Page 79 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“No, I do like it. I can see it quite clearly. You’ve put a lot of thought into it.”
She angled her head, studied him, sipped the whiskey. He didn’t want to admit that he could see himself doing this every night, being with her, whether with words or without. She was turning his world, his expectations upside down, inside out.
“It’s not really my place, I suppose. Your wife will no doubt want to decorate the rooms to her taste.”
“I’ve told you that I don’t have a wife.”
“But you will one day.”
“No. You and I are alike in that regard: I have no intention of marrying.”
“Why ever not?”
It was such a simple question with such a complicated answer.
“My bloodline needs to end with me.”
“That seems a rather drastic reason.”
But there was more to it than that, and he could tell by the arching of her delicate brow that she suspected as much. For once, she wasn’t questioning, poking, prodding, insisting that he provide information. She was merely waiting, giving him time, giving him room. It was so easy to forget who she was, the true nature of their relationship. He could ignore her if she were nagging at him, harping, tilting up that bent little nose and staring down it at him.
But she was looking at him levelly, equally. Not a servant to her master, not a highborn lady to street-born man. Almost a friend to a friend, or perhaps something a little more. He wasn’t quite certain how to define what was between them anymore. Perhaps it defied definition because much of it wasn’t real, but was simply a farce, a ruse, a deception.
He should tell her the truth of who she was now while whiskey warmed her blood, relaxed her thoughts. But he’d held so much in regarding his own truth for so long, a burden he’d not dared speak about to anyone, a weight beneath which he sometimes felt he might suffocate. For who would truly understand? Perhaps she who was now almost a blank slate.
Leaning forward, he dug his elbows into his thighs and held his glass between both hands, noting how the liquid paled and darkened, depending how the light from the fire hit it. Life was comprised of the same shadows, weaving in and out. He’d spent too much time with the shadows.
He shifted his gaze to the shelf, to the box that contained his heritage. “You asked me about Robert Sykes.”
“The murderer.”
He brought his attention back to bear on her. He wanted to trust her, wanted to believe that this woman residing in his residence was the true Lady O. That the other had been a fabrication of Society. Steadily holding her gaze, he spoke the words he’d never uttered aloud.
“He was my father.”
Phee fought not to show any reaction, but she was fairly certain she’d grown pale because her skin suddenly felt cold and clammy. “How old were you when he ... died?”
“I was eight when he was hanged.”
He said the words so casually, as though he’d just informed her of his age the last time his father went out for a walk.
“I overheard the servants talking about the hanging that was to take place the following day. I collected newspapers for days and hoarded them away. I couldn’t read, but I knew that one day I would and if there was anything about my father in the paper, I wanted it. It was perhaps a year and a half later when I clipped that article”—he jerked his head toward the shelves where he’d placed the box after she’d discovered it—“hid it away. I never wanted to forget from whence I’d come, never wanted to forget that I came from brutish stock.”
“What of your mother?”
Leaning back, he took a long swallow of his whiskey. “He killed her.”
She was horrified. “I’m so sorry.”
He met her gaze. “It wasn’t your doing. I’m the one who failed her.”
He was so damned calm about the whole thing. She wanted to get up and shake him, make him show some reaction, but then she noticed the hand holding the glass, the knuckles so white from his grip that she could see the outline of his bones. She was surprised the glass didn’t shatter. He wasn’t at all unaffected by the tale.
“How could you have possibly failed her?”
“He would hit her.” He shook his head. “No,hitis too tame a word. Beat her. He would beat her. His hands balled into meaty fists.” He held up one of his hands, turned it over, turned it back, examining it. “I have his hands.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Those are your hands. They’ve nothing at all to do with him.”
