Never Tempt a Rogue: A Rogues' Rulebook Novella

by Christy Carlyle

  Dancing with Felicity Beckett would be pleasurable. She could protest her dancing skills all she liked. He wasn’t terribly accomplished himself. But the chance to touch her, to hold her in his arms, to be as close to her as a waltz would allow—those desires had cost him a night’s sleep and caused him a day of meandering from one bland diversion to another without ever being truly diverted. Not even his violin could soothe him. His fingers fumbled on the strings or he found himself playing something romantic and sweet as treacle.

  Now, less than an hour before the first dance of the party, he found another emotion edging out frustration. He was nervous. Not just anxious to see her and speak with her, but worried that he might do or say something ridiculous. No woman had made his palms itch in years.

  “Which one are you looking forward to dancing with most?” His aunt seemed to have an unerring ability to find him wherever he wandered in the expansive Forsythe estate. Even in the quiet sanctuary of the house’s library.

  “Miss Beckett.” She wouldn’t like his answer, but he had a lifetime of playing the role of proper viscount ahead. Why not be honest in this, at least?

  For a long silent moment, she stood silent and narrowed her eyes.

  “She’s Miss Huntingdon’s cousin,” he added helpfully.

  “I know who she is, Alexander. What I don’t know is what you hope to accomplish by your blatant interest in her.”

  “Well, I was hoping for a dance, at least.”

  “Don’t make light of this.” Aunt Georgianna thumped him on the chest with the end of her folded fan. “You have inherited more than your father’s title. With it comes responsibilities you cannot presently imagine.”

  “If you’re trying to encourage me, it’s not working.” For months he’d thought of little beyond the huge pile of responsibility awaiting him at his family’s estate. Meeting Felicity had provided a counterweight to the burden of all that lay ahead for him after the house party.

  “I am attempting to speak sense to you. Your interest in Miss Beckett gains you nothing and endangers her reputation.”

  “And yet you wish me to woo every other young lady?” Alex clenched his fists, wanted nothing as much to leave the room and escape her naysaying. His aunt had begun to sound far too much like his father. “How is it I will damage her reputation and not theirs?”

  “Because you cannot marry her, Alexander! Amelia Huntingdon’s mother was a baronet’s daughter, but Miss Beckett has no family to speak of at all.”

  Her words hit him like the blows his brother used to land when he and Henry were boys, when he’d still been a stripling and Henry had sprung up in height and strength. The snobbery, the bloody high-handed certainty in her tone stole his breath. Had she taken actual lessons from his father on how to be a pompous aristocrat?

  “I will marry whomever I damn well please.” Alex started towards the door, unwilling to hear more admonitions. He was done with hearing what he must do, and what he could no longer do.

  “Don’t stomp away like a child.” His aunt softened her voice, infusing it with a teasing lilt. None of it eased the hot sear of anger boiling in his veins.

  “I accept that the title is mine.” He turned back to face her, unwilling to allow her to mistake his meaning or tone. “Managing the estate, caring for the tenants, serving in Parliament—I know what I must do. But who I marry, the woman I choose to make my wife and take to my bed every day for the rest of my life—”

  His aunt’s outraged gasp halted his tirade. A reminder that though he might know how to behave, he still hadn’t tamed his tongue. Decent ladies didn’t talk about a man bedding a woman, even if they were referring to a man and his wife. Wife? How the hell had this become about marriage?

  “I only wish to dance with her, Aunt Georgianna. I will dance with some of your other young ladies, but don’t you see that I must be the one to choose?”

  When she said nothing more and offered him a minute nod, he pivoted on his heel and headed toward the ballroom. Ire sparked by their conversation waned, but neither his earlier bout of nerves nor anticipation replaced his anger. Determination quickened his steps. Whatever else he did this night, however many women he asked to dance to please his aunt, he was determined to hold Felicity Beckett in his arms.

  The certainty made him so bold that he strode into the ballroom, past clusters of finely-garbed ladies and gentlemen turned out in their formal best, skirting the musicians as they warmed up their instruments for the first waltz, and headed straight for the woman whose pale blond hair shone in the gaslight like filaments of purest gold.

  Felicity wore an awestruck expression, her mouth slightly gape, eyes glowing with pleasure.

  A twinge of pain tightened his chest when he realized none of her pleased look was for him. Why should it be? They’d only sparred and teased each other. She’d promised him nothing. Not even a dance.

  Miss Beckett’s gaze was fully focused on her cousin, trailing the girl around the dance floor as she glided through the first dance. Miss Huntingdon had snagged an earl as a partner and seemed quite pleased with the coup.

  Alex maneuvered around the edge of the ballroom and approached Felicity’s side.

  “I won’t dance with you.” She spoke without looking at him, her gaze still on her cousin. The ever watchful chaperone.

  “I see.” Her declaration didn’t surprise him. It was the second worst scenario he’d imagined. The first was hearing her denial and watching her twirl around the ballroom as gleefully as her cousin in the arms of another man. “Did you spend the time since I asked you coming up with reasons not to?”

  Whether it was his teasing tone, or her expectation that he’d be more devastated by her refusal, she turned to him with a frown knitting her brows.

  “Which reason were you going to offer me first?” Now he was curious. Would she site his terrible reputation? Or would she give into the kind of foolishness his aunt had spouted to him in the library?

  “A gentleman should take a lady’s refusal as sufficient.”

  “I’m a rogue, Miss Beckett. Hasn’t anyone told you that?” He leaned closer. How could he be expected to resist when she wore a gown that hugged her curves, hinting at her lush figure underneath? When the delicious scent of vanilla mixed with warm woman tickled his nose?

  “No one needed to tell me.” She took a step back and raked him with a gaze from forehead to boots. He suspected she meant it to be a withering assessment, but she ruined the effect when her cheeks began to go pink. “Your behavior is enough for anyone to know it’s true.”

  Considering that he’d shown more propriety in his interactions with her than he had with any woman in years, the accusation stung.

  “Not to mention that you wrote a book about your exploits.” She sniffed in that indignant way his mother had after admonishing some naughty childhood enterprise. Somehow, Felicity managed to make the gesture adorable.

  “Don’t believe everything you read.” He glanced down at her hands where she’d laced them in front of her as if to ward him off. “Speaking of which, I see that you didn’t bring your book. Won’t you need something to occupy you while everyone else dances?”

  “I may have been rude to bring a book to a drawing room conversation.” She dipped her head as if momentarily contrite. Alex noticed tiny rosebuds woven through the pinned waves of her hair and imagined removing them before stroking the golden strands through his fingers. “My occupation is to watch over my cousin.” As soon as she mentioned her duty, she frantically scanned the room for Miss Huntingdon. The young lady was just stepping onto the dance floor to begin a set with the second of her partners.

  “You won’t allow yourself a single dance?” He had to hear that she intended to refuse every man, not just him.

  “No one else has asked me.”

  It wasn’t quite the reassurance he sought, and didn’t please him as he expected it to. He looked across the room at the line of young ladies, mentally marking those his aunt would expect
him to dance with. All the anticipation he’d felt for days seeped out of him on a heavy sigh.

  “Amelia is the reason,” Felicity whispered. She’d taken a step toward him, so close her arm brushed his. “She was quite…preoccupied with you before we arrived. It wouldn’t be right for me to dance with you when I’ve admonished her not to do so.”

  He sighed again. So she was one of those women. Good. Dutiful. Honorable. Just the sort of lady a viscount should marry, if he strove to be a proper sort of viscount.

  Alex still thought the title fit as uncomfortably as new boots. And rather than striving to be good and honorable, he merely wished to be alone with Felicity Beckett, to gently remove those rosebuds from her hair, and kiss those lips that tempted him no matter how often she glared at him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Might we speak a moment, Miss Beckett?” Lady Forsythe moved with the stealth of a cat, and approached just as silently.

  “Yes, of course, my lady.” Felicity jumped at the sound of her hostess’s voice. In truth, she’d been jumpy all night. Between Lord Lindsay’s tempting nearness, worry for Amy, and the sight of Thomas gliding around the ballroom twice with Lady Louisa, she was ready for the night to end so she could indulge in a hot cup of a tea and a few chapters of Jane Eyre. And the etiquette book. She had to continue with the etiquette book.

  “Your cousin is quite a success this evening.” The elegant older woman claimed one of the chairs set along the back wall of the ballroom, where Felicity had taken root. She tipped her chin toward where Amy danced the third set with a young marquess who beamed at her through every step of a lively waltz.

  “Amy seems to light up every room she enters.” It was true, and despite her worries, her cousin had behaved impeccably throughout the evening.

  “I’m so glad she’ll have an opportunity to dance with Lord Lindsay.”

  “Beg your pardon, my lady?” If Felicity had been sipping that hot tea she’d been dreaming of, she would have choked. As it was, her next breath constricted in her throat as if she’d swallowed a boiled sweet too quickly.

  “Much of what you may have heard about my nephew is wild exaggeration.” Lady Forsythe indicated a chair next to her, implying she wished for a quiet conversation that others might not overhear.

  Felicity could hardly refuse her hostess and settled into the chair, turning it slightly to ensure a view of the dancers.

  “You may have heard,” Lady Forsythe continued, “of an awful book with which Alexander is associated. Youthful nonsense, and many of the incidents recount the scandals of his friend. As I understand it, Alex was merely the writer of the piece.” The lady flicked open her fan and began flapping it under her chin. “Not that I’ve read any of it.”

  “Nor I, my lady.” Even a young lady with secrets of her own to keep wouldn’t dare admit reading The Rogues’ Rulebook.

  “My desire is to reassure you as to Lord Lindsay’s character, since you seemed reluctant to allow him to dance with Miss Huntingdon. I must admit to arranging matters so that he could do just that.” Lady Forsythe rose from the chair and pointed with her fan toward the center of the ballroom.

  The tall figure of Lord Lindsay drew everyone’s attention as he took Amy in his arms. Felicity bit her lip and nodded when Amy glanced back at her. All of the girl’s confidence had evaporated. She appeared more nervous and uncertain than she’d been all evening.

  “I would prefer him matched with a lady of more consequence.” Their hostess spoke quietly. “He never expected to inherit the title, you see, and does not yet comprehend that his choices have narrowed considerably.”

  Felicity kept her eyes fixed on Amy. Lord Lindsay whispered to her, and whatever he said made her smile and blush.

  “Although I must admit they make a fine couple.” Lady Forsythe made the pronouncement loud enough for others to hear, then snapped her fan closed and glided away.

  The lady was right. Amy and the viscount made such an appealing pair that others had stopped dancing just to watch them. Every head in the ballroom seemed to be turned their way, and the light of the largest chandelier in the center of the ceiling cast a highlighting glow down on their heads.

  Felicity clenched her hands so tight, her fingers dug into her palms. Her teeth ground against each other as she bit down hard enough to chip a tooth. Every muscle, ligament, and tendon in her body stretched tauter than the violinists’ strings. The violinists whose music rose in tempo as Lord Lindsay danced across the polished floor with Amy grinning up at him, her eyes glitteringly as brightly as the little gem-topped pins in her hair.

  Felicity had failed her uncle. Amy would be more besotted than ever now. And Lord Lindsay lied. He’d promised to steer clear of Amy, and instead he was steering her skillfully around a ballroom. His hand enveloped her smaller one completely. His arm wrapped around her cousin’s back possessively. Their eyes were locked together as surely as their bodies, and that liar’s mouth of his moved, no doubt plying Amy with seductive promises.

  He’d done nothing but speak nonsense since the moment Felicity met the man. Asking her to dance. What a fool she’d been to think on that request for days as yearning warred with duty to her cousin.

  Weight pressed on Felicity, as if her gown was made of lead, her corset an iron cage. Turning toward the doors of the ballroom, she moved slowly, body fighting every step as she pressed through a cluster of couples preparing to dance the next set. A hand gripped her arm and she pulled away reflexively.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.” The superior tone of Thomas’s voice hadn’t changed a bit. Nor had the fact he was the last person Felicity wished to speak to. He was a liar, and she couldn’t bear any more of those in her life.

  “Leave me alone.” Felicity managed to break from his grasp and took another step toward the door. Just one, before stopping as if she’d bumped into a wall. Where was she going? Her feelings were meaningless. She was here for Amy, and abandoning her in the midst of an emotional whirlwind wasn’t what any self-respecting chaperone would do.

  Pivoting on her heel and drawing in a deep breath, she started back toward the dance floor. There would be a break for refreshments between sets and she needed to check on Amy.

  “I never dreamed you’d remain unmarried.” Thomas had sidled up to her as she made her way through the crowd. “Nor that you’d turn old maid and hire yourself out as chaperone to another man’s brood.”

  “My choices, Lord Kenniston.” Felicity paused and swallowed hard, realizing she spoke at a volume no proper lady should in a social situation. More quietly she added, “And none of them are any of your concern.”

  She strode away from him, scanning the room for Amy. Her cousin was nowhere in sight, but after a brief search, Felicity found her in the refreshment room with Lady Louisa. When a few sips of tepid lemonade did nothing to refresh her, Felicity left the two young ladies to their harmless chatter about fashion, hairstyles, and the next gentlemen on their dance cards. She made her way back to the ballroom to reclaim her wallflower corner. Clashing with Thomas had set her nerves on edge, and she craved a moment of solitude.

  Many had exited the ballroom, though a few ladies hovered around Lord Lindsay. He laughed at one lady’s comment, flashing his wolfish smile, and Felicity found herself clenching her hands again. She’d tear her new gloves apart at the seams before the night was over.

  The man looked so serene, laughing and smiling when he’d behaved abominably, doing exactly what he’d promised her he wouldn’t. He’d toyed with her emotions by requesting a dance, and now with Amy’s by gaping at her like a love-struck fool throughout their waltz. Yet here he was smiling at half a dozen other women in the same way, Amy apparently forgotten.

  He deserved her anger as much as Thomas.

  When the viscount extracted himself from the gaggle of ladies and headed toward the balcony doors, Felicity followed. A tiny internal voice, like a bee buzzing around her head, warned of the folly she’d find by seeking him out, b
ut she didn’t stop until she stood behind him on the terrace.

  “I’ve never put much faith in wishes.” He spoke with his back to her before turning to offer a devastating smile. “But I wished for a moment alone with you, and here you are.”

  “Don’t smile as if you’re pleased to see me.”

  “Oh, Miss Beckett.” He took a step toward her, limned on one side in moon glow and on the other by the warmer light filtering out from the ballroom chandeliers. “Meeting with you, sparring with you, has been the only pleasure I’ve had since arriving at this house.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  He jerked back as if she’d struck him with a whip rather than words.

  “You promised not to dance with Amelia.” You said you wanted to dance with me. She left that bit unsaid, chastising herself for even thinking it. This two weeks wasn’t about her. Her uncle hadn’t bought her fancy dresses so that she could catch the eye of a viscount. He’d only prepared her to accompany Amy, and keep his daughter away from Lord Lindsay.

  “Do you think I had a choice? I haven’t had a choice since the day my brother died.” His voice cracked when he spoke of his brother, and instinct urged her to comfort him, as she would any grieving person. No. She’d followed him onto the terrace to vent her anger, not learn more about him or soothe away his grief.

  He stepped toward her. “If I’d had a choice, I would have danced with you. If the damned rules that we’re all supposed to live by didn’t dictate who we must dance with and how many times, I would have taken you in my arms for every set.”

  The sincerity in his tone began working on her, and heat burst in the center of her chest, seeping into her limbs like warm honey.

  No. She shook her head, denying his charm and enticing words.

  “I’m sorry for breaking my promise to you.”