“We’ve had to economize.” Her tone went raw and low, and Kit regretted pointing out anything that might remind her of losing her father. Had Marsden truly left his daughters so little in the way of funds?
“Nothing wrong with order. Nor tidiness.” He sounded like his father or Sophia, and yet its cleanliness was the only aspect of the room he could praise. Every surface shone, but it was a barren spotlessness. The usual clutter of furniture and knickknacks had been replaced with practical pieces—a sofa, two chairs, and a table for tea. A single clock dominated the scrubbed shelf it sat on.
“What are those?” He pointed to rectangles of paper stuck to the walls with pins. They were arranged in scrupulously precise rows and covered with neat lines of script.
“Schedules. I tutor several young ladies in the village, and those list what they will study and when on each day they come.”
“What do you teach?” So she was a governess, and a mercilessly exacting one, it seemed.
“Art, music, composition, and decorum.”
“Decorum?” A flash of memory sparked a grin Kit wasn’t quick enough to hide behind his hand. Ophelia as a long-legged sprite of a girl, tiptoeing across the rocks in Dunstan’s pond, her skirt dirty and damp, her hair as tangled as the branches in a bird’s nest.
He looked up to find her scowling at him.
“Despite what you may remember of me, I do know how to behave like a lady.”
“Perhaps you should give Clarissa lessons.” Sophia insisted their younger sister rebelled against all attempts to civilize her.
“I do.”
“My father allowed it?” That shocked him. His father had never liked Ophelia’s outspoken father and tended to paint her with the same judgmental brush.
“Only art lessons. Sophia arranged the tutoring sessions.” She spoke as if hoarding her words, unwilling to spare him any more syllables than necessary.
It made him yearn to hear her laugh. To see her dimples and cause those turquoise eyes to light with pleasure.
“I’m glad you kept that up.” He nudged his chin toward her mother’s needlework, framed in gold above the mantel. Follow your heart and flourish.
Sitting a few inches from Phee, Kit sensed the past too keenly. Memories flooded his mind. A trove of moments they’d shared—raw and lovely and bittersweet. She couldn’t have forgotten the words she scribbled so many years ago.
“Mama was an optimist.” From the hollow timbre in her voice, he sensed she no longer shared her mother’s sunny outlook.
Kit hated how much he wanted to know why.
London held his future, an opportunity he couldn’t bear to lose. He would not allow himself to become entangled here—by Phee, his sisters’ wishes, or his father’s business.
He’d gotten what he came for—the glimpse of Ophelia he’d long craved.
“Surely you did not come to assess our decor or discuss my tutoring work. Is there something you wished to say to me?” She dipped her head as she posed the question, lifting the watch pinned to the bodice of her gown to stare at its face. Emphasizing how much of her time he’d already wasted.
What did he want to say to her? More than he could manage in the minutes she’d grant him. More than he might be able to manage in a lifetime.
He’d expected her anger. Could even admit he deserved every bit of it. He never blamed her for ignoring his letters. They were an insufficient offering when he’d promised to visit and never had.
Coming back to see Phee had always seemed a dangerous prospect, as if being near her might upend his London life. But her coolness now unnerved him. Let her rail at him, pound on his chest, call him the worst sort of scoundrel—anything but this attempt at unaffected calm.
She glanced at her damnable watch again and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, our supper has already been delayed too long.”
“Phee—” Kit stood too. He needed to go.
“Please send your sisters my condolences. Without a father to guide them, their lives will never be the same.” She spoke of herself. He could see the sorrow in her eyes and approached to embrace her, to offer comfort, his body responding before his brain thought better of it.
“No.”
He froze at her rejection, not just his body but some inner piece of himself. All the pleasure of seeing her again seeped out on a long sigh. Even as she stood before him, Ophelia was so far away.
“Please go, Mr. Ruthven.” His family name fell from her lips with such disdain that bile rose in his throat.
Ophelia wasn’t just angry with him. She loathed him.
Jaw clenched, gut roiling, Kit turned from her and headed for the door. Just past the threshold, he heard her voice and turned back.
“You’ll be returning to London soon, I take it?” She sounded hopeful, relieved at the prospect of his departure.
Up to that moment, it had been his only desire. Suddenly, he wanted something else. Another glimpse of Ophelia Marsden. A chance to make her look at him with anything other than disdain.
“I’d planned to return immediately.” Yes, that was definitely hope flashing in her lovely eyes and the breathless way she held her mouth. He’d seen the expression on her face before and, like the heartless rogue he was, he did exactly what he’d done then. He dashed it. “But perhaps I’ll stay awhile.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Gentlemen must control their passions. A man who cannot control his passions will soon find himself at their mercy.”
—THE RUTHVEN RULES FOR YOUNG MEN
Kit couldn’t settle.
Stifled energy he’d normally expend on the stage, writing, or indulging in late-night pleasures bottled up until he had to move. Shoving the coverlet aside, he sat in his old bed and surveyed the space he’d once retreated to as boy to escape his father’s anger. Its walls no longer offered any comfort or helped ease the knotted ache in the center of his chest.
From the moment he’d set foot in Briar Heath again, nothing had gone right.
He’d attended the funeral, thrown an obligatory handful of earth into the grave, and still failed to feel as he should about his father’s death.
The initial thrill of seeing Ophelia had faded to a dull thrum in his veins and then a ceaseless thrashing in his head. Sleep eluded him. Now, hours past dawn, setting to work in his father’s study seemed a sensible distraction. Despite his impulsive, bull-headed reply to Ophelia the previous night, he needed to settle the man’s business affairs and return to London. And he needed to start on his new play. A man like Dominic Fleet wouldn’t wait. He’d simply find another playwright among the glut of aspiring dramatists living in the city.
As if trapped inside and grateful to escape, the scent of books and leather assailed him when Kit cracked the door of his father’s study. Kit and his sisters had been forbidden entrance to his sanctuary. Unless punishment was in order. After giving a lashing for some misdeed, his father would order Kit to take a spot on the thick Aubusson rug marked by an enormous pink rose and deliver a lecture as dry as the rules in his etiquette books. He’d sharpen his chastisement until it cut deep, reminding Kit what a disappointment he was, expressing doubt that a child with his rebellious nature could truly be his son.
“You’ll never amount to anything in life.”
Ignoring the ugly echoes in his head, Kit sidestepped the pink rose and approached his father’s leather throne. The chair had seemed much larger when he was a boy. Now it cowered at the sight of him.
“You’ve risen early.” Sophia sounded far too cheery for such an ungodly hour. She glided across the rug with a tray in her hands. “I heard you moving around upstairs and then come down. Thought you might need a cup of tea.”
“I’ll require a whole pot. Couldn’t sleep.” The cup of tea she prepared for him felt fragile in Kit’s hand, the girth of his thumb too large to fit through its gilded handle. He held the hot porcelain in his palm and wished the steaming brew inside was coffee. Preferably as dark and smoky as the London cof
feehouses he favored.
“The solicitor arrives later this morning so that he can go over business matters with you.”
“I’ve already seen the will.” The document was an accurate reflection of their father—practical, free of sentiment, and far from generous. Each of Kit’s sisters were allotted a modest dowry, but Kit hadn’t received any funds outright. Instead, he’d been granted ownership of Ruthven Publishing, which seemed a good deal more burden than blessing.
“He can provide you with information about our agreements with suppliers and any investments Father made.”
And, hopefully, how to sell the damn business so that they could all profit from the proceeds.
“Everything is hidden away.” Kit swept his arm in the air above his father’s spotlessly clean desk. Sophia or one of the maids must have tidied the space. When he was writing or working, his father had surrounded himself with clutter.
“I put his papers in order and stored them in the desk, organizing them as best I could.” Tidying was Sophia’s way. She had an abiding need to create order out of chaos.
“Shall I leave you to it?” As Ophelia had done, his sister glanced down at a watch pinned to the waist of her skirt. “I’ll send a maid to warn you when the solicitor arrives. You can meet with him in here, if it’s all right.”
“Yes, of course.” The oddness of Sophia asking anything of him, seeking his permission, struck Kit as so strange that he almost smiled. Then he remembered. Father was gone. Sophia, all of them, were in mourning. The frown marring her forehead, the shadows darkening the skin under her eyes, and the fact that they stood watching each other across their late father’s private sanctum all reminded him. This was no time for levity.
“Join us, won’t you?” he asked. “When the solicitor arrives?”
The lines between her pale brows deepened. “I rather thought you’d wish to handle it yourself.”
“I’m out of my depth, Sophia. When I walked away from all of this”—Kit gestured around the dim room, but he referred to the entirety of his father’s business—“I never expected to come back.”
Her delicate features stiffened to match the hard edge in her gaze. “I suspect Papa didn’t expect his heart to give out on him either.” She spun so swiftly her black skirt flared behind her as she exited the room.
“Excellent way to start the day,” Kit grumbled as he settled into his father’s chair. Somewhere between Paddington Station and Briar Heath, he’d lost his ability to speak to women without incurring their wrath. He and Sophia had argued every day since his return from London, and he needed to stop thinking of Ophelia’s reaction when she found him on her doorstep.
He’d been haunted all night by her expression of misery.
The sacred desk chair proved to be Lilliputian, so low Kit’s knees nearly reached his chin. Perhaps Father wasn’t such a giant after all.
Beginning with the top drawer, he flipped through billing documents and business correspondence, uncertain what he hoped to find. There would be no answers, no rule book for how to free himself from a business Leopold Ruthven spent years building up from a small concern to a publishing enterprise. This is where his father had always wished him. Stuck behind a desk. In charge of the family business.
Kit wanted none of it. None of the responsibility, nor any of the constraints that came with stepping into another man’s shoes.
After slamming each drawer shut, he tapped the desktop, craving noise. The room was too quiet, the whole house too empty. His cramped flat off Seven Dials, constantly reverberating with London’s clatter, suddenly held fresh appeal. Even the echo of his fingers hitting the desk’s blotter sounded hollow. Skimming his hand along the edge of the desk, he found a narrow drawer receded into the woodwork. The lock held firm against his attempts to force it.
Kit scanned the desk and bookshelves. The key had to be nearby. His father was a practical man, above all else. Nothing under a paperweight or concealed beneath the lamp near the edge of the desk. Inside a polished wooden box, Kit found a fountain pen and dug under its velvet cushion. He spotted a key, tinier than his thumbnail, and tipped it out into his palm. As he examined the delicate thing, the bit of metal slipped through his fingers. Dropping to one knee, he studied the golds of the carpet design and spotted a brassy glint.
“Hello?” Phee’s call was soft and uncertain. “Anyone in here?”
Kit raised his head and bashed it on the edge of the desk.
“Oh.” Auburn eyebrows shot skyward when he popped up from behind the furniture. “You are here.”
“Yes, I’ve entered the forbidden enclave. You should have come earlier. I actually dared to sit in his chair.” Kit stood clutching the diminutive key in one hand and rubbing the walnut-sized bump on his head with the other. He tried to ignore how lovely Phee looked in the morning light and the damned brigade of bees that hummed in his chest whenever she was close. “You were in Father’s study once before, weren’t you?”
The moment was the only pleasant memory he had of the room.
“We were caught fishing in old Dunstan’s pond.” She nodded, her mouth tight and eyes hooded, giving nothing away.
“You tried to take the blame.” Kit recalled being impressed with her bravery. He’d rarely seen anyone take on his father as Phee had with her twelve-year-old’s share of courage.
“You wouldn’t allow it. As soon as you confessed to instigating the expedition, he sent me home to my father. What did he do to you after I left?”
“Words mostly.” He said it as flippantly as he could, trying to convince her—and himself—that his father’s cutting verbal barrage hadn’t struck as forcefully as his belt’s lashes. “My father never tired of hearing himself speak.”
A smile started to tip the edges of her mouth, then she ducked her head as if contrite. She glanced around the room before meeting his gaze. “I came to offer my condolences to your sisters, but I couldn’t leave without offering you . . . ” No more words came, but her mouth remained open. Kit didn’t know whether she struggled to speak or simply refused to express the sentiment on the tip of her tongue.
“Offering me . . . ?” he repeated encouragingly, but she wouldn’t finish.
“Aunt Rose urged me to come,” she finally choked out.
Ophelia’s aunt had always been kind to him. Still, he was curious why she’d advise Phee to seek him out.
“She asked me to bring these.” From a lumpy reticule, she extracted a square packet, neatly wrapped in wax paper and tied with twine. “Two of her lemon tarts. You used to love them.” She frowned at love, swallowing hard, as if the word carried a bitter taste.
“Let’s share them. I’ll ring for more tea.”
“No.” Her brows winged up as if the suggestion shocked her. “No, I can’t. I have pupils coming this afternoon.”
“It’s still morning.”
“I need time to prepare.”
Kit smiled. Convincing Ophelia Marsden to do anything she didn’t wish to do had always been a losing proposition. “Hand over my tarts, then.” He held out his palm and held his ground. He’d embraced this woman more times than he could count. Kissed her senseless until they both forgot their own names. Her timidity now was more out of character than if she’d suddenly become compliant.
She took two stiff strides forward and deposited the lemon confections at the front edge of his father’s desk. “I’m sorry about your father. Truly. But I will wish you good day now and be off.”
As soon as she turned and swept toward the door, the pounding in Kit’s head built to a crescendo. He couldn’t let another encounter with her end like this. However short-lived his stay in Briar Heath, he had no wish to be at odds with the woman who’d figured in all his happiest memories of the place.
“Wait.” Calling her back was a dangerous proposition. He told himself he craved peace but nothing more. He couldn’t allow himself to feel more. But making amends with Ophelia suddenly seemed essential, the only way he’d get th
rough the next few weeks of playing Leopold Ruthven’s dutiful son. “Will you help me with something?”
“With what?” Good start, that glance over her shoulder. Curiosity lit her gaze. Phee had always been every bit as inquisitive as stubborn.
“A very small key.” Unfurling the fingers of his left hand, he tipped his palm toward her.
She lifted her chin and inspected the object. “A key to what?”
“Come over here, and I’ll show you.” He waved her over, but she didn’t budge. “I won’t bite, Ophelia.”
A rush of pleasure trickled down his back like warm water when he said her name aloud. Or perhaps it was the way her skin bloomed in a ruddy blush. He loved sparking something in her besides ire.
“What must I do?” She lifted one hand and then the other, perching them on her lush hips. But she did approach, drawing up next to him behind his father’s desk.
Her nearness electrified his senses. Everything else faded as he studied the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, the wisps of hair curling around her ears, the determination in her gaze.
“Your fingers are nimbler than mine. I’ve already dropped the thing once.” Kit reached for her hand, and she flinched away from him. “Take the key.”
She managed to retrieve it from his hand with minimal contact between them, though he felt the single stroke of her fingertips against his palm all the way to his groin.
“Now what?”
“Under my father’s desk, there’s a center drawer. If you just . . . ” He bent to show her the drawer and its hidden lock, but she didn’t join him. When he glanced up, he found her watching him with arms crossed.
“I can manage if you step aside.”
He did, and she bent at the waist to inspect the drawer.
Casting a glance over her shoulder, she caught him studying her backside and scowled. “Why don’t you wait over there?” She shooed him toward the bookshelves lining the far wall of the room.
Rules for a Rogue Page 5
