Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  Chuckling at the young woman’s silliness, Kit darted his gaze around the room, searching for Ophelia. The crowd of guests was relatively thin. If she was in attendance, where was she hiding?

  Lady Millicent caught his eye and nudged her chin toward the far end of the ballroom. A dark wall of evening-suited gentlemen circled Lord Dunstan. The baron gesticulated wildly, no doubt regaling them with tales of his flying contraption. Between the black-clad male bodies, Kit glimpsed a swath of sky blue.

  He started toward her, striding too quickly, past the musicians still tuning their instruments, earning a few tsks from disgruntled guests forced to give way. A man near Dunstan sensed his approach and moved aside.

  Kit’s breath snagged in his throat.

  Phee looked like a goddess caught in mortal men’s snare. She glowed from head to toe in a blue gown embroidered with florets of gold thread that caught the gaslight, and her auburn hair had been swept up into a mass of loose curls that begged to be freed. A froth of gauzy fabric covered her décolletage, and Kit swallowed hard at how her gown emphasized her lush hips and bosom, all the delicious curves she usually tried to hide. He salivated like a starving man, eager to touch and taste and devote himself to loving every inch of her.

  As if she sensed his perusal, Ophelia turned to face him. When she bit her lip and let her gaze trail down his body, he felt her glance like a touch that galvanized his senses.

  Ignoring the men fawning over Dunstan, Kit claimed a spot in front of her.

  “Mr. Ruthven,” she greeted him with a polite nod. But Kit knew her too well. Knew those eyes, understood what the heated glow in them meant.

  “Miss Marsden. Dance with me, and I’ll do my best not to trod on your toes.”

  She cast a pained glance in Dunstan’s direction.

  The aristocrat immediately turned to Kit and insisted, “Miss Marsden has saved me the first two dances, Ruthven. Perhaps she’ll allow you the third.”

  Kit willed Phee to look at him again. When she did, much of the fire in her gaze had gone out. She looked as he never wished to see her—tamed, cloistered, too damned in control. He wanted to reach for her, abscond with her, hide away where it was only he and she. He needed to remind her how easy it had been between them once. Show her how she affected him as no woman ever had. Ever would.

  “The third dance, then, Mr. Ruthven?”

  His jaw ached, his chest burned, and his knuckles cracked at how fiercely he’d balled his hands. He was dying to strike out, just when everyone expected him to behave like a gentleman.

  “The third,” he bit out. He’d wait for her, but he couldn’t bear to stay and converse in the stiff, polite manner she was employing. Swiveling away from the group in front of Dunstan, Kit scanned the room for an exit. He spied terrace doors and beelined toward them. Once he’d pushed into the evening air, he could breathe again, but painfully, as if he’d swallowed broken glass and every jagged piece had lodged in his lungs.

  The baron had not simply claimed the first two dances. The man was staking his claim on Phee, and she allowed it as if she was a woman without choices, a female who lacked the irritatingly stubborn will he knew to be her truest nature.

  When the door creaked behind him, he breathed deep and prayed to smell her sweet jasmine scent in the air. Instead he felt a hand descend on his shoulder, too broad and heavy to belong to Phee.

  “Ruthven, might we have a word?”

  Kit faced Lord Dunstan, cocked a hip against the balustrade behind him, and crossed his arms. “Just one? Promise?”

  “If we were to keep to a single word, I suspect you know which it would be.”

  Ophelia. Dunstan’s gray eyes had turned to granite, his mouth set equally hard.

  “If you’re referring to Ophelia, we have nothing to say to each other.” Kit pushed off the ledge and started back toward the ballroom.

  “How much do you want for your father’s publishing concern?”

  Kit stopped but offered the aristocrat no answer. How had less than a month in the countryside tumbled his life on end? The urgency to sell Ruthven’s had been replaced with wild notions of changing what his father had built, modernizing the enterprise, and printing books like Ophelia’s, rather than promoting the outdated strictures in The Ruthven Rules. Of course, he had no experience managing a business, but he could learn.

  “Wouldn’t you rather be in London writing your plays and pleasuring actresses?” The blue blood pitched his voice low, attempting a bit of menace. “Leave Miss Marsden to the future you can’t offer her. If you care for the lady, you’ll go and stay away, Ruthven. I’m content to buy Ruthven Publishing if it ensures your departure from Briar Heath.”

  “Ruthven’s is no longer for sale to you, Dunstan.” Fury boiling in his veins, Kit turned and forced his mouth to curve into a grin. “Banishing me to London won’t help. Ophelia will refuse you.”

  Pivoting on his heel, Kit started toward the ballroom, but the pleasure of turning his back on Dunstan was short-lived.

  “I wouldn’t expect a man who spent his life shirking duty to understand the impulse in others. When I ask Miss Marsden to marry me tonight, she won’t refuse again.”

  Again? Now that was the best news he’d heard in weeks. Kit laughed and spun on his heel. “So she did refuse you.” His pulse thrummed in his veins. He needed to find Phee and kiss the woman senseless. “You asked for my assistance with Ophelia once.” He stepped closer, so swiftly the baron’s eyes widened, and he stumbled back. “Heed this. Once the lady makes up her mind, she’s ‘more stubborn-hard than hammered iron.’ ”

  From Dunstan’s frown, he either didn’t recognize the line from Shakespeare or wasn’t pleased to hear that the lady he hoped to marry was as unbendable as metal.

  However maddening, Kit adored Ophelia’s single-mindedness.

  Abandoning Dustan, Kit made his way into the ballroom. The dancing had just begun. His steps slowed as realization dawned.

  If Phee’s decisions were unwavering, perhaps he was the biggest fool of all.

  Kit was causing a scene. Or, more accurately, inspiring one. The young ladies of Briar Heath flocked around him as if he were a succulent new treat to be sampled and savored, an unmarried man to add to their list of prospective grooms. If he had any plans to remain in the village and continue his father’s business, perhaps their hopes would be well founded.

  Phee knew differently.

  She sympathized with the girls who couldn’t take their eyes off of Kit. He dominated the room, towering over most men. His black evening suit accentuated the dark glossy waves of his hair, and the stark white of his shirt set off the strong angles of his jaw and sensual mouth. Whatever he’d experienced during his time in London, he’d acquired an irresistible confidence, a kind of disreputable swagger that set him apart.

  She’d entered the ballroom hoping to find him. Unfortunately, Lord Dunstan had come at her like an onrushing train, requesting the first two dances within the hearing of Lady Pembry, whose encouraging nod made it impossible for Phee to refuse.

  But when Kit appeared, he’d looked at her with such naked want that Dunstan and duty faded. Just for one night, she wanted a dance with Kit. Just for one night, she’d seize a bit of passion and put worries about the future aside.

  “Forgive my delay, Miss Marsden.” Dunstan appeared at her elbow, and Phee’s heart sank. He’d been drawn off into a discussion with two gentlemen about a railroad venture, but apparently forgetting their dance was too much to hope for. He was being unusually genial for a man she’d rejected a week before.

  Phee cast her gaze toward where Milly stood chatting with her mother.

  Milly caught her eye and seemed to read Phee’s desperation. A moment later, she began striding in their direction.

  “Dunstan.” Milly drew up between them, allowing Phee to step a few inches away from the baron. “Mama requires you to dance with Mrs. Belvedere. Her husband is indisposed this evening.”

  Dustan turned a glan
ce Milly’s way, a series of emotions playing across his features. “Later, Lady Millicent. I’m dancing this set with Miss Marsden.” When he reached for Phee’s arm, Milly tapped his hand with her folded fan.

  “I’m afraid not. Mrs. Belvedere takes precedence, and you wouldn’t want to disappoint our hostess.” She cast a glance toward her mother, and Lady Pembry returned a fingery wave.

  “I will seek you for the next set, Miss Marsden.” Mouth set in a grim line, Dunstan nodded sharply at Milly and strode toward the elderly Mrs. Belvedere.

  “He manages to make every promise sound like a threat.” Milly said as she watched Dunstan’s retreating back.

  “Thank you. That was brilliantly done.” Phee was already scanning the room for Kit.

  “You’re welcome.” Milly grasped Phee’s hand and beamed an encouraging smile. “I saw him heading out onto the terrace as soon as Dunstan approached you. Now go and make the most of this reprieve.”

  Phee didn’t waste a moment before making her way toward the terrace doors, peeking over her shoulder to ensure Dunstan was well and truly occupied with Mrs. Belvedere.

  The balcony was a swath of darkness, lit only by two Egyptian-style torches. A lady and gentleman lingered in one dark corner, but Kit had gone. Phee peered into the garden below, but clouds hid the moonlight, and she could make out nothing but the glimmer of lanterns set out among the greenery. She started down the steps and heard a chime of feminine laughter. Phee moved toward the sound, into a circle of tall bushes near the entrance of the hedge maze, and spied a tall man with a petite blonde.

  “You’ll regret this in the morning, Miss Booth,” Kit whispered as he unlatched the lady’s fingers from around his neck.

  “Never,” the girl insisted. “Oh Christopher, you can’t frighten me off this time by saying you’ll tell my brother. I long to do something worth regretting.”

  “I can assure you it won’t be with me. Now let me escort you inside.”

  “I’ll make my own way.” In whirl of taffeta and cream satin, the girl stomped past Phee toward the terrace stairs. Phee watched until Miss Booth returned safely to the ballroom, then stepped into the shadows near Kit.

  “That was very honorable of you.”

  Kit snapped his gaze toward her. In the darkness she could hear him move, the shift of his clothing, and then his warm hand encircled her wrist. “You know me better than to accuse me of being honorable.”

  He tugged gently, and Phee moved toward him until her chest grazed his. The sharp edge of his cheek, the shadow of his mouth, and the dark triangular slash of his eyebrow were all she could see. But she could feel more. His breath came fast and hot against her face, and her own heartbeat fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird.

  “I used to know you, Mr. Ruthven.”

  The minute she said his name, his mouth crashed down on hers. Hard and yet impossibly soft, melting her bones, heating her blood. Just as quickly, he released her, but she held on, gripping his lapels as if she might fall.

  “Don’t call me Mr. Ruthven. You can’t keep me away with that name.”

  “Will you kiss me every time I call you Mr. Ruthven?” The night air blew cold against her cheeks, but Kit was deliciously warm. The white of his waistcoat and shirt stood out in the dark, and Phee rested her palm on his chest, absorbing his heat, relishing the rioting beat of his heart.

  “Will you regret each kiss?” He pulled her closer, snaking his hand up the middle of her back.

  “Are you confusing me with Miss Booth?”

  “Never.” A flash of white told her he’d smiled in the darkness. He stroked a finger along her cheek, then lower, dipping into the hollow at the base of her throat. “I would never confuse you with any woman, but you do confuse me, Phee. Your kisses are full of fire, but then I see anguish in your eyes.”

  How could she maintain a wall around her heart when he was near? She’d struggled to keep her feelings in check from the moment Kit returned to Briar Heath.

  Kit bent down, his breath stirring a loose curl near her ear. “The Miss Booths of the world are transparent, seeking ruination, assuming marriage will follow.” He caught her cheek against his palm, and she leaned into his touch. “Tell me what you want.”

  “You.” The truth freed something inside her, as if the fluttering bird in her chest finally escaped its cage. “I want you, Kit.”

  He stilled, his body tensing against hers. Phee braced one palm on his wide shoulder and reached her other hand up to touch the hard edge of his jaw. When she stroked the pad of her thumb across his bottom lip, he groaned.

  Kit slid his hands down her back, gripped her backside, and pulled her flush against his body.

  “Is this what you want?” His voice turned husky as he pressed into her, his hard thighs invading her skirts, a heated weight against the part of her that pulsed with need for him. Lowering his head, he skimmed his lips against her cheek. He placed a kiss near her ear and caught the delicate skin between his teeth.

  “Yes.” The word escaped on a moan because he was laving her neck, then tasting a spot behind her ear that made Phee’s body quiver from her hips to her toes.

  She wouldn’t take it back, wouldn’t deny what she wanted, and Kit didn’t give her a chance. He eased his mouth onto hers, opened her as if she belonged to him, explored her with his tongue.

  Phee lifted her arms, tightening them around Kit’s neck.

  He pulled back and whispered, “Come with me.” Clasping her hand, he led her deeper into the hedge maze. Two turns, one right, and he stopped at a bench along the path. A candlelit lantern glinted at its side.

  “I want to see you,” he said, before reaching up to loosen the tulle gauze at the neck of her gown. He stroked a finger down the line of her cleavage. “Your skin is so soft, Ophelia. I need to touch and taste every inch.” Gripping her ’round the waist, he dipped his head and pressed kisses to the swell of each breast, right to the edge where she spilled over the tight grip of her corset.

  Phee never imagined feeling overdressed in a hedge maze, but suddenly she wanted her gown gone, to shed all the layers of clothing that kept Kit’s warm mouth from her body. She reached up to tug her bodice down the only inch the tight fabric would allow.

  “Are you reading my thoughts now?” Kit chuckled in the darkness, the damp heat of his breath tickling her too-sensitive skin. He slid long fingers inside her corset, past her chemise, and stroked her achingly taut nipple until she gasped.

  Swallowing her gasp with a kiss, he leaned in until her back pressed against boxwood. Phee lost herself in the kiss, giving in to her aching need for him. She tugged at his waistcoat, pulling him closer. Cool air chased up her stockinged leg, and Phee felt Kit’s fingers tugging the skirt of her gown, bunching the fabric in his fist, pulling her petticoats up too.

  “Phee,” he breathed against her lips when his hand brushed the bare flesh of her leg above her stocking. He bent and kissed her neck, nipping with his teeth, soothing with this tongue, as he reached for the waist of her drawers and slid two fingers inside. “I’ve needed to touch you for so long, love.” His voice came in hot breath and a husky rumble against her neck, and Phee moaned when the tip of his finger slid into the damp curls at the apex of her thighs.

  Too much. Quivering from head to toe, Phee couldn’t catch her breath or remember a single rule she’d promised to abide by this evening. She pressed a palm to the firm heat of Kit’s chest. “I think . . . ” Except she couldn’t think with the taste of him on her tongue and his wickedly clever fingers stroking her.

  “Rules,” she finally managed, and he stilled in her arms. “Please, Kit.”

  “What are you asking me, love?” He pulled back to gaze down at her, slid his hand from her drawers, and began lowering her skirt over her hips. “Anything you want. I’ll give it to you.”

  She closed her eyes, planted a hand on her chest, and concentrated on the seemingly impossible task of steadying her galloping heartbeat.

  “Oph
elia.” It wasn’t his voice whispering her name in a frantic whisper but Milly’s.

  Kit released a frustrated growl and eased away from her, but he threaded his fingers through hers and held fast to her hand.

  Milly entered the path a moment later. “Thank goodness I found you two.” She nearly bumped into Kit before clutching at her belly as if she’d run all the way from the ballroom.

  Kit squeezed Phee’s hand as if he had no intention of letting go.

  “Phee, you should return with me to the ballroom. A situation has arisen, and it’s best if we nip it while it buds.” She cast a glance toward Kit. “Will you wait several minutes before following us, Mr. Ruthven?”

  Phee nodded and turned to follow Milly, but Kit held on tight.

  “What’s happened?” he asked. “What situation has arisen?”

  “I’m afraid Miss Gilroy has been unmasked.” Milly’s tone was low and agitated. “But let’s not make things worse by allowing someone to find Ophelia in the garden with you.”

  Tremors shook Phee’s body, but not from the pleasure of Kit’s touch.

  “So everyone knows.” All the bliss, all the warmth, all the joy of being cocooned in Kit’s arms seeped away and Phee felt hollow. Shock caused her thoughts to rush but her heartbeat to stall to sluggish thuds. “My students’ parents?”

  “What does it matter?” Kit squeezed her hand. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of what you’ve written.”

  “I’m concerned with consequences, not shame.” Phee could sense his warmth through the skin of her fingers, despite how chilled and numb the rest of her body felt. “And not just for myself, but Juliet and Aunt Rose. Our home.”

  “We must go back inside,” Milly urged, “and do what we can to stem the damage.”

  “Save me a dance, Phee.” Kit held on as Milly began leading her away, only loosening his hold reluctantly.

  But as Milly rushed her through the terrace doors, Phee knew she’d have no dances this evening.

  “Come with me, my dear.” Lady Pembry appeared, a worried frown marring her brow, and ushered both of them around the perimeter of the ballroom. Voices carried above the music, and Phee heard her name repeated along with another—Miss Gilroy. Mrs. Raybourn pointed at her; Phee heard her condemnation from across the crowded room.