Page 39 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“You most certainly can.”
“When you take no delight in giving it? When you’re being so curmudgeonly?”
He sighed heavily. “I want you to have it. It will please me immensely if you take it, and keeping your employer pleased is what you should want above all else.”
To what extent did he expect her to keep him pleased? He hadn’t made any unwanted overtures, certainly didn’t appear to be interested in anything other than her cleaning skills. But would accepting such a lavish gift make her beholden to him? If she discovered it did, she could always give it back. Besides, she wanted the silver set. It made her feel elegant, above her station.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“You’re most welcome. Now it is time for me to retire. You remember when to wake me?”
“Yes, at five for your bath.”
He tapped Mrs. Beeton’s book. “Spend the afternoon relearning how to care effectively for my residence.”
“You said the housekeeper of the woman who raised you recommended it.”
“Yes. She’s an exceptional housekeeper, been with the family for years.”
“So you were with your family this morning.”
He seemed to hesitate, to weigh his words. Nodded. “We have breakfast together once a week.”
“Have I a family?”
She didn’t know it was possible for a person to go so completely still. Not a blink. Not a breath taken. She wondered if his heart continued to beat. He slowly shook his head. “No, you’re an orphan.”
She marveled at the relief she felt, curious as to what prompted it.
“They’ve been gone a long while I believe,” he said somberly.
She smiled at him. “You needn’t worry that I’m going to go into uncontrollable sobbing. They could have all died horribly two days ago, and it wouldn’t matter. I don’t remember them. I suppose I should mourn the not remembering. It seems people in our lives should always be remembered.”
“I’m certain they cared deeply for you.”
Narrowing her eyes, she scrutinized him. “I didn’t think you knew anything about my past.”
“I don’t, but I can’t imagine you not being loved by someone.”
“High praise indeed. Yet you are so often put out with me.”
He sighed heavily once more. “A servant should not argue or point out when her employer is not acting himself.” He again tapped the book. “Hopefully within these pages you will find a list of rules for proper housekeeper comportment. I’ll see you at five.”
Drake marched into his bedchamber, slammed the door, and paced. He’d told her the truth: she was an orphan. Her mother had died ten years earlier, her father two. She did have a family, her brother, but he hadn’t wanted her to seek out her family, not that she would have known where to begin, but she might have asked him again for her employment papers. It was simply easier to omit that little detail. It didn’t sit well with him, but then this whole affair was beginning to gnaw at his conscience.
He shouldn’t have purchased her the blasted silver grooming set, spent a small fortune on it when she would be leaving in the morning. But the long blond strands of her hair mixed in with his darker ones had been unnerving, as though they belonged interwoven into his brush like that. He couldn’t have her using his things. He wished she hadn’t looked so damned grateful for everything in the packages. Well, except for the book on housekeeping. She’d obviously not been delighted with the reminder of her place in his life.
Grinning, he sat in the chair and tugged off his boots. He should deliberately step in horse manure and trample it through the house, make her clean his boots. That would lessen her gratitude.
He didn’t know why he was so out of sorts. It was the manner in which she’d flung open the door and greeted him as though she were truly happy to see him. Her broad smile, the sparkle in her eyes had hit him like a solid blow to the chest and nearly had him staggering back. He’d wanted her, with a fierce longing that had nearly unmanned him. He’d wanted to take her in his arms and carry her up the stairs to his bed. He’d wanted to explore a body that he had bared only two nights ago but to which he’d given little attention. He’d wanted to settle into her velvety heat and watch the warmth in her eyes smolder with passion.
Raking his hands through his hair, he stood and stormed to the window. Desiring her was the last thing he’d ever do. He couldn’t be fooled by her innocence. The woman in his kitchen was not Lady Ophelia, but that she-devil was lurking just below the surface, and at any moment she was going to burst forth with her memories intact and her icy façade that could burn him if he attempted to get close.
He needed to remember that. But gazing out on the street, he seemed capable of only remembering her smile that warmed, her tart voice and words that amused more than irritated, her clinging to him as she fought the demons of a nightmare.
“You haven’t much in the way of cleaning equipment, have you?” Marla asked.
Phee felt rather embarrassed by the pronouncement. She’d been thumbing through Mrs. Beeton’s book, striving to grasp more coherently what her responsibilities entailed, when Marla knocked on the door, ready to keep her promise from the day before to help her remember her chores.
