Page 14 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“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 fetchmybreakfast.”
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. “Thisway.”
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.”
