Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  “They would expect—” Marriage. Commitment. Duty. Everything Kit had sought to escape.

  He stopped her with another kiss. Deeper, fiercer, as if he was starving and would never get his fill. She clutched at his waistcoat and slid a hand up to clasp the back of his neck. He cupped her breast in his palm, and she moaned against his lips.

  She had to stop. They couldn’t do this. Not here. Not ever.

  “Kit.” Phee back stepped to catch her breath, though they still stood scandalously close. “You shouldn’t stand so near.”

  “I know.” Bracing his palm on a patch of bark above her head, Kit frowned down at her. “In a moment I’ll step away. Right now I’m trying desperately to concentrate on anything beyond how much I want pull you to the ground and pleasure you until you scream my name loud enough for everyone in the village to hear.”

  “You mustn’t speak that way,” she insisted. “Nor think it.” Especially since their thoughts were frighteningly in accord.

  “Forget what everyone else desires and what you should do. Tell me what you want.” He tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up to look into her eyes.

  What she wanted was impossible. Marriage and children and everything that men like Leopold Ruthven expected of women, but more. The passion Kit stoked in her matched with respect, the meeting of two minds, the opportunity to make her own choices and prove her own worth, even within the bonds of matrimony. “I want a great deal.”

  “And you deserve every bit of it.” When Kit reached out to embrace her, Phee ducked under his arm.

  “We should get back. Juliet will wonder where I’ve gone.” She swiped two fingers across her lips—would she ever forget the heat of his mouth?—tucked her loosened hair behind her ears, and shook out the skirt of her gown. “We both know you’ll return to London soon.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. Her voice had gone raw and scratchy. “Until then, let’s agree to avoid this.” She flicked a hand between them the way she’d swat at flies.

  “Kissing, you mean?” He looked amused when she was trying so hard to focus on practicalities. “Can you not bring yourself to say the word?”

  Huffing a sigh, she placed a hand on her hip. “I am quite capable of saying any word, but let’s stop doing it.”

  “It?” Kit cocked an eyebrow and rolled a finger in the air, urging her on.

  “Kissing,” she drew out the word on a growl of frustration.

  “Who’s kissing?”

  They both snapped their gazes toward the copse edge, where Clarissa stood with Juliet at her side.

  “Yes, Phee, who’s kissing?” Juliet scowled and examined them both from head to toe like a detective searching for clues.

  “No one.” Phee approached and put an arm around her sister. “We should get back. Lady Pembry has promised a puppet show at three.”

  “I still want to know about kissing,” Clarissa insisted.

  “Not at all an appropriate topic for a young lady.” Phee lifted her empty arm to draw Clarissa toward her. “Let’s stop talking about the subject for today, shall we?”

  “Only for today?” Kit called after their retreating figures. “Does that mean we can talk about the subject tomorrow? And the next day?”

  “No.” No. She’d need to make a list of every reason to avoid Kit, every rational argument against ever finding herself in his arms again. Perhaps several sheets of no’s posted throughout Longacre would serve as reminder. He pulled her like a magnet, but she had to resist. The pain of their parting years ago—she could never endure that again.

  She wrote of women being resilient and relying on their inner strength. Now it was time to find her own.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Decisiveness comes naturally to men but less so to women. The key, ladies, is to aspire to reason and to temper the emotional inclinations of your unpredictable nature.”

  —THE RUTHVEN RULES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  He’d been in a black mood for days. Being in London’s pea-soup fog and the mile walk between Hyde Park and St. James’s Square should have cooled Kit’s temper. Should have but, in fact, did not. He was striding so fiercely, gentlemen pulled their ladies out of his wake. Stomping mindlessly, all his thoughts were fixated on Phee and her damned stubborn insistence on denying the feelings between them.

  Kit registered the street numbers as he passed and ground to a halt, studying the white-washed columns lining Pall Mall. Across the street, frock-coated gentlemen were being admitted at the address where he would find Grey. Apparently, his infamous scoundrel and self-professed miscreant of a friend was a member in good standing of one of the most exclusive gentleman’s clubs in London.

  After gaining entry with Grey’s name, an attendant led Kit to the corner of a high-ceilinged room filled with chattering men and clouds of cigar smoke. The club’s gaslight sconces were shaded in scarlet, casting everything in a warm glow. Grey reclined on a gilded settee, his boot heels perched on a red velvet cushion, hands folded over his chest, eyes closed.

  Kit settled into a nearby chair, one actually wide and deep enough to contain his bulk, and considered whether to wake his friend.

  “You found the club all right?” Grey opened one eye and sat up slowly, grimacing as if in pain. He held his head, which usually indicated he’d imbibed to excess.

  “I managed well enough, considering that I’ve never had cause to set foot in Pall Mall.” Kit swiped a hand across his mouth and tried to focus on his friend rather than the look in Phee’s eyes before she’d walked away from him. “Who did you bribe to gain admission?”

  “You have it the wrong way ’round, my friend. One of my ancestors founded this sumptuous pile.” Grey signaled to a young man with a tray, dispensing brimming crystal tumblers to a pair of gray-haired gentlemen. “Drink? Food? They’ll see to all of your basic needs here.” Tipping back his own glass, Grey drained an amber liquid, handed the empty vessel to the attendant, and offered Kit a pained grin. “Not all of your basic needs, of course.”

  “I knew you had funds, but these surroundings suggest you’re wealthy.” Kit studied the crystal chandeliers above his head, the plush rug under his feet, the polished wood and leather covering every inch of the club. “Excessively so, apparently.”

  “Titled too.” Grey stretched his back and then leaned forward, hunching his shoulders. “I’ve been avoiding all of this for years, hiding in the glow of the limelights. But now my father seems determined to do what I never dreamed he would.”

  Kit waited as his friend scrubbed a hand through his already disheveled hair.

  “The man’s dying.” He offered the pronouncement accompanied by the least convincing smirk Kit had ever seen.

  “I’m sorry.” The pang of regret settling in Kit’s chest was as much for Grey as for himself. Both of them had evaded their duties as sons, but his friend still had time to make amends.

  Grey waved the sentiment away. “Aren’t you the one due condolences? You have my deepest sympathies, Kit. I hope you know that.”

  “Of course I do.” Kit glanced at the sumptuous club interior. “Though I’d prefer reimbursement for all the rounds you made me pay for at the pub.”

  A chuckle rumbled up from Grey’s chest. “I was trying to be egalitarian.”

  “Tell me why we’re here.” Kit had been grateful to receive the note inviting him to meet, if only to distract from his ruminations, but Grey had been short on details.

  “Tell me first why you look so grim.”

  “Must be the countryside.” Kit attempted his own pasted-on grin.

  “Ah, the rolling meadows of . . . Hertfordshire, wasn’t it? You’ve been gone more than a few days. I thought perhaps you’d decided to stay.”

  “Not at all.” He had considered staying, or perhaps he’d simply begun to dread leaving. Whichever it was, the vehemence of his denial caused Grey to narrow an eye. “Settling my father’s business concerns will take longer than expected. You don’t know anyone who’d wish to buy a pu
blishing enterprise, by any chance?”

  “I might.” Grey sat forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “But come, you tend toward melancholia on occasion, but I’ve rarely seen you glower like this. What ails you?”

  Kit rolled his shoulders and sighed. “How long do you have?”

  “Look around, my friend. See any clocks? A club is meant to convince men we have nothing but time.” Grey settled back against the settee, stretching his arms along the furniture’s velvet frame. “Regale me.”

  Kit pinched the skin between his brows. “The villagers gape as if they expect me to ravage their daughters or transform into my father. I’m not sure which is worse. My younger sister is clever and pretty enough to snare any man, but she’s become as rule-bound as our father. The youngest has a penchant for ghoulish drawings and blood.”

  “We should have hired her to design sets at Merrick’s.”

  “Merrick should have hired my father. He was a fine actor. While convincing the entire village he was a saint, the man kept photographs of scantily clad women in his desk drawer.”

  “That’s outrageous.” Grey frowned. “Scantily clad women belong in a man’s lap. Or in bed, if there’s one at hand.”

  Kit rasped out a laugh on another long sigh. Some of it was seeping away, the frustration over Phee’s stubbornness, the weight of expectation he felt at home, but the scent of Phee still clung to his clothing. He fancied he could still taste her on his tongue.

  “Fathers and sons disappoint each other. Little more hope for either of us there. But come, man, you’ve omitted the essential fact.”

  “Which is?”

  “What’s her name?”

  Kit’s mouth went dry. Not just dry. Barren. Like a desert. A large one. The sun-soaked Sahara, perhaps.

  Grey, as he did so often, cut straight to the heart of the matter. Straight to the reason Kit’s mind was muddled and his intentions wavering. He swallowed and opened his mouth, but no confession emerged. He didn’t want to share any of what he felt for Phee.

  “My God, it’s worse than I feared.” His titled scoundrel of a friend sat forward and scrubbed a hand over his face. “This explains everything. The phantom lady you always seek. The reason you look both invigorated by the country air and as miserable as I’ve ever seen you. Not to mention your disturbing bouts of abstinence.”

  Kit didn’t know whether to be offended or amused by his friend’s assessment. “No one has ever accused me of living a chaste life.”

  “Then it’s her. Your country miss possesses that rusty organ that passes for your heart, and no other woman compares.”

  Grey had that bit right. Kit felt a little involuntary bob of his head and forced himself to still. The man was utterly and irritatingly correct, not that he’d ever admit as much. Women’s adoration of Grey’s face and men’s approbation for his skill on the stage had already made the man an insufferable peacock.

  Ophelia was incomparable.

  Kit hadn’t been avoiding entanglements for years because of an inability to curtail impulses or commit to one lady. Not even to preserve the freedom he’d won by escaping his father’s control. He sometimes doubted the quality of his heart, but he could no longer deny that whatever its tattered, imperfect state, his heart had always belonged to Phee.

  His chest throbbed as if someone landed a phantom blow. The realization knocked the air from his lungs. The truth was solid as bedrock. Irrefutable. He wanted Ophelia, had never stopped.

  Yet what did acknowledging the fact change? With his father’s company on the brink and an unfinished play that may or may not bring him the success he desired, his future was as uncertain as the day he’d arrived in London four years ago. He owned his father’s house and possessed a healthier bank account, but both were irrevocably tied to Ruthven Publishing’s fate.

  “What has you so bound in knots, Ruthven? You’ve always struck me as a man who decides what he wants and pursues. If you desire this village girl, then have her. Surely you’ve inherited something from your publishing mogul father. Bring her to London. Settle her comfortably and within easy reach.”

  “She’s no village girl.” Kit shook with the effort not to strike out and wipe the knowing grin from his friend’s face. “No one will bring her anywhere she does wish to go. And no man should have her unless he can offer everything she deserves and more.”

  “And you’re not that man?”

  Kit’s gut clenched. “I don’t know.”

  Grey turned solemn, reaching for his refilled glass and downing a long swig. “Perhaps you should allow the lady to decide.”

  “The lady has decided.” Despite the delicious fervor of her kisses, Phee was determined to push him away. A drink had been left for Kit too. He reached for the sparkling crystal glass and swallowed a fiery mouthful of liquor.

  “Another suitor?”

  “Yes.” An image of Dunstan’s pompous face arose in Kit’s mind, and he took another long draw of his drink. “But she’ll refuse him too.” Ophelia was far too sensible to marry the fop. Wasn’t she?

  “Well, now I want to meet her.” Grey’s short-lived solemnity ended as a mischievous smile curved his mouth.

  A white hot flash of jealousy spasmed through Kit. He was used to Grey catching every lady’s eye, but the notion of vying for Phee’s attention turned Kit’s blood to ice. He leaned forward on the settee, casting his friend a hard stare. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  With both hands raised, palms out, Grey settled back and crossed his legs. “You know the solution as well as I do. If you’re determined to keep the lady from every other man, you’ll have to mar—” He coughed and pushed a fist to his chest. “Good God, there’s a catch in my throat when I try to say the word.”

  The thought of marriage usually had a similar effect on Kit. A leg shackling, as Grey referred to wedlock. Constraint and the curtailing of liberty.

  “Shall we talk about why we’re here?” Grey emptied his glass and signaled for another.

  “Seems a much safer topic.” Kit settled into his chair and took another sip of whiskey.

  “Your play for Fleet. How is it coming?”

  “Quite well. Care to read a bit?” Kit retrieved a folded sheet from an inner coat pocket and handed it to Grey. He’d worked for days on the monologue he hoped to see his friend perform on stage at Fleet Theater.

  After a moment’s perusal, Grey chuckled. “You’re bloody good, aren’t you? Finish it, man. Send it to Fleet. He needs a triumph.”

  “How do you know? I thought you were loyal to Merrick.”

  “I’ve followed your lead and jumped ship, but Fleet’s current play is dreadful. We need more of this.” Grey’s gaze turned beseeching. “However much I might wish to encourage your pursuit of this woman who’s turned you into a glowering beast, we need you back in London. Or at the very least, a finished play.”

  “Soon.”

  “Excellent. If I must, I’ll come and drag you back from Hertfordshire myself.” Grey cocked his head. “Unless you’ve given yourself over to rusticating in the country. What of selling your father’s business?”

  “More complicated than I expected.” As Kit learned about his father’s dealings, he was beginning to understand the complexity of the enterprise.

  “Why not keep the business?” Grey swept a hand lazily in the air. “You could publish whatever you wish. Your plays. My poetry.”

  “Grey, your poetry is lurid and obscene.”

  “Which is why you’d sell a thousand copies and make a fortune.”

  Kit chuckled and thought of Phee’s book. He still wanted to publish Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines, but any income or notice it might bring Ruthven Publishing paled in comparison with how much he wished to publish the book for her sake. He couldn’t offer her a title or Dunstan’s kind of wealth, but he could promote her literary efforts. And he loathed her need to hide behind a pen name to publish because of Briar Heath prudery and its narrow-minded residents who took their cues from
his father.

  Why must Ruthven Publishing go on as it had begun? The world was on the cusp of a new century. Change was in order. What he’d read of Ophelia’s book spoke of young women shaping their own futures. Why not a similar guide for your young men? Why not a Ruthven Rules that looked forward rather than back?

  “You’re not here, are you, Ruthven?” Grey swiped a hand in front of Kit’s face. “Ruminating on your country miss again?”

  The phrase country miss set Kit’s teeth on edge. Ophelia was much more. She managed her students, cared for her sister, and possessed a gift for writing. Yet beyond her accomplishments and beauty, she was the woman he wanted—to touch, to see, to talk with, to pleasure and protect.

  “Tell Fleet he’ll have the play within a week.” Kit stood and retrieved the page of his play from Grey’s fingers, stuffing it back in his coat pocket.

  “You are coming back to London, then?”

  “Not yet.”

  A scrap of paper fluttered to ground between Kit’s boots, escaped from his pocket. He bent to snatch it up before Grey could inquire about the bit of letter he’d been carrying with him for years. But it wasn’t the treasured piece of Ophelia’s note, though the small square bore her handwriting.

  Phee’s list—neat lines of elegant script detailed the tasks she needed to accomplish that day—had fallen from the pocket of the same coat he’d worn that day with her in Hyde Park. Kit licked his lips, half amusement, half dread, imagining Phee’s reaction when she realized he hadn’t returned her list but the piece of her he’d been carrying around with him for years.

  “Excellent shot.” Lady Milly praised with full-throated enthusiasm. “I’ll ignore the fact that you chose to land your arrow on my target rather than yours.”

  “Did I?” Heat infused Phee’s cheeks. Her thoughts had wandered again, as they’d been doing for days. Since the day Kit Ruthven arrived in Briar Heath, to be exact. “Forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive. You’re a marvelous archer. I should join the Raybourn twins and take lessons from you.” Milly moved to the left of Phee, lifted her bow, drew in a deep breath, and let her arrow fly. The projectile thwacked into the hay-backed target near its outer edge. “You see. Dreadful.”