate him. She had the sense that he didn’t much like her. Then why not dismiss her? Why keep her on as a servant?
Because her work was exemplary? It had to be. She wasn’t one to settle for less. She knew that. Shoddy work was not to be tolerated. It was the reason behind her pique for having to wait so long for the bath.
Snagging the soap, she began scrubbing at her hair, her body. Now noticing a bruise here and there. And aches, so many aches. As though she’d been battered. She supposed she had been by the river currents and banks. As the bathwater darkened, became filthier, she started to call for a servant—
And stopped. Why did it seem a natural thing to do? To order someone to empty the bath and replenish it with clear water so she could bathe again? And again and again. Until all the grime had been scrubbed off.
But according to Drake there was no one to call. She certainly didn’t want him coming to assist her. She didn’t feel quite clean, but it would have to do. Stepping out of the tub, she grabbed a towel and rubbed it vigorously over her body, striving to make herself feel cleaner. Why couldn’t she feel clean?
She wasn’t quite certain that the sense of uncleanliness all had to do with the mud. It was her, something about her. Something she had no desire to explore.
Clutching the towel around her, she approached the mirror cautiously, not quite trusting what it might reveal. She spied the hair first. It was wrong, so terribly wrong. Tangled and wild, the blond locks cascading past her shoulders. She couldn’t recall ever brushing it, but surely she had. It should be pinned up. Yes, that was how it should look. Neat, tidy, with a few curls left free to frame her face.
Leaning in, she studied her features more closely. She recognized the green eyes, the nose, the chin, the cheeks. Why couldn’t she remember more? It seemed the harder she tried to recall the facts about herself, the more elusive they became, weaving in and out like fog that couldn’t be grasped.
Glancing down, she spied the silver brush. His brush, no doubt. She could see a few stray black hairs woven through the bristles. Such an intimacy, to use his brush on her hair, but she didn’t see that she had a choice. She didn’t know where her brush might be or if she even had one. She thought the not knowing so much might drive her mad.
Wrapping her hand around the brush, she lifted it. It was a good solid weight. Certainly not cheaply made. How did she know that?
Using it, she struggled to work out the tangles. It felt odd to be the one doing it. She had no recollection of ever managing her hair before. But surely she had. She wasn’t a barbarian to run around unkempt. When the tangles were conquered, when the brush finally slid easily through her hair, she plaited the long strands into a single braid. She wore her hair in a braid when she went to bed, that she knew. She also knew with absolute certainty that she did not sleep in the altogether. Where would she find a nightdress?
After slipping on the heavy coat, she cautiously opened the door and gazed out. He wasn’t lurking in the bedchamber, thank goodness. Relief, as well as exhaustion, slammed into her. Then something more. The bed she’d left in a rumpled state was now tidy, one corner turned down. As it should be, waiting for her to slip between the covers.
Lifting the blankets, she examined the sheets. No mud or muck remained. He’d replaced the dirty linens with clean ones. Unfortunately, he’d not left a nightdress for her. She feared if she went in search of one and encountered him that she would become unsettled all over again.
She padded over to the bureau, opened a drawer, and peered inside, grateful to find what she’d been searching for. Considering his immense size, compared with her smaller one, she decided that one of his neatly folded shirts would suffice. Shrugging off the coat, allowing it to fall to the floor, she slipped one of the linen shirts over her head. The material was incredibly soft. It was not the attire of someone from the lower classes.
Where had that thought come from?
Of course it made sense. He owned a residence, had a servant. She was that servant. That admission refused to take hold. It seemed to go against any rational thought. Yet he would have no reason to lie.
With a sigh, she wandered over to the bed, climbed onto it with a bit of effort—why didn’t he have steps? He didn’t need them with his astonishing height. Did women never visit his bed? She supposed if they did, that he lifted them up and set them on it. Yes, she could see that.
He would have carried her, would have set her in the bed. Had she been standing, she might have lost her balance as her knees went weak. Instead, she brought the covers over her and curled onto her side. He’d removed her clothes, had quite possibly touched her, and yet . . .
She didn’t believe he’d taken advantage. Something about him spoke of honor. Or maybe it was all simply wishful thinking on her part. She was weary of striving to make sense of all this. She wanted only to sleep.
When she woke up, perhaps she would discover it was all just a dream.
It wasn’t a dream. She awoke in the same bed within the same bedchamber with the same man standing at the far bedpost. She wanted to object with outrage at his intrusion, but it was his room, his bed, his house. And she was his servant. He was well within his rights to do as he pleased.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Lost, confused, terrified, not that she would confess any of that. Instinctually, she knew that she needed to keep all her feelings to herself, was in the habit of doing just that, of never revealing anything beyond a confident façade. “Quite well, thank you.”
“No hurts, no pains?”
“A bit of soreness here and there, but nothing with which I cannot live.”
“Your memories?”
She furrowed her brow, wished she could keep that bit of information to herself as well, but she needed him to help her remember. “It’s as though I didn’t exist before I awoke in your bed.”
He didn’t move, simply studied her, and yet she thought she sensed hesitation in him. Concerning what, she hadn’t a clue, but then that seemed to be the norm for her. Not having an inkling regarding anything of importance. How could her existence, her past, be wiped clean? She considered hitting him with a barrage of questions, but she wasn’t certain she wanted to learn the answers.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Now that he’d asked, she realized—
“Quite famished actually. Do fetch my breakfast as quickly as possible.”
A corner of his mouth curled upward before settling back down, and she thought she detected satisfaction in those black eyes. Familiar eyes. She could see herself gazing into them, becoming lost in the obsidian depths. Her own eyes were such a vivid green, a pretty color, but there was nothing beautiful about the shade of his. They spoke of dark secrets and darker journeys. A harsh life, even.
“I suppose I can’t be in a pique,” he drawled, “that you forget you fetch my breakfast.”
Her stomach growled, no doubt protesting the words as sharply as her mind was. “Haven’t you a cook?”
“I’m a bachelor. I have no need for an abundance of servants. You suffice quite nicely.”
If she weren’t still abed, she’d have sunk onto a chair or the floor. While he’d told her last night that she was the servant of the residence, she hadn’t realized the true extent of her duties. She prepared meals?
“However,” he continued, “as you endured some sort of horrendous ordeal last night, I took the liberty of preparing a repast for you. I wasn’t quite certain if you’d have recovered enough to resume your duties today. I’m quite relieved to see that you appear up to snuff. Unfortunately, the clothing you wore last night was not salvageable. I brought some others in here for you.” He indicated the chair and she saw the pile of clothing, folded neatly, stacked high. “While you get dressed, I’ll wait in the hallway, then give you a tour to help familiarize you with the residence and your responsibilities once more. Don’t dally. The food grows cold.”
He spun on his heel and headed for the door.
“Wait!” Everything was happening too fast, and it all seemed so frightfully wrong.
Coming to an abrupt halt, he faced her. “Do you not remember how to put on your clothes? Do you require my assistance?”
An image of him lifting his shirt over her head flashed through her mind. Him handing her each item, holding them out when she needed to step into them. His hands following the path of drawers and chemise being placed over her body. His long fingers tying the laces. His knuckles skimming over the swells of her breasts. Heat, scalding heat, infused her, and she suspected she was blushing as red as an apple.
“No, I’m quite certain I can manage,” she said, her voice sounding far too small. She cleared her throat. “I just . . . I don’t know if I’m up to resuming my duties.”
“Take it slowly today. Rest when you need to. I’m not a brute, but I do expect some results. So hurry along now. I should think you would be most anxious to surround yourself with the familiar.”
He left the room, closing the door in his wake. He did have the right of it: she was most anxious to surround herself with the familiar. Clambering out of bed, she approached the pile of clothing as though it might bite. She lifted the scratchy and rough chemise. Nothing about it felt familiar, nothing about any of this seemed familiar.
She feared she wouldn’t find the answers within herself. She wondered why she didn’t think she would find them with him either.
He was going to burn in hell.
As Drake leaned against the wall in the hallway, that thought reverberated through his mind, along with images of Ophelia lying in his bed. What sort of scapegrace was he to have been arrested by the sight of her wearing his shirt, as though they’d shared an intimacy that had resulted in her being naked before covering herself with his attire? While he had fought not to notice the bare skin of the woman he’d undressed the night before, he was a man and his mind had captured images of her that tormented him now because he could see that flesh brushing up against the fabric of his shirt.
She’d appeared so innocent, nestled deep in slumber. In spite of all his preparations, he had decided to forgo his nefarious plan to give her one day to live the life of a servant. But then she had ordered him to fetch her breakfast . . . and it had grated on his nerves, had brought forth images of other moments when she had ordered him about, when he had seen her commanding servants. Even with no recollection of who she truly was, she managed to lure her true self to the fore and embrace the haughtiness that so characterized her.
He’d made a very generous donation to the missions for the clothing that he thought would mold itself to her body. It irritated him that he knew her well enough to determine her height, her width, her curves, to know approximately what sort of clothing would suit the shape of her torso. But then he’d been a keen observer of women since he reached the age of sixteen and discovered the delights of their bodies. So it wasn’t she, per se, who garnered his attention. Merely the fact that she was female.
A female who would rue the day that she ever called him boy. Provided that her memory returned and she could recollect how she had snubbed him.
The door opened. He straightened. Her hair was still braided, but her face was pink, as though freshly scrubbed. Although the dress fit her quite well, it seemed out of place on her, the material faded and worn. It made her appear faded as well. He didn’t want to consider that she belonged in the finest of gowns rather than something so humble and plain. It buttoned up to her throat, the sleeves were long. She rubbed her hands over her arms as though bothered by the linen. Or perhaps she simply sensed that she didn’t belong in such simple attire. Or she was cold.
He should ask, but he didn’t want his resolve weakened by sympathy or compassion. He could do much worse by her than giving her a day of walking in a servant’s shoes. Pushing himself away from the wall, he asked, “Does any of this appear familiar?”
Her green eyes wide, her brow furrowed, she shook her head. “How long have I worked here?”
“A fortnight.” Before she could ask more questions, he began walking toward the end of the hallway. “This way.”
Her light footsteps echoed between the barren walls. He had yet to purchase carpeting for the wooden floors. He had yet to do a great deal. After reaching the last room on the right, he swung open the door. “Your bedchamber.”
She hesitated as though fearing walking into the great maw of a beast. “My quarters are on the same floor as yours?”
“I’m a kind employer. The rooms here have fireplaces. The rooms above—where I know servants would normally sleep—do not.”
“Kind. I suppose I shall have to take your word on that as I don’t recall what it is like to be in your employ. To be in any employ. I can’t imagine it. In truth, I can’t dredge up the tiniest memory of servitude.”
“I’m certain it’ll all come back once you’re engaged in the activity again.”
“I shall hope so.”
With cautious steps she approached and peered into the room. He could not mistake the horror that crossed her features. The space contained little more than the bare cot that he had used until his bed had been delivered and a pile of clothing that he’d hastily grabbed for show. He doubted she would be using any of it before he returned her home on the morrow.
“I sleep on a cot?” she asked.
“You are a servant, after all.”
Walking through the doorway, she glanced around. “I would have thought that I would have made it appear more welcoming.”
“I doubt you’ve had time, what with all your chores.”
“I’m truly your only servant?”
“You’re all I require at the moment. Come along. I’ll explain your duties as we head down to the kitchen, so you can get some sustenance.” Marching toward the stairs, he heard the patter of her feet behind him. “The floors need to be swept and polished, of course. Shelves and mantels dusted.”
He hurried down the stairs and turned into a hallway, bypassing the front parlor, which contained only a fireplace with a mantel to be dusted. As he pointed out empty rooms, he became suddenly self-conscious regarding what was lacking in the residence. Even the library, his sanctuary, had been furnished with only a large desk and chair. He had ordered a few pieces that would be arriving soon, but for the most part he’d yet to decide what he was going to do with all the space. Sometimes he thought it pointless to purchase furniture, paintings, and statuary when he never intended to marry. He knew the cursed darkness that ran through his blood, had no desire to expose it to a woman who might love him, to pass it on to their children. He had long ago accepted what he was, and this latest effort on his part only confirmed what he and she alone understood about himself: he was a rotten bastard.
He strode from the library with hardly a backward glance, Ophelia traipsing behind him like an obedient puppy. Fighting to quiet his conscience, he reminded himself that this little ruse would be for only a day.
When the truth came out, Ophelia would be furious—whether or not she regained her memories—but then he’d long ago learned to ignore her rants. Perhaps with this little lesson, her servants would have to suffer through fewer of them.
He almost laughed at his convoluted justification. He’d always been honest with himself. He should be honest now. He wasn’t doing this for the servants. He was doing it because Lady Ophelia Lyttleton had been a thorn in his side since she was old enough to speak coherently.
Coming to a halt, he spun around to face her. “The kitchen, of course. I hope you’ll enjoy your breakfast.”
It was paltry: boiled egg, toast, porridge, milk.
Her nose wrinkled as though he’d offered her cow dung. “I like creamed eggs.”
Leaning against the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know how to prepare creamed eggs.” He indicated the stove. “You’re welcome to prepare them yourself.”
With three slender fingers, she rubbed her brow. “I know I prefer them, but I don’t recall how to make them.” She met his gaze. “Why do I remember some things, but not everything?”
On that particular matter, he suspected she had no earthly clue how to prepare creamed eggs. “I’m not familiar with all the ramifications of your condition, although you don’t seem to be suffering physically.” For which he was grateful. It eased his conscience.
She swept her arm in a wide circle. “None of this—none of the rooms through which you walked me—appear familiar. Shouldn’t they, if I’ve been attending to them?”
“You’ve only been here a short while. You should eat. Perhaps if you regain your strength, you’ll regain your knowledge.”
Cautiously, as though she didn’t quite trust it, she approached the table and stood by the chair, no doubt an ingrained habit of waiting for a footman to jump to do her bidding.
“You pull it away from the table to sit in it,” he told her.
She did as he instructed, her brow furrowing. “It seems odd—as though I’ve never done it before.”
Lifting a spoon, she cracked the top of her egg.
“It seems you do eat boiled eggs sometimes,” he pointed out.
She scowled. “This one is overcooked. I like the yolk soft.”
“You’re quite particular, aren’t you? Bath water just past warm, soft yolks, creamed eggs.”
She jerked her head up. “Is that a fault? To know what one likes?”
“It can be if you disparage those who don’t prepare things exactly to your liking.”
“But if I don’t tell you how I prefer things, how will you know?”
“In the future, I won’t be preparing your bath or your breakfast. You shall handle that yourself. You will also be preparing my bath and my dinner. For tonight’s meal, you’ll find pheasant in the icebox.” He shoved himself away from the counter. “I generally awaken around five. Bath first and then dinner.”
He began striding toward the door. She came up out of the chair as though he’d lit a fire beneath it.
“Hold a moment!”
He stopped, studied her. Doubt flickered across her face, washing away any lingering signs of haughtiness, of entitlement.
“You’re leaving me?”
“Yes, I’ve been up all night. I’m ready to be abed.”
Her features seemed to fold into amazement, into gratitude that had his stomach tightening, his resolve weakening.
“You went without sleep to tend me,” she said softly.
“No, in order to tend you, I did not see to my business. I’m a creature of the night, dusk is when I come to life. During the day I sleep.”
The softness dissipated. “What is your business?”
“I manage a gentlemen’s club.”
“A place of sin?”
“Quite right.”
Her brow furrowed once again. “How do I know that?”
“I’ll leave you to ponder it. If I tell you all the answers, you may never regain your memory. I think you need to exercise your brain. Wake me at five, after you’ve prepared my bath.”
This time as he left she didn’t call out to him, and he wondered why he was hit with a stab of disappointment. He’d spoken true. If he allowed her to ferret out the answers to the questions herself, her memory would no doubt return. He quite envisioned himself awakening to a shrew determined to have her own revenge against him. His bath would be scalding, his pheasant laced with arsenic.
He bounded up the stairs, strode into his bedchamber, and staggered to a stop. The bed remained rumpled, his shirt pooled on the floor. She wouldn’t tidy up after herself, now would she? When he’d first come into the room this morning, he’d retrieved his coat from where she’d abandoned it the night before and hung it back in the wardrobe.
He picked up his shirt, folded it, and set it on the chair, to be washed later. He preferred order and routine, and was quite obsessive about cleanliness. Came from spending the first few years of his young life living in squalor. He remembered the first time that the duchess had scrubbed his body clean. He’d feared that she’d take his skin with the brush, and while he’d complained mightily, he’d felt reborn.
His tired mind was journeying into odd musings. No doubt the reason that his plan to tell Ophelia she was a servant had seemed like such a splendid idea. Still, little harm in it really.
He removed his shirt, folded it, and set it with the other one. After tugging off his boots, he added his trousers and undergarments to the pile. Then he crossed over to the bed, stretched across it, brought the covers over his body, and settled in. The fragrance of his lemony soap wafted around him, but mixed within it was the scent of her, her skin warming beneath the blankets, her unique bouquet of womanhood. His body reacted swiftly and painfully. He cursed it for having no taste whatsoever. It cared only for breasts and thighs and the sweet haven that resided between them.
Striving to tame his needs, he brought up images of her gazing down her long, aristocratic nose at him, of her ordering him about, of her snubbing him—publicly and privately—any chance she got. Keep your distance, she had telegraphed frequently and accurately. You’re not good enough.
What did he care what she thought of him when her thoughts so accurately mirrored his own? Perhaps that was the ironic twist. That she saw him more clearly than anyone else, and he didn’t much like that they agreed on something.