Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 5

  She took in her surroundings, and he could see her striving desperately to remember them. Then her chin came up so quickly that he was surprised she didn’t snap her neck. “Why was I telling you to fetch things if I’m the one who does the fetching?”

  “Wishful thinking on your part? Perhaps this entire I-can’t-remember business is your attempt to avoid what you gave your word you would do: see after the care of my residence.”

  He didn’t know why he was continuing this charade, only that he was taking perverse pleasure in unsettling her. Not very gentlemanly on his part, but then hadn’t she accused him earlier of being a blackguard and a scoundrel? He was only striving to meet her expectations. She didn’t seem to be suffering physically from her swim in the Thames. As for her memory, she didn’t seem to be suffering from the loss of it either. He was fairly certain it would return any moment. She was suffering from temporary confusion. Nothing more.

  “A servant?” she repeated, sounding as though she were on the verge of casting up her accounts at the mere utterance of the word. “Your servant?”

  “Quite right. I suggest you carry on with your bath. You may sleep in my bed for the remainder of the night as it’s more comfortable than yours. In the morning we’ll discuss the matter further.” In the morning, I’ll confess to you my wickedness and take you home.

  Before he changed his mind and confessed all now, he spun on his heel to leave.

  “No, wait!”

  Glancing back, he refused to feel guilty at the sight of her distress. He knew she cared only for her own needs, never worried about anyone else’s suffering. He was quite certain he wasn’t the only one she’d abused with that tart tongue of hers. Besides, it wasn’t as though he were taking a lash to her.

  With a huff, she shoved up the sleeves of his coat. They fell back into place, which apparently made it extremely awkward to wring her hands, although she managed. “I can’t be a servant.”

  “Why not?”

  “It doesn’t feel … right. Yes, that’s it. It simply doesn’t feel correct. What are my duties precisely?”

  “Everything. You scrub my floors, prepare my meals, polish my boots, press my shirts, make my bed, prepare my bath. Do anything else that I determine needs doing.”

  “Little wonder I leaped into the Thames,” she muttered.

  “Did you leap in?” he asked, taking a step toward her, wondering if the shock of his earlier words had brought her memory back. “Do you remember it now?”

  “No, but I must have. How else might I have gotten in there?”

  “An accident. You slipped.”

  She rubbed her brow. “It doesn’t matter. That’s the past. It’s now that’s important. This”—she swept out her arms—“can’t be my life.”

  “Why not? It’s a good life. As I’m sure you’ll remember once you’re properly rested. Sleep as late as you like. Under the circumstances I’ll not dock your pay. As it appears you need reminding of your duties, we’ll discuss them later tomorrow.”

  He walked out, closing the door behind him. He didn’t want to contemplate her removing his coat and climbing into his tub. The water would no doubt be less than warm by now. Perhaps he wouldn’t take her home when she awoke.

  Perhaps he would treat her to one day of walking in a servant’s shoes. Only for a day. No reason for her family to suffer overly long, worrying over her absence.

  Chuckling darkly, shaking his head, he headed down the stairs. He would have to do what he could to remove the mud from her clothes. He stopped. If he returned her clothing to her, its quality would alert her that she wasn’t a servant. She seemed to recall the basic things. He would have to make a hasty trip out to the missions at first light to locate some appropriate clothing.

  Was he really going to continue the farce?

  It was ludicrous to even consider it. She was the daughter of an earl. Grace would never forgive him for heaping misery upon her friend. But then no one ever need know. Understanding Lady Ophelia as he did, he knew she would never reveal what had transpired during her absence from Society. Even if her memory never returned full force, once he returned her home and she realized the truth about her place in the world, she would once again embrace it with the arrogance that so characterized her existence.

  Where was the harm in giving her a glimpse into another sort of life?

  As she lowered herself into the water, Phee discovered it was less than warm now. She regretted that she’d been distracted by Drake’s revelations and delayed her bath.

  A servant. She was a servant. Worse, she was his servant. His sole servant apparently. It seemed so terribly … not quite right. She couldn’t see herself scrubbing floors and dealing with filth.

  Gathering up the long tangled strands of her hair, she wondered how one went about washing it. Shouldn’t it be a task that she would instinctually know how to accomplish? Surely she had washed her hair numerous times. Yet she envisioned hands washing it for her. Perhaps it was merely a dream she had—to be pampered and spoiled. As he’d implied, wishing for a very different life than the one she had.

  She immersed herself completely beneath the surface. Water lapping. A roaring in her ears. Panic took hold. Air, no air. She was going to die!

  Springing up, she gasped, greedily gulped air into her lungs until they ached, until she couldn’t fill them anymore. Tucking her bent knees against her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs, she fought to squelch the shivering. She wasn’t cold, but she had been. In the water, in the Thames. How had she come to be there? Shouldn’t she know? Had something horrid happened that resulted in her being there? Was that why she didn’t remember, because she didn’t want to remember? Did it have anything to do with Drake Darling?

  What sort of name was that anyway? Harsh on the one hand, soft on the other. A name that rather seemed to describe him. He was gentle and concerned one moment, harsh and unyielding the next, as though she’d done something to anger him, or at the very least irritate him. She had the sense that he didn’t much like her. Then why not dismiss her? Why keep her on as a servant?

  Because her work was exemplary? It had to be. She wasn’t one to settle for less. She knew that. Shoddy work was not to be tolerated. It was the reason behind her pique for having to wait so long for the bath.

  Snagging the soap, she began scrubbing at her hair, her body. Now noticing a bruise here and there. And aches, so many aches. As though she’d been battered. She supposed she had been by the river currents and banks. As the bathwater darkened, became filthier, she started to call for a servant—

  And stopped. Why did it seem a natural thing to do? To order someone to empty the bath and replenish it with clear water so she could bathe again? And again and again. Until all the grime had been scrubbed off.

  But according to Drake there was no one to call. She certainly didn’t want him coming to assist her. She didn’t feel quite clean, but it would have to do. Stepping out of the tub, she grabbed a towel and rubbed it vigorously over her body, striving to make herself feel cleaner. Why couldn’t she feel clean?

  She wasn’t quite certain that the sense of uncleanliness all had to do with the mud. It was her, something about her. Something she had no desire to explore.

  Clutching the towel around her, she approached the mirror cautiously, not quite trusting what it might reveal. She spied the hair first. It was wrong, so terribly wrong. Tangled and wild, the blond locks cascading past her shoulders. She couldn’t recall ever brushing it, but surely she had. It should be pinned up. Yes, that was how it should look. Neat, tidy, with a few curls left free to frame her face.

  Leaning in, she studied her features more closely. She recognized the green eyes, the nose, the chin, the cheeks. Why couldn’t she remember more? It seemed the harder she tried to recall the facts about herself, the more elusive they became, weaving in and out like fog that couldn’t be grasped.

  Glancing down, she spied the silver brush. His brush, no doubt. She could see a few stray
black hairs woven through the bristles. Such an intimacy, to use his brush on her hair, but she didn’t see that she had a choice. She didn’t know where her brush might be or if she even had one. She thought the not knowing so much might drive her mad.

  Wrapping her hand around the brush, she lifted it. It was a good solid weight. Certainly not cheaply made. How did she know that?

  Using it, she struggled to work out the tangles. It felt odd to be the one doing it. She had no recollection of ever managing her hair before. But surely she had. She wasn’t a barbarian to run around unkempt. When the tangles were conquered, when the brush finally slid easily through her hair, she plaited the long strands into a single braid. She wore her hair in a braid when she went to bed, that she knew. She also knew with absolute certainty that she did not sleep in the altogether. Where would she find a nightdress?

  After slipping on the heavy coat, she cautiously opened the door and gazed out. He wasn’t lurking in the bedchamber, thank goodness. Relief, as well as exhaustion, slammed into her. Then something more. The bed she’d left in a rumpled state was now tidy, one corner turned down. As it should be, waiting for her to slip between the covers.

  Lifting the blankets, she examined the sheets. No mud or muck remained. He’d replaced the dirty linens with clean ones. Unfortunately, he’d not left a nightdress for her. She feared if she went in search of one and encountered him that she would become unsettled all over again.

  She padded over to the bureau, opened a drawer, and peered inside, grateful to find what she’d been searching for. Considering his immense size, compared with her smaller one, she decided that one of his neatly folded shirts would suffice. Shrugging off the coat, allowing it to fall to the floor, she slipped one of the linen shirts over her head. The material was incredibly soft. It was not the attire of someone from the lower classes.

  Where had that thought come from?

  Of course it made sense. He owned a residence, had a servant. She was that servant. That admission refused to take hold. It seemed to go against any rational thought. Yet he would have no reason to lie.

  With a sigh, she wandered over to the bed, climbed onto it with a bit of effort—why didn’t he have steps? He didn’t need them with his astonishing height. Did women never visit his bed? She supposed if they did, that he lifted them up and set them on it. Yes, she could see that.

  He would have carried her, would have set her in the bed. Had she been standing, she might have lost her balance as her knees went weak. Instead, she brought the covers over her and curled onto her side. He’d removed her clothes, had quite possibly touched her, and yet …

  She didn’t believe he’d taken advantage. Something about him spoke of honor. Or maybe it was all simply wishful thinking on her part. She was weary of striving to make sense of all this. She wanted only to sleep.

  When she woke up, perhaps she would discover it was all just a dream.

  It wasn’t a dream. She awoke in the same bed within the same bedchamber with the same man standing at the far bedpost. She wanted to object with outrage at his intrusion, but it was his room, his bed, his house. And she was his servant. He was well within his rights to do as he pleased.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Lost, confused, terrified, not that she would confess any of that. Instinctually, she knew that she needed to keep all her feelings to herself, was in the habit of doing just that, of never revealing anything beyond a confident façade. “Quite well, thank you.”

  “No hurts, no pains?”

  “A bit of soreness here and there, but nothing with which I cannot live.”

  “Your memories?”

  She furrowed her brow, wished she could keep that bit of information to herself as well, but she needed him to help her remember. “It’s as though I didn’t exist before I awoke in your bed.”

  He didn’t move, simply studied her, and yet she thought she sensed hesitation in him. Concerning what, she hadn’t a clue, but then that seemed to be the norm for her. Not having an inkling regarding anything of importance. How could her existence, her past, be wiped clean? She considered hitting him with a barrage of questions, but she wasn’t certain she wanted to learn the answers.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Now that he’d asked, she realized—

  “Quite famished actually. Do fetch my breakfast as quickly as possible.”

  A corner of his mouth curled upward before settling back down, and she thought she detected satisfaction in those black eyes. Familiar eyes. She could see herself gazing into them, becoming lost in the obsidian depths. Her own eyes were such a vivid green, a pretty color, but there was nothing beautiful about the shade of his. They spoke of dark secrets and darker journeys. A harsh life, even.

  “I suppose I can’t be in a pique,” he drawled, “that you forget you fetch my breakfast.”

  Her stomach growled, no doubt protesting the words as sharply as her mind was. “Haven’t you a cook?”

  “I’m a bachelor. I have no need for an abundance of servants. You suffice quite nicely.”

  If she weren’t still abed, she’d have sunk onto a chair or the floor. While he’d told her last night that she was the servant of the residence, she hadn’t realized the true extent of her duties. She prepared meals?

  “However,” he continued, “as you endured some sort of horrendous ordeal last night, I took the liberty of preparing a repast for you. I wasn’t quite certain if you’d have recovered enough to resume your duties today. I’m quite relieved to see that you appear up to snuff. Unfortunately, the clothing you wore last night was not salvageable. I brought some others in here for you.” He indicated the chair and she saw the pile of clothing, folded neatly, stacked high. “While you get dressed, I’ll wait in the hallway, then give you a tour to help familiarize you with the residence and your responsibilities once more. Don’t dally. The food grows cold.”

  He spun on his heel and headed for the door.

  “Wait!” Everything was happening too fast, and it all seemed so frightfully wrong.

  Coming to an abrupt halt, he faced her. “Do you not remember how to put on your clothes? Do you require my assistance?”

  An image of him lifting his shirt over her head flashed through her mind. Him handing her each item, holding them out when she needed to step into them. His hands following the path of drawers and chemise being placed over her body. His long fingers tying the laces. His knuckles skimming over the swells of her breasts. Heat, scalding heat, infused her, and she suspected she was blushing as red as an apple.

  “No, I’m quite certain I can manage,” she said, her voice sounding far too small. She cleared her throat. “I just … I don’t know if I’m up to resuming my duties.”

  “Take it slowly today. Rest when you need to. I’m not a brute, but I do expect some results. So hurry along now. I should think you would be most anxious to surround yourself with the familiar.”

  He left the room, closing the door in his wake. He did have the right of it: she was most anxious to surround herself with the familiar. Clambering out of bed, she approached the pile of clothing as though it might bite. She lifted the scratchy and rough chemise. Nothing about it felt familiar, nothing about any of this seemed familiar.

  She feared she wouldn’t find the answers within herself. She wondered why she didn’t think she would find them with him either.

  He was going to burn in hell.

  As Drake leaned against the wall in the hallway, that thought reverberated through his mind, along with images of Ophelia lying in his bed. What sort of scapegrace was he to have been arrested by the sight of her wearing his shirt, as though they’d shared an intimacy that had resulted in her being naked before covering herself with his attire? While he had fought not to notice the bare skin of the woman he’d undressed the night before, he was a man and his mind had captured images of her that tormented him now because he could see that flesh brushing up against the fabric of his shirt.

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nbsp; She’d appeared so innocent, nestled deep in slumber. In spite of all his preparations, he had decided to forgo his nefarious plan to give her one day to live the life of a servant. But then she had ordered him to fetch her breakfast … and it had grated on his nerves, had brought forth images of other moments when she had ordered him about, when he had seen her commanding servants. Even with no recollection of who she truly was, she managed to lure her true self to the fore and embrace the haughtiness that so characterized her.

  He’d made a very generous donation to the missions for the clothing that he thought would mold itself to her body. It irritated him that he knew her well enough to determine her height, her width, her curves, to know approximately what sort of clothing would suit the shape of her torso. But then he’d been a keen observer of women since he reached the age of sixteen and discovered the delights of their bodies. So it wasn’t she, per se, who garnered his attention. Merely the fact that she was female.

  A female who would rue the day that she ever called him boy. Provided that her memory returned and she could recollect how she had snubbed him.

  The door opened. He straightened. Her hair was still braided, but her face was pink, as though freshly scrubbed. Although the dress fit her quite well, it seemed out of place on her, the material faded and worn. It made her appear faded as well. He didn’t want to consider that she belonged in the finest of gowns rather than something so humble and plain. It buttoned up to her throat, the sleeves were long. She rubbed her hands over her arms as though bothered by the linen. Or perhaps she simply sensed that she didn’t belong in such simple attire. Or she was cold.

  He should ask, but he didn’t want his resolve weakened by sympathy or compassion. He could do much worse by her than giving her a day of walking in a servant’s shoes. Pushing himself away from the wall, he asked, “Does any of this appear familiar?”

  Her green eyes wide, her brow furrowed, she shook her head. “How long have I worked here?”

  “A fortnight.” Before she could ask more questions, he began walking toward the end of the hallway. “This way.”