Once More, My Darling Rogue Read online

  “Well, I’m not glad at all. Lovingdon didn’t need her fortune. He’s got a bloody fortune of his own. It’s not fair.”

  She could certainly enlighten him about things that weren’t fair. But surely he was exaggerating concerning his financial state. “How dire are things really?” she asked.

  “Just don’t purchase any new gowns,” he said wearily.

  “I don’t see that I should be inconvenienced because you’ve mismanaged things.” The carriage pulled to a stop in front of their residence. “Besides, I’m sure something will turn up.”

  Surely an heiress somewhere would take his suit seriously.

  Somerdale chuckled low. “It had best happen quickly as creditors will soon be knocking. And you’re quite right, sister, we wouldn’t want you inconvenienced, now would we?”

  Before she could respond, the footman opened the door and handed her down. Her brother followed.

  “Aren’t you going to the club?” she asked as they walked up the steps.

  “Our conversation dimmed my desire to make merry. I think I’ll simply drink myself into oblivion.”

  He opened the door and they entered the foyer.

  “It won’t make your troubles go away,” she pointed out.

  “But it will make me forget them for a time.” Leaning in, he kissed her cheek. “Sleep well, Ophelia.”

  He’d taken two steps before she called out, “Somerdale?”

  Stopping, he glanced back over his shoulder.

  She released a long put-upon sigh. “I shan’t purchase any new gowns, but I won’t be happy about it.”

  He gave her a small smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to be. And I’m quite sure you’re right. Something will turn up. I simply need to give some thought to it.”

  She watched him head down the hallway. For a mere second she considered going after him, but she had her own troubles. Uppermost was how to make Drake Darling pay for the kiss he’d stolen. When next their paths crossed, she would give him a proper set-down. She would publicly snub him. She would tell Grace exactly what sort of rogue he was. Perhaps her family would boot him out, the scoundrel.

  She made her way upstairs, and it wasn’t until she reached the top that she realized she’d been searching for any lingering taste of him on her lips. How could someone so sinful taste so utterly delicious? Had he kissed others tonight? Probably. She hated the thought of it, of him in a shadowed corner with another lady, thrusting his fingers into her hair, taking possession of her mouth as though he would die without it.

  Marching into her bedchamber, she decided she would need a bath tonight to get the scent of him off her. After jerking on the bellpull to summon her maid, she paced. She wasn’t in the mood for a bath, yet it had to be done. Otherwise she would carry his aroma into her dreams. The last thing she wanted was to have him visiting her in sleep.

  Turning at the sound of footsteps, she scowled at her maid. “Why must you dally? Assist me with my clothing. I feel a headache coming on. I’ll want some warm milk before retiring.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  It was nearly an hour later before Ophelia was in her nightclothes and curled on the settee, staring into the flames of a low fire. Colleen was having the warm milk prepared. Why was it taking so long? Staff moved as slow as honey around here. She would have to speak with the housekeeper about the matter again. Honestly, since her father’s death the staff had gone to ruin. Somerdale really needed to be a bit more forceful, more along the lines of Darling.

  She doubted Darling’s servants lollygagged. If he even had servants. She doubted that he did or ever would. He no longer resided with Grace’s family. From what she understood he lived in that gaming hell that he managed. She wondered if that was where he entertained ladies. She shook her head. She was not going to think about him entertaining.

  Where was her warm milk? She came to her feet just as Colleen entered the room—empty-handed. “What the devil, Colleen? Do you not value your position here?”

  “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 ch
ampagne.

  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?

  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 hi
s 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.”

  “Are you a physician?” she asked pointedly.

  He scowled at her. Her attempt to bring him to task was quite annoying at a time such as this when he was striving to be helpful. Could she never put the differences between them aside? “Of course not, but I can feel a bump if it’s there. Let me see.”