Page 1 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
Prologue
From the Journal of Drake Darling
I was born Peter Sykes, the son of a murderer, the son of a woman murdered, a heritage that has always haunted me. I do not know how many lives my father may have taken, but I do know that he killed my mother because she sought to give me a better life. Unbeknownst to anyone, I attended his hanging. I was eight at the time. The crowds jostled me but I managed to make my way to the front. He wept, my father. He soiled himself, he begged for mercy. Words I’d heard my mother utter, words that had done her little good.
Neither did they serve my father well, for they slipped the noose about his neck and released the trapdoor. All that I saw and heard after that I buried in the darkest recesses of my mind, but I could never bury the stain of his blood coursing through my veins. Nor the anger that simmered just below the surface—his legacy to me, one I feared I was destined to embrace. For it was always there, hovering, wanting to be let loose.
My mother had entrusted me to the care of a Miss Frannie Darling, who eventually married Sterling Mabry, the Duke of Greystone. They took me into their home, raised me as one of their own. As Miss Darling no longer had use of her surname, I took it in an attempt to wash off the sins of my father.
One night the duke pointed out the constellation Draco and in the stars, I saw the fierce dragon that nothing could touch. I became known as Drake, once more attempting to separate myself from my past and the destiny handed to me by my father. With the duke’s family, I traveled the world, saw amazing creatures and creations, experienced wonders beyond imagining.
But no matter how far I journeyed, I could not escape my sordid beginnings. I could not be anything other than what I was born tobe.
Chapter 1
London
1874
At times Lady Ophelia Lyttleton found herself quite disgusted with those of her gender. Tonight, unfortunately, was turning out to be one of those occasions. The young ladies—the old ones as well for that matter—were making spectacles of themselves as they all vied for the attention of one of the most notorious gentlemen in attendance at this evening’s ball.
Drake Darling didn’t often frequent Society’s elite functions, but the gentlemen’s club overseer could not very well have avoided this affair when its purpose was to celebrate the marriage of Lady Grace Mabry to the Duke of Lovingdon. After all, Darling had been raised within the bosom of Grace’s family even though he was not related to them in any manner, not a distant cousin or long-lost nephew. Nor was he of the aristocracy and his blood most certainly did not run blue.
Yet the ladies tittering about him and dangling their dance cards in front of his nose seemed to have forgotten those little facts. He would not elevate their standing in Society. He would not pass on a title to his firstborn son. He would not sit in the House of Lords.
The only thing he could be guaranteed to achieve was turning ladies’ minds to mush. It was his smile. The sublime way his lips parted ever so slightly to reveal straight white teeth, and then one corner of his luscious mouth hitching up a little higher to form a tiny dimple in his right cheek that winked with the promise of wickedness.
It was his eyes. The manner in which they, black as midnight, sparkled knowingly as though he could not only decipher a lady’s dearest wish but deliver it to her in a manner that would far exceed her expectations.
It was his hair, so black as to look almost blue when captured by gaslight. The rebellious way he kept it longer than fashionable, the inviting manner in which it brushed against the collar of his blue jacket, tempting fingers to ruffle through the curling strands.
It was the breadth of his shoulders and the width of his chest that hinted at solace offered to any woman who rested her cheek there, his height that put him half a head taller than most of the men in the salon. It was his laughter, the ease with which he gifted it to one lady after another. It was his courteous bow, his incredible solicitousness, the seductive manner in which he lowered his head to hear more clearly, leaned forward to whisper in the delicate shell of an ear.
He made them fall in love with him. So effortlessly. Without care. Without considering consequences.
She hated him for it. They would follow him into gardens where he would kiss them senseless. She had once caught him doing exactly that with a young servant at the duke’s estate. Behind the stables, the girl had been fairly clambering up the long length of him striving to capture all his mouth had to offer. While she’d been only eight, Ophelia had been disgusted by the display, had known it was wrong, sinful. She didn’t think they’d seen her, but even as she ran away she heard his low laughter, and loped all the faster. She knew his sort, knew he had no regard for a woman’s reputation.
Thus far this evening he’d danced with a dozen ladies. Not that she was keeping count.
She’d had her fair share of attention from earls, viscounts, marquesses, and dukes. From men who held courtesy titles but would one day hold far more, and from those who had already ascended to their proper rank. She hardly needed to beg for notice like the silly chits who surrounded Darling every time he came off the dance floor or returned from fetching a bit of refreshment for some ogling miss on the verge of a swoon. He certainly played the role of gallant well, was master of it. He made them all forget what he was, from whence he’d come. A man of coarse origins.
“They make such fools of themselves, fawning over Darling as they do,” she muttered.
Standing beside her, Miss Minerva Dodger gave a start. “You can hardly blame them. He’s a curiosity. I don’t think he’s attended a ball since Grace’s comingout.”
He’d dared to ask Ophelia to dance that night, but she had ignored his invitation. Someone had to maintain the high ground, had to adhere to socially acceptable standards. Her father had beat that fact into her often enough. Her lineage could be traced back to William the Conqueror. She was not even allowed to dance with the spares, let alone any sons who came after. She was expected to do him and her ancestors proud, to carry on the noble tradition of marrying well. If she did not obey his strictures, her impressive dowry would be forfeit, and along with it any chance she had for happiness. She was dependent upon what the fortune in her trust would eventually provide: freedom.
“He’s a commoner,” she reminded her friend.
Minerva arched a brow. “As am I.”
Ophelia released a quick huff of air. “Your mother is nobility.”
“My father is of the streets.”
And one of the wealthiest men in Christendom. “He made something of himself.”
“Could not the same be said of Drake?”
