Page 36 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
She laughed. “You’re such a tease, sir.”
She made him smile, and he thought she was the sort to whom he should be drawn, a commoner like himself. Yet she was too sweet for the darkness that resided inside him.
“A nightdress if you have it.” He had to get Ophelia out of his shirts, because he would never be able to put them on without thinking of the linen touching her skin. “Perhaps an old dress that you’d wear when you have time off?”
“I believe I have some things. Won’t take me but a minute to fetch them.”
It actually took her a good half hour, not that he was going to complain. She met him at the back door, large bundle in her arms. He handed over the coins he’d promised, knowing she’d gotten the better end of the bargain, but then he’d been raised to be generous. If one possessed fortune, one shared it.
Then because he had a few more errands to see to, he decided to make use of one of the duke’s carriages. It would hasten his return to his townhome. Not that he was anxious to again be in Ophelia’s company, but he didn’t want to leave her alone for too long. And it was long past the hour when he normally went to bed. It was practicality that had him having a carriage readied.
Not any desire for haste so he could sooner look into her green eyes and see if they were indeed haunted.
Phee washed the dishes. Simple enough task. She’d dusted somewhat yesterday so she didn’t think she needed to attend to that chore again. Trying to recall what other duties Drake had told her to manage, she wandered through the residence. He really needed to acquire a very comfortable chair in which she could curl. As housekeeper was it her responsibility to inform him regarding what was needed? Yes, she believed so, as it seemed he hadn’t really a clue.
Walking into the front parlor, she tried to envision what all it should contain. Chairs, a sofa. Brightly colored fabrics, yellow and green. No, not for him. Something darker. Burgundy, perhaps. He was a dark wine with a bitter edge that dried the mouth.
How did she know wine? Because she enjoyed its flavor. She needed to search the kitchen for some bottles. It was strange, the things she recalled, the things she didn’t.
She’d heard him laugh, but it didn’t seem to contain any joy. She didn’t think he was particularly content with life, and while she knew she needed to be striving to remember her duties, she was more interested in remembering what she knew of him.
Perching her hip on the wide windowsill, she gazed out on the street and wondered if it was possible to move forward without a history. Did she truly need to recall her past? Obviously it wasn’t anything special or she wouldn’t now be a domestic.
Recalling Drake, though, had the possibility to be much more interesting. While she instinctively knew it was wicked, she could hardly wait for his evening bath, to once more have the opportunity to trail her fingers over his firm back. Not an ounce of fat resided on his person. His body was all sinewy muscle.
She couldn’t decide if she preferred him in his carefree attire of only shirt and trousers or in his proper dress with waistcoat, jacket, and perfectly knotted neck cloth. As he had no valet, he was quite masterful at dressing himself. Why didn’t he have a valet? Funds, she supposed. No doubt the reason he had only one servant. It was costly to have domestics.
Of course with a residence that echoed its emptiness, she didn’t have a great deal to manage just yet. She had it quite easy, shouldn’t really complain. Still, she would like to see some furniture in here. The room had such potential. She imagined the paintings that would go on the walls, daisies and landscapes—
No, they should be storms. Gray and untamed and brutal. The art should reflect her employer. It was more than his black hair and eyes that made him appear dark. It was his swagger, the intensity of his gaze, the past that he reluctantly revealed, one comprised of shadows that haunted him, because even in sleep he didn’t seem at peace.
She wanted to explore those shadows, explore him, inside and out. He intrigued her. Or perhaps she was simply trying to limit her boredom with thoughts of him. Because presently she missed him. For some minutes she had stood in the kitchen doorway watching as he prepared her breakfast. Efficiency marked his brisk movements. Confidence rolled off him. She couldn’t imagine there was anything he couldn’t conquer.
Including her.
The thought tumbled through her mind, but before she could examine it more closely, a very fine carriage rattled to a stop in front of the residence. As with everything of late she didn’t know how she knew what she knew—why she didn’t know what she didn’t know—but she knew without question that it was a very fine carriage indeed. With a liveried driver and footman, the latter hopping down to the street and quickly opening the door.
Drake stepped out in one fluid movement that belied the fact he was holding an assortment of parcels. The footman made a motion to relieve Drake of his burdens, but her employer simply shook his head, uttered something, and the footman let him be, clambering back onto the carriage, and off it went.
Rushing to the door, she threw it open and couldn’t contain her smile. “You’re home.”
He staggered to a stop, appearing at once confused and disconcerted, as though he hadn’t expected her to be here. Then his features settled into a mask of disgruntlement as though he weren’t at all happy to see her. “A servant should open the door with a bit more decorum.”
She was stung by the words, by his displeasure when it had so delighted her to see that he’d returned. Giving a quick bob of a curtsy, she said, “My apologies. What have you there?”
He edged by her. “A servant doesn’t question her employer.”
“I wasn’t questioning you.”
“A sentence beginning withwhatand ending on an elevated note generally implies question.”
“Fine.” She slammed the door, jerked up her chin. “I suppose a servant doesn’t close doors with a bang either.”
“Quite right. They shouldn’t be heard at all and seldom seen.”
“I suppose they shouldn’t be overjoyed to have their master return.” She couldn’t keep the pique from her voice, which she supposed was another failing. Servants no doubt talked in modulated tones so no one ever knew precisely what they were thinking.
He didn’t seem to have an answer for that, but studied her for a moment before jerking his head to the side and saying, “Come to the kitchen.”
