Page 19 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
He gave her a pointed look. He was too familiar with all the times that she and Grace had broken rules, and he suspected that little part of her character had not been lost. If he gave her the name of the club, she’d no doubt make her way there. He knew her well enough to know she could be quite conniving and resourceful. Little witch.
She released an impudent sigh. “Am I a prisoner here?”
“No, but until your memory is more dependable, it would be unwise to travel about London.”
“I think I could make out quite well without my memory.”
“I must question your judgment on that score. You’re in the bedchamber of a man who is not wearing a stitch of clothing, a man who is tired and wishes to sleep, and is growing increasingly irate. You think that’s rational behavior?”
Her eyes widened slightly, her mouth formed a soft O. “I know you’re not wearing a shirt. Are you saying—”
“Yes, quite. Nothing at all rests between my flesh and the sheets.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. I should leave you to rest.”
“Yes, you should.” Before he was tempted to shock her by clambering out of the bed, grabbing her arms, and kissing her senseless. He didn’t want her asking questions about her past, didn’t want her heading out on her own to try to answer the riddle of who she was. He would tell her tomorrow, right before he returned her to her family.
Bowing her head, she scurried from the room, closing the door quietly in her wake. With a sigh, he lay back, shoved a hand beneath his head, and wondered why he was continuing with this sham. It wasn’t nearly as deliciously rewarding as he’d expected it to be.
But that was only because she didn’t yet know the truth. Everything would change then, and her memory would return in full force. He wanted one moment with her that she would never forget, one moment that he could take out and examine on occasion. A moment that contained a task that would speak of servitude as no other would.
An image entered his mind—an evil, wicked image, one in which he would derive great pleasure, one that she would think of whenever their paths crossed, one that would prevent her from being quite so arrogant in his presence. One that would cause her to do his bidding, lest he tell the world what had transpired.
The more he thought on it, the more he wanted it. Just one little thing to hold over her, to topple her off the pedestal upon which she gloated, gazed down on him, and deemed him worthless.
Dark laughter circled around him as satisfaction took hold. He’d have his fun tonight. Tomorrow he would return her to her world, just a bit humbler.
Chapter 7
Drumming her fingers on the table in the kitchen, Phee could not have been more bored if she were lying in a coffin. What did she do with herself all day?
The hours dragged by. She considered going for a walk, but she didn’t trust her memory. Drake had the right of it. She couldn’t guarantee that she would recall how to make her way back here. Earlier she stood on the front stoop and nothing beyond looked familiar. Oh, the horses and the wagons, the occasional dog—she knew what they were. She could name objects. But the street itself, the buildings that lined it were as foreign as preparing pheasant for dinner.
And there were so many more eyes, staring at her, knowing things she didn’t. So she retreated back into the house, wandered aimlessly, striving to unlock the secrets of her life, wondering why the thought of secrets unsettled her. Maybe there was indeed a reason that she wasn’t remembering, that her past seemed to have vanished.
It would be a couple of more hours before Darling awoke. She tried not to think of him lying upstairs in the same bed in which she’d slept. Thank goodness she had her own bed as she didn’t want his scent permeating her dreams. He smelled delicious, so masculine, so earthy. And he was naked. She should be appalled, but she wasn’t. She was curious more than anything. Had she ever seen a naked man?
She expected Drake Darling was quite gorgeous.
How did she address him? Drake? Darling? Mr. Darling? Master Darling? The last was too formal, the first too personal. Darling. Just Darling. That seemed right. She would of course confirm it when he awoke. Meanwhile, she decided that the house could use some flowers to brighten it up. But when she went through the back door, she discovered no gardens. Only tall grass and weeds that pulled at her skirt as she walked through them. No orderly flowers lined up to reveal a rainbow of colors, nothing that emitted comforting fragrances. Nothing to pluck. Nothing to bring delight. Everything was so drab and boring. How did he not go completely mad?
How did she not? Perhaps she was in the beginning stages of madness. Perhaps that was the reason that she remembered none of this. Why would anyone want to remember it?
She heard a smack, something hitting something else. Again. Again. Coming from the other side of the brick wall. Was someone engaged in a fight? Should she fetch Darling, have him put a stop to it? She had no doubt that he could, if not with his very presence, then with his fists. She sensed leashed violence in him. She could see him prowling...
Yes, he could handle whatever was happening on the other side of the wall, but it really wasn’t her business, now was it? People should be left to handle their own affairs. Still, she couldn’t deny her curiosity. And what if someone was being hurt? Didn’t she have an obligation to step in?
Glancing around, she spotted a wrought-iron chair in the corner of the terrace. Surely Darling didn’t sit there to gaze out on his weeds. Where would be the pleasure in that? She decided that she must have a rather inquisitive mind as questions bombarded her, and she seemed to constantly want to ferret out the answers, especially where her employer was concerned. But the answers remained elusive so she grabbed on to the back of the chair and dragged it over the ground until she reached the wall, where she set it against the brick. With careful balancing, she stepped up onto the seat, grabbed the edge of the wall to steady herself, rose up on her toes, and peered over.
The gardens weren’t particularly showy but they were well manicured, with shorn grass, hedgerows, roses, and absolutely no weeds. Off to the side, a rug was draped over rope strung between two poles. A woman in a black dress, full apron, and white mobcap covering her brown hair was slapping a broom against the carpet. With each whack dust floated upward.
Suddenly Phee was quite relieved that Darling had no carpeting.
The woman ceased her movements, hunched her shoulders slightly, and sneezed. Taking a handkerchief from her apron pocket, she wiped at her nose before putting the linen back. Then she raised the broom again, glanced back, and squeaked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Phee called out. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Pressing her hand to her chest, the woman laughed. “It’s all right.”
