“Sophia.”
His sister returned a stony grimace. For whatever reason, she’d decided that adhering to rules of mourning and bowing to expectation trumped giving their little sister a day out. Well, damn and blast to the bloody rules. “Clarissa wishes to accompany me. I’ll take on the naysayers.”
“Does that mean we can set off now?” Clary stepped into the room so quickly, she couldn’t have been anywhere but outside the door, eavesdropping on every word of their conversation.
“And of course she’s wearing a lavender dress instead of a black one.” Sophia covered her mouth and closed her eyes.
Clarissa bit her lower lip and looked down at the flounces of her bodice. “I could find something extremely plain and colorless if I must.”
“Nonsense. That shade matches your eyes.” Kit stood and joined Clary in the doorway, but Sophia’s slumped, defeated posture pulled him back. He drew up next to her and bent to kiss the top of his sister’s head. “Fret less, won’t you? Stop worrying so much about following the rules, Sophia.” We are free of him. Free of his stifling control. “We can make our own rules now.”
As he and Clarissa started toward the main entry hall, he heard Sophia’s voice. A quiet murmur, as if she were speaking to herself. “That is not the way the world works and never will be.”
Clary’s enthusiasm as they walked toward the village green swept aside a bit of Kit’s worry for Sophia.
“Do you think they’ll have a knife-throwing booth?”
Kit quirked a brow at his sister. “If wearing a lavender dress gives Sophia the vapors, what do you think she’d say about you tossing knives?”
“Since you are the oldest, Sophia must do as you say.” Clarissa seemed a little too pleased by the notion that he could overrule their sister, but she knew as well as he did that Sophia, as biddable as she seemed, had a streak of determination as long as the stream through Dunstan lands.
Kit forced his gaze away from the banks where he’d skipped rocks with Ophelia. Years ago he’d taught her to fish there too. Unfortunately, she insisted he release every captive, often naming each one as they set them free. After a while, he couldn’t bring himself to cast his line in the water.
“You’re woolgathering.” Clary stared up at him and nearly tripped on a pebble in the path. Kit reached a hand out to steady her. “Is it because of Miss Marsden?”
“Ophelia?”
“I do like the way you say her name.” Clary grinned as if she’d just successfully raided the biscuit jar.
“How?”
“As if you enjoy speaking it a great deal.”
Kit started walking too quickly, as if he could escape the truth his little sister perceived so plainly. Clary rushed to catch up, and he forced himself to slow. She stopped him with a tug on the back of his jacket.
“Do you think anyone will ever say my name that way?”
He lifted a silky ringlet of her hair and gave it a playful tug. “Yes, sweet. I’m certain of it.”
The moment Clary offered him a blinding smile, an object—a strange, enormous flying apparatus—soared into the sky above. They watched as it dove and weaved and rose again above an area about a mile ahead.
Clarissa clapped and jumped up and down. “It’s Lord Dunstan!”
“Is it?” As much as the notion of Dunstan flying off into the clouds, far away from Phee, thrilled Kit, he couldn’t make out anyone manning the airborne mechanism.
“He’s an aeronaut, didn’t you know?” Clary lifted the edge of her dress and sprinted ahead without waiting for his reply.
Minutes later, when he’d caught up to her at the edge of the village green, Kit thought for a moment he’d stumbled into a London street fair. A brass-playing trio had been elevated on a platform in the center of the crowd, buskers and barkers mingled with the villagers, and table after table of baked goods and floral displays scented the air. And at the edge of the grassy field, a group had gathered, mouths agape, watching as Lord Dunstan’s strange contraption glided back to earth. The crowd clapped uproariously, and Clary led the crescendo. She’d found Phee’s sister, Juliet, and the two were apparently competing to see who could clap loudest and bounce on their toes the highest.
Ophelia and Lady Millicent stood nearby, both garbed in matching gowns of a robin’s egg hue. A ribbon worn over each of their shoulders and pinned at the opposite hip identified them as members of the Briar Heath Ladies’ Society. The tall, straight figure of Ophelia drew him, and he caught her floral scent on the breeze as he approached the cluster around the flying machine.
“What’s all the fuss?”
“Lord Dunstan is impressing us.” Lady Millicent sounded anything but impressed as she turned to offer him an assessing glance.
Phee kept her eyes fixed on Dunstan, who stood in the center of a cluster of sycophants as he lectured them on the miracle of manned flight, steam power, and how clever he was for embracing both.
“The glider is remarkable.” Phee sounded dazzled. Irritatingly so.
“Did he create it himself?” If he had, it made the man truly insufferable. More so than his looks, wealth, title, and unbearable arrogance already did.
“Not at all, Mr. Ruthven.” Lady Millicent turned away from the Dunstan spectacle completely. “He’s not creative like you and Miss Marsden. He’s rich and possesses the funds to purchase others’ creations or ancient artifacts some other man has dug up. He’s a collector. That is all.”
“Lord Dunstan is an aeronaut in his own right.” Phee cast a teasing glance at her friend. “Give him that much credit at least. How many men could fly the Zephyr?”
“He named it?” From Kit’s position, the contraption looked more like an enormous beige wide-winged bat than anything as lyrical as the god of the west wind.
Phee queried, “Don’t you name your plays?” It seemed she wasn’t only delighted with Dunstan’s machine, but she was determined to defend the man himself.
“Every single one of them, but then, as Lady Millicent pointed out, they are my own creations.”
“Are they?” Phee finally turned to face him. “I thought you often parodied other playwrights. Shakespeare, in particular.”
Kit quirked a brow. “So you kept up with my work?”
“No.”
Behind her, Lady Millicent offered one firm conspiratorial nod. Phee caught the gesture and narrowed her gaze at the noblewoman.
“Occasionally,” Phee admitted. “If I bought a London periodical and you were mentioned, I didn’t avoid reading your news.”
“I’m touched.” Kit pressed his palm over his heart. “You must come to London and attend a play.”
“I rarely venture to the city.” She glanced at her toes and then cast him a shuttered look.
He knew her too well. She couldn’t hide the flare of heat behind those cool blue eyes. He’d bet his life her thoughts were right where his were. Back on that bench in Hyde Park, when he’d been an inch away from taking her mouth.
Nothing had changed. He wanted to kiss her now too. Hell, kissing was only the start of what he wanted to do with Ophelia. He was a wretch. A carnal beast, as one lady had once called him. Though, in fairness, she’d meant it as a compliment.
Perhaps Phee was right to deny the simmering desire between them. What could he offer her? A company he loathed that bled money by the day? A home in a Seven Dials hovel?
On the stream bank, she insisted they’d made their choices.
And now, because he’d chosen London and a specter of success he still hadn’t grasped, he had to endure her clapping enthusiastically for another man. A man who’d already offered for her and intended to do so again. Marriage, a settled life in the countryside—perhaps an honorable man would want that for her. Would walk away and wish her well.
He’d never been honorable. He’d never even aspired to be.
“Milly?” Phee asked. “Shouldn’t we send Mr. Ruthven off to the judging booths?”
Lady Millicent shook h
er head. “No, there’s plenty of time until the baked goods competition.” She rolled her eyes in the direction of Dunstan and his machine. “The innovation judging is first, so we must wait for Lord Dunstan to receive his ribbon.”
“How do you know he’ll win?” Kit had no idea what other technological marvels were entered, but he couldn’t believe Dunstan was the most innovative man in Hertfordshire.
“He always wins,” Lady Milly declared without an ounce of enthusiasm.
For Phee’s sake. For the novelty of trying out honorableness for change, Kit clenched his teeth and did what went against his nature, but for which he’d been told he possessed a natural talent. He acted, grinning when he wished to grimace. He nodded appreciatively as Dunstan approached, when all he truly wished to do was pack the man back into his flying contraption and hurl him to the moon.
“Gob smacked, are you, Ruthven?” Dunstan, elaborate goggles perched on his head, removed leather gloves as he approached with his chest puffed out like a conquering hero. “Stunned into silence? I was rather hoping our resident playwright would wax rhapsodic after that display. Ever pen poetry, Ruthven? Perhaps you could devise an ode to the Zephyr.”
The man tested every ounce of Kit’s meager self-control. The baron wasn’t just a braggart. He was an obstacle. Literally, as he planted himself between Kit and the spot where Ophelia stood with her sister and Clary as they examined the enormous wings of Dunstan’s flying machine.
The baron stood too damned close to Phee, even lifted a hand as if he might touch her.
Kit braced himself, barely resisting the urge to lunge.
Dunstan gestured toward Ophelia’s ear. “You have a strand of hair that’s come loose, Miss Marsden. I know how ladies loathe being disheveled.”
“Oh.” Phee dutifully tucked the rebellious curl behind her ear. When had she become so damned biddable?
“Isn’t she marvelous, Ruthven?” The fool was pointing at his flying machine, not at the woman beside him.
“Aeronautics don’t interest me, Dunstan.”
“Publishing never appealed to you either, but now you’ve taken on your father’s business. Temporarily, at least.” Dunstan reached up to remove his goggles and run a hand through his wind-twisted hair. “Speaking of which, you still haven’t paid me a visit to discuss a purchase.”
Kit ignored Dunstan and looked out across the crowd of villagers. Some had dispersed to sample the prize-winning delicacies on display. A few lingered around a stand that had been set up to disperse lemonade. The color and movement reminded him of London’s bustle, but there was an appealing comfort to this gathering. He knew many of the faces. The woods that abutted the green had been his childhood romping grounds. The stream where he and Phee engaged in every sort of youthful mischief was babbling along just a few feet from where they stood. Why had escaping all of this seemed so essential?
London, for all its diversions, left him feeling rootless. Lodgings that only lasted for months. Acquaintances made and discarded in the course of a week. Sometimes an evening.
Suddenly, deeply, as completely as he wanted Phee, he craved roots. To plant himself in one spot.
With that craving came a certainty. He would never sell to Dunstan. He’d keep the damn business before seeing it in the blue blood’s hands. Of course, if he kept Ruthven’s, he’d have to sink his energy into dragging the whole bloody enterprise into the modern century. But wouldn’t that be the ultimate coup against his father’s outdated rule books?
When he looked back to address Dunstan, the baron had turned away, drawn by a pair of gentlemen inquiring about his Zephyr.
Kit gazed over everyone’s heads—the one real benefit of his ungainly size—and looked for Clarissa. Dunstan approached Lady Millicent, and Kit heard him ask after Phee. Dunstan’s flying machine was no longer swooping overhead, but Kit sensed the aristocrat was always covetously circling around Phee. Like one of his artifacts or technological marvels, the man seemed determined to collect her.
The prospect stirred a terrifying primal urge in Kit to make Ophelia his own. To be worthy of her. To prove to her—to everyone—that he could be more than the man who’d abandoned duty to pursue fame in London.
Ophelia was nowhere to be seen. He started toward the edge of the fair, into the copse of trees bordering the stands and crowds. Lifting on the balls of his feet, he cast a look across the throng and didn’t spy a single head covered with loose red curls.
“Are you looking for someone?” A few innocuous words, that resonant lilt in Ophelia’s voice, and for the first time all day tension seeped out of his body.
“You. Always.” He turned to discover her close but not nearly close enough. After narrowing the space between them in one long stride, Kit gripped her hand, stroking his thumb across the backs of her fingers.
Phee’s body jolted in response. One touch and he affected her like no man ever had. But she’d vowed to be clear-headed, not to repeat her impulsive performance on the Ruthven’s back terrace. But after finding that scrap of her note he’d apparently kept for years, didn’t she owe him an explanation?
“I’m glad I found you.” She slid her hand from his and looked back toward where Lady Millicent stood with the children. She could spare a few minutes to set out the boundaries between them. “I wish to explain my behavior in London. And before, on the terrace.”
“If you’re referring to our kiss—”
“A mistake that I vow not to repeat. We should make a rule about touching each other.” Her cheeks began to heat. “Or rather, not touching each other. You stand far too close.” Phee took an unsteady step back to emphasize her declaration. “And you touch me too freely.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you kissed me. Not that I’m complaining.” Kit reclaimed the step she’d taken. “I wanted your mouth on mine again. I want your kiss now. Tomorrow. The next day too.”
“That is impossible.” Though with him so near, it seemed entirely possible. “I can explain.” If he’d simply stop being so . . . close and enticing, and everything she should not desire. Phee swallowed hard, tried to look anywhere but at his lips, and fussed with the collar of her gown.
All the sounds of the fair carried on the breeze. She prayed no one could see them standing so close. Phee took a few steps to the left, and Kit followed until they stood near the trunk of a wide tree.
She watched him warily. Why was her resolve so flimsy? If he reached for her, she feared she’d go straight into his arms.
“I don’t require an explanation, Phee.”
“But I need to offer one. Perhaps I need to hear myself say it.”
“Very well.” He nodded and braced his arms across his chest. “I’m all ears.”
His ears were the last part of his body she noticed. In fact, she couldn’t see them at all past the waves of dark hair near his face. A breeze kicked up, slapping loose strands of hair against her cheek, but the same wind seemed to sift his hair gently, as her fingers itched to do.
“What I did on the terrace . . . ” Phee flattened her palm on her chest. Kit stared intently at the spot, as if wanted his hand there too. “I did it to stem the urge.”
“And did your plan succeed?” He drew one step closer. “Are you cured of me, Ophelia?”
She held up a hand. He approached until her palm pressed against his chest. She kept her gaze downcast, focusing on the swirling leaf design embroidered in the fabric of his waistcoat.
“I wrote a book advising young women to make practical choices. I must take my own advice.”
“What does that mean?” Kit’s body tensed. “Is Dunstan your practical choice?”
Phee’s eyes widened. She couldn’t conceal how much the prospect horrified her.
“So you’re not in love with him.” Kit’s mouth tipped in a smile. He seemed to take satisfaction in their shared opinion of the man.
“I’m no longer interested in love.” She lifted her chin, determined to convince him. And herself.
His eyes darkened and narrowed. A muscle ticked at the edge of his clenched jaw. “Is that my doing?” He lifted a hand to her cheek, his fingers trembling against her skin. “If another man hurt you, I’d have his head. I’m sorry, Ophelia.”
“The past is done, Kit. We can’t go back.” Phee fought the burning in her throat and the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. She’d come to explain herself. To set boundaries. Not to speak of what came before or crumble into a teary mess.
“So you’ll marry that arrogant fool?” He edged away from her, just a few steps.
“Isn’t marriage the expectation for every young woman? And the snare most men wish to avoid for as long as they can?”
“As you know, I’ve never been keen on expectations. But Phee.” He hunched his shoulders, ducking down to gaze at her eye to eye. “You mustn’t marry him.”
I know. Every feeling in her rebelled at the notion of exchanging vows with Dunstan. But there were at least ten logical reasons to do so, and the woman who’d been advising her for years saw the benefits of marrying Dunstan too. “Aunt Rose disagrees. She believes I should accept the baron’s proposal.” She lifted a hand to shade her eyes as she squinted up at him into the sunny sky overhead. “Do you have some rational argument to sway me?”
“Not a single one.” Kit stepped closer. “Only this.” Feather-gentle, he stroked the backs of his fingers down her cheek.
Phee knew what he intended, ached for it, despite all she’d said.
He pressed his lips to hers, coaxing her to open to him. When she did, he kissed her slowly, as if savoring the way her breath hitched. A breeze tangled a strand of her hair around his finger, and he grinned against her lips.
“You taste of lemony sweetness, as if you’ve spent the morning sampling Aunt Rose’s tarts.”
“I did.” Mention of the fair and Aunt Rose reminded Phee where they were and that she had vowed not to do this. Again. “We should go back. Someone will see us.”
“What if they do?” He gave her a chance to answer, but continued touching her, nuzzling her cheek, and tracing the line of her jaw with his lips.
Rules for a Rogue Page 13
