Page 8 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
He could only hope that his chest was providing her with some much needed heat. She murmured something unintelligible.
“It’s all right, sweetheart, we’re almost there. Won’t be long now.”
He quickened his pace, lengthened his stride, for once grateful for his size and bulk. In spite of the weight, in spite of the distance, he had the stamina to cover the ground rapidly. Because of the late hour, no one was about. They were on their own: he and she. He’d not let her down.
Concentrating on the task at hand, rather than the great distance he needed to cover, he began mapping out his plan. Get her to his residence, get her warm, send for the physician William Graves. A woman found in a man’s residence would be compromised but Graves would be discreet. He was an old friend of the family. He could be trusted.
The residence came into view and Drake released a sigh of relief because she was still breathing, although tiny shudders had begun traveling through her. Hastily he opened the gate, strode down the short path, and ascended the small set of steps. With some difficulty, he managed to retrieve his key and open the door. Once through, he kicked it closed behind him and climbed the stairs to the next floor where four bedchambers awaited. Fortunately, he’d left the gaslights burning low before he’d gone out. Having only recently purchased the residence, he’d found little time to set things to right. Only one room contained a bed: his.
He went into it now, crossed over to the massive bedstead, and gently laid her down. “Sweetheart?”
He patted her muddy face, but she failed to respond. She was cold, so damned cold. As impersonally as possible, he shed her of her clothing, surprised by the fine quality of the material and handiwork. She was no commoner, no resident of the streets. A lord’s mistress, perhaps. One who had fallen into disfavor.
As petticoats, chemise, and stockings were flung to the floor, he noted a few bruises but nothing appeared broken. To look at her, it might seem that she’d merely gone for a swim.
When every stitch was removed, he covered her with sheets and blankets. He marched over to the fireplace and set about preparing a blazing fire, in hopes of warming the room and her. It seemed to be working for the room, as he found himself beginning to perspire. He removed his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them onto the floor, before returning to the bed. It didn’t appear she’d moved at all.
He should fetch Graves, but he was loath to leave her alone. He could awaken a neighbor, he supposed, but his odd hours had prevented him from meeting any of them. He had yet to hire any servants because he didn’t spend enough time here to warrant the expense. Most of his time was spent at Dodger’s Drawing Room. He had apartments there, and they served him well when he worked long hours. But he’d purchased this place because he’d felt a need to own something that spoke of permanence.
He walked over to the washbasin, picked up the pitcher, and set it before the fire so the water could begin warming. Then he grabbed a cloth and the washbasin and returned to the bed. Carefully he sat on the edge, dipped the linen into the water already in the basin, and wrung it out. Gently moving aside her snarled hair, he began to wipe the mud from her face. An oval face, not round or square, but long and slender. A dainty, delicate chin. High cheekbones and a narrow nose that tipped up slightly at the end.
His hand stilled as he stared at the features his ministrations had revealed. He knew those features, he knew that face. What the devil?
He had just rescued Lady Ophelia Lyttleton.
Gently, he patted her cheek. “Lady Ophelia?”
“No,” she murmured. “I don’t want you to touch me. No. Don’t!” She began flailing about.
Quickly, he stepped back. “No, I won’t touch you.”
His words must have reached wherever she was, because she instantly calmed, her breathing growing shallow, her face easing into soft lines that camouflaged the arrogance that usually marred what would have otherwise been pleasant features. Even in sleep, she seemed capable of recognizing his voice, remembering that his touch revolted her, that he was beneath her, something to be scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
The disgust that fissured through him almost had him contemplating the pleasure he would derive by tossing her back into the Thames.
Shifting his gaze to her pile of clothes on the floor, he realized that he needed to try to get some of the mud off them. She’d not be able to get back into the stiff skirts and petticoats if he didn’t wash them. Ophelia would no doubt throw a tantrum because he’d touched her underdrawers. Blast it! He did wish that he’d already hired a servant to see to such mundane tasks, to put his house in order. Of course, if he did have a servant, as soon as Ophelia awoke, she’d be ordering the poor girl about—issuing commands, finding fault with the temperature of the bathwater or the crispness of the toast or the softness of the egg. So simple to judge when never having walked in a servant’s shoes.
He turned his attention back to Ophelia. She lay as still as death, as quiet as a grave. He should fetch Grace, see if she could determine what her dear friend was doing rolling around in the muck, but it was Grace’s wedding night, and while she might be happy to help him, he suspected her husband would spend his time without his wife in his bed by contemplating inventive ways to make Drake suffer. No, one did not disturb a couple on their wedding night for a spoiled lady who had no doubt simply carelessly slipped from a pleasure barge into the Thames. Probably full of drink, lost her balance, and over she went.
Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to bother Grace. Except they would be leaving for their wedding trip at first light. Heading to the continent for a couple of weeks, as he understood it. No, this matter wasn’t so dire that he needed to upset their plans. But perhaps he should risk fetching Graves.
It had never bothered him before to reside in solitude here, but suddenly he found himself wishing he had an entire army, or at least someone who could deliver a missive for him. He contemplated shaking her, but he didn’t want to upset her again. Probably best just to let her sleep.
Quite suddenly her eyes fluttered open, and he stared into the green depths, expecting a slap, a screech, a horrified outburst at finding herself in his bedchamber.
Instead she blinked, blinked, glanced around slowly before bringing her gaze back to his. In spite of her prone position, she managed quite well to tilt up that pert little nose of hers. “What am I doing here?”
Her tone fitted her so well: demanding, entitled, accustomed to being answered.
“I fished you out of the river,” he stated, very much wishing that he’d left her there. He doubted she’d appreciate his rescuing her—which begged the question: Why the deuce had she been in need of rescue? “How did you come to be there anyway?”
She pressed the fingertips of her left hand to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
Shaking her head slightly, she opened her eyes. “My head hurts.”
“I haven’t had a chance to examine it.”
