Page 73 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“Rose?”
He followed her out to the terrace. She set the bowl down in front of a dog that was more bone than muscle. She patted its head. “She followed me home from the market.”
“She is a he.”
She peered beneath the dog. “Oh. You’re ever so good at noticing that sort of thing.”
He was amazed she wasn’t, but then ladies were not generally in the habit of peering at an animal’s private quarters. “So I’m not certain the dog will appreciate being called Rose.”
“Short for Rosencrantz,” she said with another beaming smile. “That’ll work.”
She went over to Daisy and petted her.
“We’re not keeping a menagerie here,” Drake told her.
“Of course not.” She walked back over and stood before him. “Kick them out whenever you feel like it.”
The woman was manipulating him again. He wasn’t going to kick these pitiful creatures out and well she knew it. As she opened the door to go in, Jimmy sauntered out, his cap pulled low over his brow, keeping the hair out of his eyes. Drake was surprised Phee hadn’t taken scissors to it. He most certainly didn’t want to remember that he’d been skinny as well at that age. For the briefest of moments he envied Phee her inability to recall the past.
“Be seein’ ye, guv’ner,” the boy said.
“Clean up after the dog as well. We’ll pay you two shillings.”
The boy grinned broadly. “Me pleasure. See you, missus.” He tipped his hat before racing for the gate at the back.
“That was nice of you,” Phee said.
“He’s too thin.”
“I thought the same thing.”
He suspected she’d feed the boy whenever he showed up. Drake couldn’t fault her for that. He didn’t like admitting that over the past few days he’d found very little fault with her. “I suppose he followed you home from the market as well.”
“See, there you are sounding all grumbling again when I know you don’t mind. But yes, our paths did cross at the market this morning. Marla and I went fairly early.”
“I suppose that cost me another fortune.”
She smiled, and he wouldn’t have cared if ithadcost him a fortune. “Only went to the market this time.”
She walked into the kitchen. “Give me a few moments to prepare your breakfast.”
Dammit all. He was willing to give her all the time in the world.
He awoke earlier than usual, stared at the ceiling. What was he doing? Why was she still here, a week after he’d discovered her in the Thames? Why was he putting off uncovering the truth? Why was he delaying returning her home?
He needed to redouble his efforts to determine exactly what had happened the night he found her in the river. Oddly, Somerdale had not been in the club for the past two nights. He needed to seek him out, sit him down, and talk with him—get to the bottom of this entire matter.
And he would, after his meeting with the partners on the morrow. He needed to prepare for it. That was the reason he’d awoken with a start. Had nothing to do with guilt over Phee possibly being lonely in the evenings and seeking out a cat for company. Had nothing to do with the unfairness to her.
He had no clock, no pocket watch, but still he knew he’d awoken early. He’d bathe, head to the club, eat there. Reestablish his schedule.
Rolling out of bed, he found himself instinctively listening for the sounds of her moving about the residence—the creak of stairs, the moaning of a floorboard, the closing of a door. The house was more alive with her in it. He would barely notice when she was gone, however, as he would return to his habit of spending most of his time at the club. Everything would again be as it should be. His bed would no longer smell of her. He would sleep without dreaming of her being beneath the covers with him. He wouldn’t fantasize about touching her skin. He wouldn’t think about kissing every inch of her.
After drawing on trousers and shirt, he checked the bathing room to ensure she’d not filled the tub with water. He’d forbidden her to bring up the pails, not that his orders ever seemed to carry much weight with her. She did as she pleased. That part of her character seemed unchanged. Odd how it didn’t irritate him as it once had.
He jaunted down the stairs, came to a stop in the foyer. A narrow black and white marble-topped table was set against the wall. Hideous thing with scrolled iron legs and a chipped corner. A gleaming black vase held a bouquet of red roses.
Where the bloody hell had that come from? She was purchasing furniture for him now, was she? He’d have never selected that particular piece, yet he couldn’t deny that it somehow seemed to belong. He wondered where she’d found the flowers.
