Page 12 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
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.
“Aservant?” she repeated, sounding as though she were on the verge of casting up her accounts at the mere utterance of the word. “Yourservant?”
“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.
