Page 26 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“What do I do while you’re gone?”
“Sweep out the hearths, arrange wood, make my bed. I’m certain if you’ll simply look around, you’ll figure out what needs to be done.”
Cleaning out the hearths brought images of soot and ash. “Where is my apron?”
He became incredibly still, a living statue. “I don’t believe you have one,” he finally said.
“That’s rather odd, isn’t it? A housekeeper without an apron?”
“I don’t pay attention to your clothing. You’re merely a servant. Perhaps you misplaced it.”
Merely a servant. The words stung, angered her. She shook her head. “I’m still not understanding why none of this seems familiar. I don’t recall doing any of these chores. They’re not second nature like the waltzing.”
“I can’t explain your condition, but I must be off. Enjoy your evening.”
With that he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway. She almost went after him. Enjoy her evening? He expected her to work. How was there ever any joy in labor?
This was such an odd circumstance. It made no sense. Still, as she’d gone to the trouble to set the table, she took a chair and nibbled on cheese and bread while pondering her dilemma. She wasn’t going to sweep out the hearths. She wasn’t going to clean anything until she remembered doing it.
If Drake Darling wanted his house properly tended, then he was going to have to be a bit more forthcoming with information. She didn’t know why she had the distinct impression he didn’t truly want her to regain her memories. What was it he didn’t want her to remember?
Chapter 9
It was ridiculous that he was sitting at the massive desk in his office, striving to write a letter of reference for a woman who didn’t truly exist, who was merely a charade for his amusement. He had a gaming hell to run.
Besides, he was going to tell her the truth when he returned to the residence. So the letter was unnecessary. He would reveal everything and watch as shock washed over her lovely features—
The satisfaction would be less because she didn’t remember him. Didn’t recall the number of times she’d snubbed him, what her true feelings for him were. That Lady Ophelia Lyttleton would have never touched the tip of his little finger, let alone his entire back. Not only touch it, but do so with such glorious exploration that even now he could feel where her fingers had pressed.
He needed her to remember who she was, who he was. But no time remained for a leisurely confession. Her family was no doubt frantic by now. If Grace discovered what he’d done, she would never forgive him. Hell, he suspected none of the duke’s family would forgive him. He imagined the disappointment in the duchess’s eyes.
He had worked so damned hard to be worthy of them taking him in, and Lady Ophelia, the little chit, had caused him to embrace pettiness in order to exact revenge against all the slights she’d delivered over the years.
He was a better man than this.
Leaning back in his chair, he tossed the pen onto the desk. It was late, she was no doubt already abed, otherwise he would return her home now. Stupid to let her prove that he was exactly as she’d alluded all these years: beneath her.
Had the duke not taught him to always hold to the high ground? At Eton, when aristocratic nobs had shoved him in hallways, taken food from his plate, stripped his bed of its coverings in the dead of winter, he’d not fought back. He’d mastered the art of giving them a look that said that they were small, petty, not worth his attention.
Then the Duke of Lovingdon had come to Eton and everything had changed, because the duke considered Drake a friend. Their families often got together for outings and weekends in the country. To treat Drake unkindly was to earn the duke’s disfavor, which was to be avoided at all costs, because it had always been apparent that Lovingdon—even at a tender age—held the power and influence of his title. Not to mention that he was as rich as Croesus.
But young Ophelia Lyttleton didn’t care about earning the duke’s favor, perhaps because she’d always known that Grace loved Lovingdon. So she wasn’t above striving to remind Drake of his true place—as though he could ever forget it.
Reaching behind him, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey, poured himself two fingers, and downed them in one swallow. As a general rule he did not drink when he was at the club, because he wanted his mind sharp and he didn’t want anything clouding his judgment. But tonight he wasn’t concentrating on the club, and that needed to stop immediately.
He’d seen to matters when he first arrived, but, unfortunately, he’d spent the past three hours striving to create a false letter of reference. So far he’d merely written, “She is ...”
He kept trying to describe Lady Ophelia Lyttleton instead of the fictional Phee. If he stated the truth: “She is opinionated, irritating, haughty,” then Phee would wonder why in the blue blazes he’d hired her. He needed to describe her as sweet of temperament, a dedicated worker, a woman with the means to shatter a man while he took a bath.
After tossing down two more fingers of whiskey, he shoved back his chair and stood. He was done with her. In the morning. At that particular moment, he needed to take a leisurely stroll so he could estimate the night’s profits. It was a little game he played, judging the mood of the members who were in attendance and determining what their contributions to the night’s take would be.
He strode out of his office, down a hallway, and up a flight of stairs to a shadow-shrouded balcony. Standing off to the side, well-hidden behind a heavy velvet drapery, he scoured the gaming floor. An assortment of card games, hazard, dice, roulette—any game of chance that favored the house, and they all favored the house—was available to the membership. Liquor was served, glasses filled as soon as they were empty. A small expense for impaired judgment that resulted in greater profits for the club’s partners. Considering that one of them was an earl and two of them were married to nobility, he would have thought they would not be so quick to fleece those with whom they rubbed elbows. But like his, their formative years had been shaped by life on the streets. They knew what it was to be hungry, cold, and frightened. They knew what it was to do without clothing, food, shelter, and shoes. They’d risen above all that, then reached back and grabbed a scrawny lad of eight by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him along with them.
He owed them all a debt he could never repay. But he especially owed the Duke and Duchess of Greystone. They had established children’s homes with the duchess’s share of the club’s gains. They could have left Drake at one of them, to have been possibly overlooked. He’d been an angry child. Instead they had given him a place at their table, in their home, within their family.
Sometimes the anger still seeped through into the man, but he had learned to hold it in check. Especially here with the nobs and swells, with those who had much in the coffers and gave it up so easily with the whisper of a turning card or the clack of dice landing.
He knew all these faces. Lords, second sons, third sons. He knew their value, their worth, their habits, their weaknesses. He knew which ones would walk away from the tables with empty pockets and then seek out an heiress so he could return to the games. Dukes, marquesses, earls, viscounts. Within these walls rank didn’t matter. They were all equal.
