Page 58 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“Why do you never take credit for your kindnesses?”
Because I’m not kind and you’ll realize that soon enough.She brought out the worst in him. She surely did.
A hard knock on the door saved him from having to answer. Thank goodness. Not that he would have, but a distraction from her questions was in order and he welcomed this one. He opened the door to a bulk of a man.
“Mr. Darlin’? We’ve got yer furniture, sir.”
Through the gate, he could see the large wagon in the mews. “Bring it in.”
Stepping back, he glanced at Phee. “They shouldn’t be here long, if you’d rather be elsewhere in the residence.”
“I can see to it if you like. Besides, I’m rather curious as to whether I was correct in my assessment regarding the type of furniture you would select.”
“I had this furniture specially made.”
A corner of her mouth eased up, teasing in her eyes. “Heavy wood. Dark. Mahogany, I’d wager. Dark fabrics. Burgundy. Perhaps forest green.”
He didn’t much like that she was spot-on with her assessment. Ophelia never would have known him so well. Or had she? Was that the reason that she’d always known how to rattle him?
“Very astute, Miss Lyttleton.” He realized his mistake too late, when her eyes widened and her mouth—that very kissable mouth that was still swollen from his kiss—formed a slight O.
“Lyttleton. I never thought to inquire regarding my surname. Phee Lyttleton. Do you know what the Phee is short for?”
It might assist her in regaining her memory, in recalling what happened that night. And with her memory, she would know him for the bastard he was. “Ophelia.”
She scowled. “A character from Shakespeare. I can remember something insignificant but not recall my name. It is the oddest thing.”
A bang sounded as one of the deliverymen misjudged the width of the door opening.
“Careful there,” Drake barked. He’d paid good money for that sofa.
Phee squeezed his arm, her face a wreath of delight. “Burgundy. I knew it. I’ll remember everything I know about you before long.”
Dear God, he hoped not.
Ophelia’s assertive nature had always irritated Drake, but as he stood off to the side in the library allowing her to be in charge, he could not help but be impressed and to see the benefit of having at his disposal a lady who was not a wallflower. The duchess and Grace were equally confident but they were tempered with warmth and softness that he’d always found lacking in Ophelia.
But Phee was not overly cocky. She simply knew exactly how the furniture should be arranged and was intent on having the deliverymen set it in place to her satisfaction. What amazed him was that she correctly identified which pieces belonged in which room, which gave him the unsettling thought that they had similar tastes. The furniture for the sitting area in his bedchamber had already been carted upstairs. Now they were arranging a sitting area in front of the fireplace in the library.
Phee pointed, here, there. She gave orders, the tone of her voice allowing for no disobedience. She might not remember who she was butwhatshe was reverberated through every fiber of her being, and for once he admired it.
He imagined her sitting in one of the chairs that she’d had set before the fireplace, he in the other, carrying on a discussion in a civilized manner with no tartness in her voice, no upturn of her nose as though she’d caught scent of a ghastly smell. He imagined her laughing, making him laugh.
From the moment he’d learned the treasures that a woman’s body held, he’d never contemplated extending the pleasure into something more permanent, had never considered taking a wife. He liked the solitude of his life, liked not having to share the dark thoughts that sometimes troubled him. He savored the decision to not carry on the heritage his father had passed on to him. He’d grown up in a family where births, deaths, marriages were recorded. On cold winter nights, they would gather before a fire in the parlor and the Duke of Greystone would wax on about his ancestors and their accomplishments. He had instilled in his children an appreciation for those who had come before them.
Drake had no such tales of his ancestors to share. He had known only his father, his mother. His father brutal, his mother weak. One did not tell children about large hands wrapped around a slender neck. Sometimes when he looked down at his own large hands, he wondered if a woman would be truly safe from them. What if he was more like his father than he realized? What if his temper flared, what if he struck out with his fists?
What if he couldn’t control his anger?
He’d once threatened to kill Lovingdon if he hurt Grace. He’d meant the words. He knew he was capable of destroying a man. Others knew it as well. It was the reason that he managed Dodger’s with such success. No one wanted to have a confrontation with him. Although he suspected one was waiting when he discovered who was responsible for Phee’s dip into the river. He thought it very unlikely that it had been her choice.
She came to stand beside him. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Perfect.”
She smiled up at him, clearly pleased by his word. Those smiles were an addiction. Having seen one in its true form, he wanted to see a thousand, a million. He wanted to be the reason for them.
Obviously he was overwrought and overtired. He’d not had a good day’s sleep since he’d found her. His thinking was off-kilter. He saw the driver and his assistant out. When he returned to the library, he found her sitting in the chair, a book on her lap, her eyes closed.
