Page 15 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“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 toldher.
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.”
