Page 76 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
Standing, he stomped his feet to get them situated in the boots the way he liked them. He tugged on his waistcoat. It was time to set the matter right. He needed to prepare for his meeting with the partners and she merely served as a disruption to his life.
“Right, then,” he muttered. “Now is the time.” She would be furious with him, things between them would return to normal, and he could cease having these damned moments of enjoying her. He much preferred the haughty nose-in-the-air Lady O. He knew precisely where he stood with her. The woman in his residence now was far too layered, far too intriguing, far too distracting.
He strode from his bedchamber with purpose in his step. It would be freeing to have his life as his own again, to not be worrying about her, what she might discover or remember when he wasn’t around, how frightened—or angry—she might be.
He was halfway to the kitchen when the aromas assailed his senses. The dinner she was preparing for him. He had thought to humble her by having her catering to his wants and desires. Yet he was the one being humbled, that she would strive so hard to please him. He had expected her to instinctually complain the entire time, to ignore her duties, and sit around twiddling her thumbs. He hadn’t expected her to step into the role with enthusiasm, to embrace the challenges of learning to care for his household.
Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he decided he would reveal the truth after they’d eaten. It would be unkind to allow this evening’s efforts to be wasted.
He walked into the kitchen in time to see her removing a dish from the oven. Straightening, she gave him a warm smile that arrowed through him, from his head to his toes.
“Perfect timing,” she said, setting the dish between two burning candles on the linen-covered table. White wine filled two glasses, waiting for them. “It’s a chicken pie. Not fancy, but I made it all myself. Well, with Mrs. Pratt providing the direction, but she didn’t do a thing, not even cut the vegetables. I did it all.”
She sounded so remarkably pleased with herself. He wanted to add to her joy, her sense of satisfaction.
“It smells delicious.” And it did. Steam was rising through holes in the crust.
Reaching back, she untied her apron, removed it, and hung it off a peg on the wall. “I hope you don’t mind that I added the cloth and candles to the table. It just seemed wrong to eat on a bare table. Of course, once your dining room is furnished, it’ll all be moot.”
By the time that happened, she’d not be here. She wouldn’t see any of the other rooms furnished or notice the changes he planned to make to the residence.
“I don’t mind at all,” he said, pulling out her chair.
With another one of those impish smiles, she sat. He took his place opposite her. She scooped pie into a bowl for him and then for herself.
While he waited for his to cool, he said, “You seem to enjoy taking care of things.”
“I do rather. So odd that when I first awoke without my memories I couldn’t imagine myself doing any of this.”
She fairly glowed. He was not looking at all forward to that glow turning to red rage when he told her everything after dinner. Nor was he anticipating taking her home. His residence would seem empty, lack energy, become bereft. It was a blasted building and he was acting as though it lived and breathed, as though it noticed her presence as much as he did.
He was mesmerized by the way the light from the flames reflected in her eyes, over her hair. She wore it in a braid circled about her head. Such a simple style, one he would have said wasn’t suited to Lady O, and yet it seemed perfect for Phee. The two distinct ladies were blending into one that he was becoming increasingly taken with. To distract himself from the way she lured him, he said, “I noticed the addition to the foyer.”
She laughed lightly, and he realized that not being distracted by her was going to be impossible. Every aspect of her fascinated him.
“I discovered the table at a little shop. I argued down the price because of the chipped corner.” A pleat appeared between her brows. “Did you notice it?”
He’d been dishonest with her from the beginning. Why stop now? “No.”
She gave him another one of those brilliant smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. I didn’t think it was too noticeable. Hopefully it will be the flowers that garner attention.”
She dipped her fork into the pie. He followed suit, noticing that she had yet to place the food in her mouth. So he took a bite, grinned. “Very tasty.”
And it was. Exceedingly so. The last thing he expected was for her to master preparing food.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. Something else you would have no doubt enjoyed was watching Marla and me as we struggled to bring that table here.”
“You carried it yourself?”
“Only for a bit. Then I stayed with it while she fetched Rob, Mrs. Turner’s footman.”
“Mrs. Turner?” He held up a hand when she pierced him with her gaze. “The widow.”
“Yes. I wish you could afford a footman.”
He could. He could afford a host of servants. Obviously she was a housekeeper who spoke too freely what was on her mind, without mincing words or striving to save her employer’s sensibilities. What the bloody hell was he thinking? She wasn’t a servant at all.
“I’m supposed to wash the windows,” she said, poking at a piece of chicken with her fork. “But I’ve put it off. I don’t know if I like ladders, don’t even know if you have one. I suppose I could borrow—”
