Page 33 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“I spend long hours providing entertainment for gentlemen,” he continued. “Having a servant means that I’m not distracted by household concerns. I can concentrate on increasing profits. More profits means we can hire more employees so more men can provide for their families. They purchase more meat for their table so the butcher has more income. He buys more meat. The farmer has more income. I could go on but I believe I’ve made my point. It may seem but a small drop, but it ripples out and affects so many. You may not see it, but even the lowliest servant has value, purpose, worth. Everyone has a place and none of those places should be diminished.”
As though suddenly embarrassed, he closed his eyes, shook his head, and leaned back. She wondered if she’d been aware of all the points he’d made, if she’d agreed with them. But if she had why would she have been running away?
Although in truth she didn’t know if she had been. She was only speculating about her clothing. It was the only explanation that made sense.
“I suppose I should get to it then, shouldn’t I?” she asked.
“I’ll prepare breakfast for you while you dress.” He unfolded his long, sinewy body, and an image of him prowling toward her flashed through her mind, kicking her heart against her ribs. It was an incongruous thought that didn’t fit with the man before her, the man she knew, but then how well did she really know him? A day of memories was hardly sufficient to create a complete picture, and yet he’d been patient and understanding. Quite remarkable when in essence he’d lost his housekeeper.
He strode from the room, his movements neither stiff nor formal, but relaxed. He was in his element here, although she suspected he was within his element everywhere. He wore confidence like a cloak.
Tossing aside the covers, she scrambled out of bed. While it was disconcerting to know no more than she did, it was also reassuring to consider that he valued her, that she could lighten the load he carried.
As Drake slammed pots around the kitchen, he soundly cursed himself, wondering what the devil had possessed him to utter such nonsense about value, and purpose, and worth. He believed it of course, absolutely. But to wax on boringly about it was beyond comprehension. It was as though he was striving to beat the sentiment into her, to make her understand that her pedestal only remained upright because of the work of others. Ironically, she didn’t know she’d placed herself on the blasted pedestal.
To make matters worse he was preparing the damned creamed eggs for her. He’d spoken to the cook at Dodger’s about them and received the directions. They weren’t all that difficult to make as he whipped them around the pan, adding cream, butter, and seasoning. But still, she was supposed to be cooking for him. That had been the plan. To have her waiting on him.
But when she looked at him so innocently, so trustingly, with her hand tucked beneath the pillow, the collar of his shirt turned up against her neck, lying all snug in his bed, he felt this irrational urge to protect and care for her. The ludicrousness of all this was not lost on him. Yet he couldn’t return her home, not yet, not until he heard from his man, until he was certain that he wasn’t leading her to the lion’s den. Nothing made sense, especially his desire to please her at breakfast. He should feed her nothing except toast and water, should make her realize that not everyone had the luxury of creamed eggs—of any sort of eggs.
“Creamed eggs?”
The wonder in her voice had him glancing back. She looked positively delighted. Her face was still pink from the morning scrubbing she’d no doubt given it. Her plaited hair draped over one shoulder. She wore the other dress he’d found in the missionary bin. It draped off her like a sack. He fought back the notion that she deserved better, that she deserved morning gowns that outlined every dip and curve. That she deserved clothes sewn just for her figure.
“I thought after the night you had that a little treat was in order. Don’t get used to it.” He poured the mixture over the toast he’d prepared earlier and set the plate on the table.
“Aren’t you joining me?” she asked.
“No. I’m going out for a bit to see to some matters. I expect you to begin managing your chores while I’m gone.”
“You are quite the tyrant, aren’t you?”
Teasing laced her voice and he didn’t like the way that it made his chest feel tight and uncomfortable. “I’ve been lax because of your situation but understand that I expect an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”
She pleated her brow. “I suppose all that is subjective.”
“My subjectivity is all that matters since I’m the one paying for the services. Now, enjoy your meal and then see to the dishes.”
He charged up the stairs and into his bedchamber. Of course, the bed linens were still askew, the pillow had yet to be fluffed, so it carried the imprint of her head. He was tempted to cross over and straighten everything, but it was her job. He’d leave it to her.
In the bathing chamber, he found water in a bowl, none in the pitcher, so he used the water she’d used to wash up. He reached for his brush, halted, his fingers only inches away from it. Long blond strands were woven throughout the bristles, just as they’d been yesterday. The intimacy of it was unsettling. Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he decided that would do for now. He donned fresh clothing. It wouldn’t do to arrive at Mabry House untidy, to give the appearance that his life was suddenly unsettled.
Chapter 11
The first time Drake entered Mabry House, it had been through the chimney flue. He’d been Peter Sykes that night. His father hoisted him up into a tree, and then as nimbly as a little monkey, he scrambled up the branches until he was able to leap onto the roof, where he made his way to the chimney, and down he went.
The duke, in residence at the time, had caught him. While he hadn’t managed to unlock the door to let in his father, he had enjoyed a feast of meat pies and been introduced to Frannie Darling. Because of her and the duke his life had taken an unexpected turn.
Now he walked boldly through the front door without knocking. He had a room within the residence, had grown up within these walls as well as at the duke’s numerous estates.
“Master Drake,” the butler said. “They’re already in the breakfast dining room.”
Of course they were. He was late for his weekly morning visit. “Thank you, Boyer.”
He wandered down the familiar hallways, stopping once to gaze on the portrait that featured the duke and duchess and all their children. Drake stood at the end, a head taller than the others. They had never differentiated between him and their true children, had never made him feel as though he wasn’t part of the family. They had given him a great gift; he understood that readily enough. They had embraced him. Yet when he studied the painting, he saw himself on the outer edge, included but holding himself separate.
He marched on. The doors to the breakfast dining room stood open. Only a few steps in after crossing the threshold, he was enveloped by the duchess, who had come out of her chair before anyone could assist her. For as long as he’d known her, she always greeted children—her own and every orphan who crossed her path—with a hug. Whether they were returning from a term at school or a jaunt to the park. Her arms wrapped tightly around him as though she wanted to hold him forever, but as always, she eventually let him go. Let them all go, even though he knew how difficult it was for her.
“I was beginning to worry,” she said, her blue eyes scanning his features, striving to determine if something was amiss.
