Page 7 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“My apologies, my lady, but His Lordship sent me up to begin packing your things. He says you’ll be leaving within the hour.”
“It’s half past eleven. I’m not going anywhere.”
Colleen appeared terribly apologetic when she murmured, “He seems to think you are.”
“Well, we shall certainly see about that.”
Ophelia fairly flew down the stairs. Her brother was no doubt in a drunken stupor. Traveling this time of night made no sense at all. Even if he were in some sort of trouble with the creditors that resulted in a hasty departure, it could wait until a decent hour. And why should it involve her? She wasn’t the one in a spot of difficulty.
As she neared the library, a footman opened the door. She stormed through—
Staggered to a stop as fear fissured through her. The door softly snicked behind her, closing her in with her worst nightmare.
Chapter 3
With his hands shoved into his coat pockets, Drake walked along the path that bordered the Thames. When a lad, he would come here and dig through the mud, searching for little treasures that might bring in some coin: a fancy button, a bit of silk, a shoe—which hadn’t been much good without its match—a watch. The pocket watch had been his most precious find, but he’d made the mistake of showing it to his father, who had snatched it from his grasp. He often wondered how it had come to be in the sludge along the river.
He hadn’t been the only child with hopes that the mud would reveal something of value. Mudlarks, they were called. Sometimes he still felt as though the mud clung to his skin, clung to his clothing.
Perhaps that was why Lady Ophelia Lyttleton managed to irritate him so, because when she gazed on him, he felt as though she saw the filthy child he’d been. The child who had been starved so he would remain thin enough to ease in through basement windows or climb down chimney flues in order to gain entry into a fine residence. He would slip carefully through the dark and open the door for his father—a great hulking brute.
Sometimes when Drake looked in a mirror, he saw his father standing there. He didn’t possess the polished elegance of the aristocracy. No matter how well tailored his clothing, how refined his speech, how impeccable his manners, he could never forget that he came from the mud.
Although tonight, more so than usual, he was in danger of it sucking him back in.
What the deuce had he been thinking to kiss Lady O? She irritated the devil out of him, to be sure. Perhaps it was because she disliked him so much that he wanted to give her a satisfactory reason to think him unworthy of her. As far as he knew, he’d never treated her poorly. He could think of no reason for her dislike of him other than the fact of his birth. In her circles, he supposed that was enough.
Within that small alcove the shadows closed in around them, effectively creating an intimacy that hid differences. He and she were simply a man and a woman. And she had smelled so blasted enticing. He had been surrounded by assorted fragrances all evening, and yet her orchid scent called to him as no other did. He imagined her skin heated with passion, damp with desire causing the scent to bloom, unfold. Her skin had felt so silky beneath his roughened fingers. And those eyes, those damned green eyes that hinted at secrets.
He’d bet his soul she was a lady of complicated layers, and for some unfathomable reason he’d been tempted to unwrap them, to see what happened when he unsettled her calm façade, when he melted the ice.
What happened was that she slapped him. Deservedly so.
Now if he could just forget the flavor of her he might manage to ignore her in the future. Unfortunately, forgetting events in his past had never been his strong suit.
Stepping over the low barrier that marked the path, he walked down to the water’s edge. Distant streetlamps barely illuminated this area. Wisps of fog were swirling about. He refrained from falling into old habits, of crouching down and digging his fingers into the cold, slimy muck. Tonight his soul felt as black as the river. All because of her.Boy, fetch me some champagne.
Boy.He’d wanted to demonstrate to her that he wasn’t a boy, but in his approach to showing her, he hadn’t exactly revealed himself as a gentleman either. Stupid pride, stupid—
A slight moan caught his attention. He immediately went on alert. It wasn’t unusual for people to sleep out of doors. Not everyone had a roof over his head. Nor was it uncommon for thieves and troublemakers to be lurking about. But they didn’t usually make noise to gain notice. Had someone been attacked before he arrived?
The mewling came again.
He took a cautious step in the direction he thought it came from, but the fog could distort sounds, disguise their origins. “Hello?”
He listened more intently. The water lapping at the shore. The splash of a fish. The scurry of tiny feet. A hard, rattling cough.
Taking two more steps toward the last sound, he cursed himself for not bringing a lantern, but he was familiar with this part of London. He could walk it blindfolded. Besides, he preferred being part of the darkness. As much as he might wish otherwise, he wasn’t one for shedding light on things. Lady Ophelia had the right of it: his was blackguard’s soul.
Catching sight of a mound that looked at odds with the surroundings, he quickened his pace. The weak moaning came again. It was a person, a woman, partway washed ashore, her skirts billowing behind her as the water rocked with the tide. Kneeling beside her in the darkness, he could tell only that her hair appeared to be pale, although it was difficult to know for certain as she was covered in mud. He touched her shoulder. It was ice-cold. He gave her a small shake. “Madam?”
Nothing. Not a sound, not any sort of reaction or response.
Glancing quickly around, he saw no sign of anyone else in the vicinity. Pressing his fingers just below her jaw, he felt her thready pulse. If she were to stand any chance at all of surviving, he had to get her warm as soon as possible.
Quickly, he removed his coat and draped it over her, hoping some of the warmth from his body would seep into hers. Working his arms beneath her, he struggled to stand with the mud sucking at her, seeking to reclaim her, to hold her captive. He’d not have it. He’d rescued a good many trinkets from the banks of the Thames, but he’d never rescued a woman. He wasn’t about to let her die now that he had recovered her.
She was soaked through. How had she come to be in the river? It was a question to be answered later, when she was recovered, and by damn she would recover. He cursed himself for not having a carriage about, but he’d been in the mood for a long walk. Fortunately, his residence was not too far, but with the water and mud, she weighed as much as an elephant. He considered taking a moment to divest her of her clothing, but how would he explain a naked woman should he be stopped by a constable? And where was a bloody constable when he needed one?
