Page 57 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
Sitting back on her heels, she peered up at him and with a quick breath, blew the hair that had fallen across her brow, sending it off to the side. Why did that small action cause his gut to clench tightly? Then she smiled, and he almost dropped to his knees beside her.
“Good morning to you as well,” she said brightly.
“It won’t be such a good morning if you’re hurt.”
“I wrapped them with extra linen and I’m not putting them in the water, only the brush bristles.” She blew at the wispy strands again. “Shall I prepare you some breakfast?”
“An early luncheon would be better as I’m expecting a delivery of furniture at any moment.”
“Truly?”
“Assume if I tell you something that it’s true.” Even if the majority of what he’d told her thus far were lies.
“I can’t wait to see it,” she said with enthusiasm that unsettled him. “Which rooms?”
“The only ones I’m presently using. My bedchamber and the library.”
“Then I should sweep them, make them ready. I do wish you’d said something yesterday.” Quickly she shoved herself to her feet, but apparently she’d forgotten about the wet stone, because one of her feet flew out from beneath her, she reared back, her arms flailed—
Snaking one arm around her, he saved her from a hard tumble, had her pressed up flat against his body, and was staring into her wide green eyes. Why did they have to be so beautiful, like spring leaves after a bitter winter? If he wasn’t careful they’d seep into his soul, take root there. He’d never rid himself of her.
Ophelia he could gladly drag out of his residence kicking and screaming. But it wasn’t Ophelia in his arms at that moment. It was Phee.
For reasons he didn’t completely understand, he was loath to give her up. This woman possessed a warm smile, always seemed so damned glad to see him. He returned to the residence earlier than normal because he couldn’t stand to go another moment without seeing her, although he’d expected to find her still abed. But here she was scrubbing his floor and delighted by the prospect of the arrival of furniture. He wished he’d purchased enough for every room.
With his free hand, he cradled her cheek and stroked his thumb over the softness. The wayward strands of her hair had refallen across one eye but she refrained from blowing them back. He almost asked her to because he liked watching the movement of her lips, imagined her puffs of air stirring the hair at his temple, on his chest, his belly, lower. He almost growled. This woman in his arms left him in a perpetual state of needing to groan with want and desire.
It was ludicrous to yearn for her touch when he knew what a spoiled, bored miss she truly was. But this woman wasn’t spoiled. She was something he didn’t understand. She affected his judgment, made it questionable. She had him doing things he didn’t normally do. She had him doubting his little act of revenge. She had him wanting what he couldn’t have, not for the long term. When her memories returned, so would the woman he could scarcely stomach. But for now she was nowhere in sight, for now her breasts were flattened against his chest and she didn’t protest. Her bandaged hands rested on his shoulders, her eyes searched his. She didn’t flinch at his touch. She merely waited.
She would have been better served by protesting.
He lowered his mouth to hers. She welcomed him, parting her lips, giving him access to the honeyed depths. She tasted the same, the shape of her mouth was as he remembered, but the eagerness of her tongue as it parried with his was new. The sweet sigh, the low moan, the rising up on her toes as though she couldn’t get enough, as though she craved more—that was new. Her fingers scraped along his scalp, her arms tightened around his neck. He deepened the kiss, exploring each nook and cranny with a freedom that had been lacking before. He took his time, reveling in every aspect. Her enthusiasm matched his. She wasn’t shy or repulsed or horrified.
He knew she wouldn’t exhibit any of those emotions when he pulled back, but he wasn’t quite ready to end the kiss, not just yet. It was wrong of him; he was taking advantage, but he couldn’t quite care that he was exhibiting not only bad behavior, but horrendous judgment. Surely, eventually, her memory would return. She would remember this kiss. He was determined that she would remember it.
That she would recall her tongue sweeping through his mouth, her body moving against his as though she could crawl inside him, the tightness with which she held him near. She would know that his mouth had been latched on to hers for long minutes, devouring, possessing, conquering. She was willingly taking what he was offering. No slapping this time. No fury. No cutting words.
He should have felt triumphant. Instead he questioned who was truly winning here.
Drawing back, he fell into the green depths of her eyes, marveling as the wonder reflected there slowly evolved into suspicion.
“You kissed me before,” she said quietly. “I remember. Is that the reason I ran away?”
Slowly he released her. It hadn’t occurred to him that kissing her would cause her to remember him or at least something she’d shared with him.
“I don’t know why you ran away.” Truth. Or evenifshe had run away. Although it seemed more likely that she had—from either Somerdale or Wigmore. Neither had reported her missing, so her disappearance was going to reflect badly on one of them. But which one?
“But we have kissed before,” she said, more statement than question.
“Yes.”
“Is there something between us?”
How did he answer that? Dislike, distrust, pride—his, perhaps hers—was between them. “Anything between us would be inappropriate.”
“Of course. You’re a gentleman; I’m a servant.” She angled her chin, squared her shoulders. “Thank you for rescuing me from the tumble.”
“I’m certain you would have caught your balance.”
