Breaking the Rake's Rules

by Bronwyn Scott

  He was going to make her spell it out for him. ‘You know what you did with your little lunettes de soleil. You made me look bad in front of Martha Selby and Alba Harrison, two women whose favour I need for my father. Martha Selby couldn’t make notes fast enough regarding my unsuitability as a bride for her son.’ She gave Kitt a sideways glance, watching for his reaction.

  ‘You are. Unsuitable, that is.’ Kitt tried to look penitent, something he obviously wasn’t familiar with. ‘I’m sorry, did you want to marry James Selby?’

  ‘No.’

  He grinned. ‘Consider it a favour then. I don’t know why you’re upset.’

  ‘It’s the principle of the matter. You used me.’

  ‘To your benefit.’ Kitt threw a pebble into the water. ‘Did you see Mrs Harrison’s true colours?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bryn said slowly, trying to divine where this was headed. She didn’t like the idea of owing Kitt any favours.

  ‘Did you learn something more about me? Am I well maligned by the upstanding moral arbiters of Bridgetown society?’

  ‘Yes, most definitely that.’ Bryn narrowed her eyes. Alba Harrison’s comment about Caroline Bryant notwithstanding, Kitt didn’t strike her as the sort of man who did something entirely out of altruism. She cocked her head and studied him. ‘What do you get out of all of this?’

  Kitt laughed. ‘My, my, we’re quite the cynic. Perhaps I did it purely for your own benefit. Do I have to get anything out of it? ‘

  ‘In my experience, yes,’ Bryn answered honestly. ‘I don’t trust you.’

  She expected him to be offended. The likes of James Selby certainly would have been. A gentleman’s manners were supposed to inspire a lady’s trust and confidence. Instead Kitt nodded, absorbing the revelation. ‘That is as it should be, don’t you think? You hardly know me well enough to trust me. For the record, I don’t trust you for the same reasons.’

  Now she was the one offended. ‘Not trust me? What is there not to trust?’ Bryn argued. She knew a moment’s panic. ‘You are going to invest in the bank, aren’t you?’ If Kitt pulled out, would he influence the others to do the same? Where would that leave her father?

  Kitt seemed unconcerned. ‘Maybe. I have to do my research.’ He turned his blue eyes her way. ‘Villas and private beaches don’t come cheap. The question your father should be considering is not if I have money to invest, but how I made that money. I don’t gamble, princess. I only bet on sure things.’

  That did give her pause. Bryn saw the fallacy in her own reasoning. She’d been so intent wanting to learn about the potential investors that she hadn’t thought about what those investors would want to learn about them.

  ‘You see, it’s not just about investing with your father and the royal charter. It’s about investing with the other six men. Can I trust them with my money? Can I trust their investment choices?’

  The tenor of their conversation had taken on a very personal cast. Bryn couldn’t recall anyone ever speaking with her like this before. This was certainly not the kind of conversation one held at balls and her usual social venues where talk was interspersed between dance sets or limited to short bursts of time as people passed one another in crowded ballrooms. Even teas and at-homes kept ‘decent’ conversations between the sexes to fifteen-minute calls, hardly enough time to delve deeply into any subject, hardly enough time to do more than exchange pleasantries.

  It seemed something of an irony to be having an honest conversation with this man, who made no pretence to being a gentleman beyond dressing like one when the part suited him. Did that mean the opposite was true as well? That she’d spent her adult life to date having dishonest conversations with gentlemen? If so, perhaps it was further proof ballrooms were a waste of time.

  If people talked, really talked, they might learn something about each other. What was ‘indecent’ about that? There might be happier marriages. Then again, there might be a lot more pre-marital seductions, too, if people felt they knew each other. That was what she was feeling now—that she was starting to know Kitt, to see the man beyond the sharp wit and outrageous behaviour. That man was an analyst, a thinker with a stunningly shrewd command of human nature. He understood people and what drove them. And it was just as exciting as his kisses.

  ‘Why don’t you trust Selby?’ she asked, deciding to test her hypothesis about his analytical skills.

  ‘It’s not him I don’t trust, it’s his judgement,’ Kitt clarified. He spoke quietly, his voice nearly at her ear, although there was no one to hear. His body was close to hers on the warm rock slab, their legs occasionally brushing against each other as they dangled over the edge. ‘He’s ignorant of the world around him. Because of that, he makes less educated choices. He’s young, he’s eager to please and quite desperate to be seen as a man, as a leader, when that isn’t where his skills lie at present. He hasn’t the experience to be those things, only the money. Do you know the old proverb, “a fool and his money are soon separated”? That’s James Selby in a nutshell.’

  ‘Surely not all of his decisions are bad? He’s investing in a plantation.’ Kitt had her worrying about Selby. If her father insisted on taking Selby on to the board, would he bring the bank down or would he sit quietly and let the more experienced men lead the way while he learned for the future?

  Kitt raised an eyebrow at this. ‘Is he? I hadn’t heard. I was unaware there were any shares available.’

  ‘I think it’s on another island.’ Selby hadn’t said precisely where the plantation was.

  ‘I hope it works out for him. Sugar prices are a bit low right now, but sugar and rum are always decent money in the long run,’ Kitt offered vaguely.

  ‘You sound sceptical,’ Bryn pressed, picking up on his hesitation. He wasn’t the only one sitting on this rock who knew a little something about reading people.

  ‘I don’t know enough to be otherwise.’ Kitt tapped his forehead with his index finger. ‘Research, remember?’ A further reminder, if she needed another one, that Kitt Sherard was as people-savvy as they came. He understood what people thought, how they thought and that included her, as unnerving as the prospect was. Her London beaux had never guessed at half the things going on in her head. But Kitt seemed to guess them all, even the ones she wished he didn’t, like how much she wanted him to kiss her again.

  His eyes held hers for a long moment. ‘I only bet on sure things and you should, too.’ A slow smile spread across his face and Bryn had the distinct impression they weren’t talking about banking any more. ‘Now, about those forfeits.’

  Chapter Eight

  His hand cupped her jaw, tilting her mouth to his. Her body started to fire at his touch. She ought to fight this. But when his mouth moved over hers, it claimed all desire to resist. All the warnings she could muster, all the promises she had made, held no power here.

  He kissed her deeply, slowly, and she wanted to drink him in as she had not drunk of him earlier. Those balcony kisses had been rough and rushed, the result of their rather spontaneous situation. He’d kissed her then to silence her surprise. These kisses were prelude to a game of a different sort. He smelled of sun and salt and prime male. Her hands anchored in his hair, tangling in its thick blond lengths as he pressed her back against the warm surface of the rock. His mouth moved down the column of her throat, kissing, nipping, his hand cupping a breast, lifting it to be caressed by his mouth through the thin muslin of her gown. She’d never thought of clothes as being erotic until now, until Kitt had his mouth on her, creating a delicious friction with the fabric and his teeth as her nipple hardened, laved into a decadent, straining peak by his tongue.

  Her body arched against him, intuitively seeking his confirmation that he, too, was swept away by this. It was there in the erection that lay bold and strong against her where their bodies met, tactile evidence of what she’d seen with her eyes. The
feel of him was enough to ignite other heady curiosities. What would it be like to touch him, to feel that part of him jump in her hand?

  Bryn didn’t think. She simply reacted out of primal instinct and reached for him. He was hot in her hand even through the negligible barrier of the sheet. She revelled in the power of him. He was long and hard beneath the linen where her hand shaped him through the cloth. Kitt gave a hungry groan, his mouth devouring hers, their bodies pressing into one another with an intensity that went far beyond any of her adolescent forays. This was pleasure at its finest and it was madness, too. Only disaster could come of this.

  Bryn broke the kiss, levering on her elbows to sit up and dislodge Kitt from where he laid against her. Spray from a wave hit her ankles, reminding her there were other reasons this had to end, too. Tides came in. Even now the shore looked slightly further away.

  Kitt looked past her shoulder out to sea, distracted for a moment, and then followed the direction of her gaze back to shore. ‘We’d best head back in before we have to swim for it.’ He seemed unbothered by the impending tide, but he didn’t have skirts to worry about. She’d be a mess by the time she got home—not that she wasn’t already a mess. Her hair had come down and the pristine, white dress she’d left the house in that morning was wrinkled from climbing and from kissing—lots of kissing. Wading back to shore could hardly make her look worse, but it could make her look wetter and that would be problematic.

  In the end, Kitt carried her back to shore. It would have been humorous and quite a well-deserved fate for having enticed her out to the rock in the first place if the sheer, bare physicality of him hadn’t served as a potent reminder of how many lines she’d crossed, how many rules and promises she’d broken by coming here today. Her mother would not be pleased.

  Kitt set her down and gave her a once-over, assessing the damage, as it were. He shook his head, arriving at the same conclusion. ‘You will not do. You’ll have to come in while we set you to rights.’ He gave her one of his wicked grins. ‘Unless you don’t mind everyone knowing what you’ve been up to? Then our task gets considerably easier.’

  Another rule gone. A lady didn’t enter a gentleman’s house unchaperoned. But after this afternoon, what was one more rule? She’d broken so many already. It was quite the day for overturning the teachings of childhood. She should feel guilty. But she didn’t. She felt intrigued instead. Truly, she couldn’t say rules had done much for her in the past except create absolute tedium. Maybe it didn’t count if a rule was broken and there was no one to see, sort of like the fallen tree in the woods. Broken rules only mattered if one was caught and Kitt had made it clear already he wasn’t going to kiss and tell. For being alone with a rogue, she felt quite safe.

  * * *

  The inside of Kitt’s house was as spectacular as the outside. For a man of questionable repute, the understated elegance of his home was unexpected. The hall he led her down was appropriately lined with consoles adorned with vases full of island flowers set at just the right intervals, the occasional painting hung over a console here and there. The drawing room was done in a dark blue and cream, striking a masculine tone while not being oppressive. A gorgeous piano sat in one corner, its lid up, its sleek body gleaming with polish and care.

  Bryn ran an idle hand over a porcelain figurine of a dog decorating a side table. ‘You have good taste.’

  Kitt laughed and pulled the bell rope. ‘You sound surprised. Is “good taste” a woman’s domain? Are men not allowed to have any?’

  Bryn sat on a damask-covered sofa done in dark blue to match the curtains. She was acutely aware of the sand on her skirts and the fineness of the upholstery. ‘In my experience, men can have good taste, but many fail to exercise it.’

  Kitt slouched into the chair opposite her, sheet and all, reminding her the house and its trappings of luxury were part of the illusion, just as his evening clothes had been at the Crenshaws’. Without those accessories, he was a rogue at heart. ‘Or is it that a man of my dubious reputation isn’t entitled to good taste?’ Kitt persisted in calling her out, persisted in reminding her of the façade.

  Bryn gave him a sharp look. ‘I didn’t say that. Don’t put words into my mouth.’

  ‘You were thinking it.’ Kitt challenged her with his eyes, holding her gaze for a long moment before the butler entered. ‘Ah, Stephens, there you are. We are going to need a hairbrush, a mirror and some hairpins. I need you to send someone to the pavilion as well. Miss Rutherford has left her shoes and stockings.’

  Stephens nodded with a ‘very good, sir’ and departed without so much as batting an eye at her dishevelled state or questioning the attire of his employer. Perhaps there was no need to look astonished, perhaps Kitt entertained in a sheet regularly. Perhaps women left various items of clothes around his house regularly, too. Given what she knew of him, it wouldn’t be surprising. Still, all told, his butler was extraordinarily well trained, on par with Sneed, who was a paragon.

  She would not have thought a man like Kitt Sherard would have such a staff. Then again, she was starting to think she didn’t know what sort of man Kitt Sherard was after all. Flirt? Seducer? Businessman? Rake? It was starting to sound like the children’s nursery rhyme little girls played with their buttons: rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief... Kitt was a rich man most definitely. Exquisitely appointed houses didn’t come cheap.

  ‘It’s all right to think it, Bryn.’ Kitt returned to the topic of his taste, much to her mortification. He read her mind far too easily. ‘It’s what all the ladies think. I’m sure they’ve filled your head with a resounding catalogue of my sins.’

  Bryn swallowed, feeling guilty. He was right, of course. She’d not left tea without being duly warned of his shortcomings. ‘Does it bother you?’

  He arched a sandy brow. ‘My good taste? Does my good taste bother me? No, not really.’ He was being obtuse on purpose. She could see the merriment lurking in his eyes. He wanted her to say it.

  ‘I meant the ladies. Does what they think bother you?’ It was a daring question no matter how delicately she asked it.

  Kitt leaned back in his chair, looking wild and masculine, his hair falling about his shoulders. He was a god, someone untouchable. It was a ridiculous question to ask. Of course it didn’t bother him. He was impervious to the slights of silly women. One had only to look at him to know that.

  His eyes were laughing at her again. ‘Oh, you mean do I mind that I am deemed “socially tolerable” at best? I have no choice really. I live my life, they live theirs. On occasion, like the bank charter, our lives intersect. On those occasions, I become momentarily acceptable. Money helps.’ He paused, sobering. ‘I won’t be something I’m not for the likes of them.’ His gaze rested on her with a look that made her mouth go dry. ‘How about you, Bryn, will you?’

  That, of course, was the very question she’d done battle with for the last year. Who would she be? Who would she allow herself to be?

  * * *

  By the time Stephens had returned with the hair things and she’d put on her stockings and shoes, then tidied her dress as best she could, Bryn knew what she had to do. She had to keep Kitt Sherard at a distance. He was a dangerous man with his mind-reading and kisses. He had her thinking and questioning all sorts of assumptions about him, about her, about the point of life in general. These were not assumptions she could challenge until she’d fulfilled one last promise to her mother. Kitt and his philosophies would have to wait.

  She could justify this one lapse in the name of business. She’d come here to learn about him and learn she had. Now that was over. His behaviour today confirmed the incident on the balcony was not an isolated one. He was audacious in the extreme regardless of his excellent intuition. She needed to make her position clear before she left so there would be no more incidents like the one in town, so there would be no more need to confront him in visits like this
.

  ‘Alba Harrison believes you flirt with Caroline Bryant because she’s the quartermaster’s daughter and it’s good for business.’ Bryn finished with her laces and rose. ‘She believes you will flirt with me for the same reason. I assure you, such behaviour will not be tolerated by me or by my father.’ There would be no more stolen kisses. But she wasn’t sure if she needed clarity on that point for him or for herself.

  Kitt refused to be scolded. More than that, he refused to apologise. ‘I think what happened on the rock went beyond flirting, don’t you?’

  She felt her face colour. Bryn busied herself with putting on her hat. ‘I was trying to be polite.’

  Kitt stood, finally. He hadn’t risen with her, making no attempt at playing a gentleman. When one was dressed in a sheet, what was the point anyway? He stepped towards her, his body close and intimate and big as it invaded her space. ‘I don’t think lying is particularly polite and that’s what you were trying to do. I am happy to admit I was quite aroused out there and I think you were, too.’

  That was a mortal hit. Bryn’s hands tangled in the ribbon on her hat, barely able to tie a bow. How dare he stand there, looking so smug over her discomfort, and the dratted man wasn’t done yet.

  ‘You’re wrong, you know, Bryn. Yesterday in the garden you said you didn’t trust me. But you do.’ He took the ribbons from her and tied a more-than-adequate bow. He was far too competent with women’s clothing.

  She fixed him with a piercing stare and opted for the high road, hoping he didn’t see her pulse leap in her neck where his hands had skimmed her skin. He got to her in so many ways no other man in her experience had. If she did anything today, it would be to best him in at least one argument. ‘How, exactly, do you reason that?’

  ‘You never would have gone out on the rock if you didn’t.’ He gave a smug grin.

  ‘You seemed pretty certain I would.’ A suspicion was starting to take root.