Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  The graveyard didn’t call to him. He felt no impulse to make peace with his father. He resisted the urge to flee to the station and catch the nearest train to London.

  Ophelia. He was drawn to her like a lost man seeks the polestar.

  Her face was the only one he longed to look upon again, her voice the only sound he needed to hear.

  Even if she shouted at him. And she probably would.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Much is expected of young ladies—perfect poise, modest behavior, agreeable smiles, spotless chastity. Fine aspirations, to be sure, but what of wisdom, strength, and confidence? Add these to your list, ladies. Put them at the top.”

  —MISS GILROY’S GUIDELINES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  Patience is a virtue. She’d heard the admonition countless times, but Phee was beginning to doubt she’d ever master that particular virtue.

  “This book”—Mrs. Raybourn gripped a copy of Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines between her thumb and forefinger as if it was a bit of rubbish she couldn’t bear to touch—“is not suitable reading material for my daughters, or any young lady. If you see either of them with a copy again, you have my permission to burn it.” To emphasize her point, she tossed the volume onto the grate.

  Luckily the morning’s fire had gone out, but the book’s red cloth binding blackened where it touched the ashes.

  Phee pressed her lips together and stifled the urge to scream. The muscles in her jaw ached and at some point she’d clenched her fists, allowing her nails to bite into the flesh of her palms.

  “You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear, Mrs. Raybourn.” Forcing a smile, she moved her students’ mother toward the door. The quicker she got the irate woman out of her house, the sooner she could find Juliet and settle her sister down. Loud noises unnerved her, and she’d dashed off the moment their visitor began a boisterous tirade. “Now that the girls know you disapprove of the book, I’m sure they’ll avoid it.”

  “I wish I shared your certainty, Miss Marsden.” Mrs. Raybourn narrowed her eyes at her fourteen-year-old twins who sat side by side on the sofa, eyes downcast, no doubt biting their tongues as Ophelia had spent the last quarter of an hour doing. “Lady Millicent had the audacity to recommend that outrage last week during afternoon tea. Is that not shocking?”

  “Exceedingly.” Despite Mrs. Raybourn’s ire, Ophelia stifled a grin. Having been friends with Lady Pembry’s eldest daughter for years, Phee knew Milly took pride in her talent for shocking proclamations.

  “My girls must marry well.” The dark-haired lady leaned in, finally lowering her voice to its normal volume. “With your lessons and a good finishing school, they will do so. Surely you, of all people, understand the importance of making a fortuitous match.” Pity rang in the lady’s tone, and the sound was far harsher than her shouts. “I admire your determination to support yourself and your sister, Miss Marsden, but I do not wish for my girls to end as spinsters.”

  After lifting a hand to pat Ophelia’s arm twice, she called to her daughters. “Come, girls. We mustn’t be late for dinner.”

  As soon as the Raybourns departed, Ophelia retrieved her sooty book from the hearth and sank into a parlor chair. Letting out a ragged sigh, she soaked in the return of quiet and waited until her heartbeat steadied to the ticking rhythm of the wall clock. She couldn’t comfort her sister while her own frazzled nerves were stretched thin. The familiar sounds of Longacre soothed her—a breeze fluttering against the shutters and the chatter of finches in the fruit trees outside—but Mrs. Raybourn’s words echoed in her mind.

  Phee never intended to become a spinster. After her father’s death, she’d simply been too busy getting her tutoring business off the ground and caring for Juliet. Suitors were the least of her concerns. Other than Kit, no gentleman had shown her any particular notice.

  Until Lord Douglas Dunstan. He’d persisted despite her disinterest, and shocked her with his proposal. She couldn’t deny that his wealth and status could secure her future and provide the finest education for Juliet, but Phee had known the baron most of her life. As a boy, he’d been a bully. As a man, she found him insufferably arrogant and proud. He’d shown concern for her welfare after Father’s death, but she’d never offered Lord Dunstan anything but gratitude in return.

  Now she owed him an answer.

  A ping sounded from a copper pot in the corner, strategically placed to catch drips from a soggy spot in the ceiling plaster. Phee stared at the watermarked splotch above the window, calculating how much tuition she’d need to earn before they could pay for repairs to the roof.

  Was marrying Dunstan her answer? Accepting him would bring security but a cold, emotionless union. Could she endure a future without passion?

  She chuckled at her own foolishness. She’d lived without passion for years. Why sacrifice her well-being and Juliet’s future for what might never come?

  She had to put practicality first and daydreams to rest.

  “That’s fifty percent.” Juliet poked her head out from the family sitting room that also served as a library, the most cozily furnished space in the house. Other rooms had been shut up to save on the cost of heating. Though Phee sometimes mused about transforming Longacre into a boarding school for girls, it was an idea their finances would never support and Juliet consistently rejected. A house full of children, she’d say before shivering with disgust at the notion, apparently counting her twelve years as far beyond the bounds of childhood.

  “Pardon?”

  Juliet stepped into the parlor, her ever-present notebook clutched at her side. “Mrs. Raybourn has come to speak with you ten times, and she screeched or shouted during half of those visits. Excessive, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely.” Ophelia grinned and lifted a hand toward her sister. Numbers dominated Juliet’s world. Tallies, percentages, sums, and equations were her preferred language, though she’d proven an apt student in every subject. Aunt Rose expressed worry that she was “too much in her own head.” From her youngest days she’d preferred books to friends and logic to sentimentalism. At twelve, her chief goal was to attend university rather than marry.

  “Is she coming back?” Juliet approached warily, darting her gaze about as if fearing Mrs. Raybourn’s imminent return.

  “Not today, though I certainly hope she’ll bring her daughters back tomorrow. They’re my best pupils.”

  “In terms of income, yes. To be precise, they are your best and second-best pupils, but Elspeth Keene isn’t far behind.” Despite repeated admonitions, Juliet insisted on taking an interest in the household accounts. Phee considered the columns and balances too grim for her sister’s perusal, but she had to admit the girl’s aptitude for mathematics far exceeded her own. “The girls can come, but we should discourage future visits from Mrs. Raybourn.”

  “I’ll do my best to ensure she doesn’t shout next time.” Ophelia had no idea where the girls obtained a copy of her book, but she’d abide by her employer’s wishes and make sure they didn’t study Guidelines during tutoring sessions. That should at least cut back on the lady’s outbursts. “Shall we go and see if Aunt Rose needs any help preparing supper?”

  Juliet shot her a dubious look. Though the family’s longtime housekeeper remained, despite their meager budget, Aunt Rose insisted on doing all the cooking. She possessed a gift for food preparation as others did for art or music. With the simplest of ingredients, she made every meal memorable. In addition to caring for them and Longacre, she was keen on visiting, involved in several charitable endeavors, and was forever knitting or sewing some item to donate. Aunt Rose rarely needed anyone’s help, but she always welcomed company.

  Before Ophelia could gather her sister and head back to the kitchen, a knock sounded at the front door. Juliet clutched her notebook to her chest and bolted back into the library.

  Slipping Guidelines behind her back with one hand, Ophelia grasped the doorknob with the other. She schooled her features into a pleasant expression in case it was
Mrs. Raybourn or, heaven forbid, Mr. Raybourn, in need of more reassurance their girls weren’t on the high road to ruin because of the book no one knew she’d written.

  When she pulled the door open, all the breath whooshed from her body.

  Their visitor wasn’t any member of the Raybourn family.

  “Kit Ruthven.”

  “You remember me, then?” He grinned as he loomed on the threshold, his shoulders nearly as wide as the frame. Eyes bright and intense, he took her in from head to toe, and then let his gaze settle on her mouth. When he finally looked into her eyes, the cocksure tilt of his grin had softened. She read a wariness in his gaze that matched her own.

  She’d spent years trying to forget those dark, deep-set eyes.

  “I remember you.” Her book slipped, skidding across her backside and clattering to the floor as her throat tightened on sentiments she’d been waiting years to express. None of them would come. Not a single word. Instead, in outright rebellion, her whole body did its best to melt into a boneless puddle. Gritting her teeth, Phee fought the urge to swoon or, worse, rush into his long, muscled arms.

  “I’m relieved to hear it.” He had the audacity to kick his grin into a smile, a rakish slash that cut deep divots into his clean-shaven cheeks. Then he took a step through her door. “I worried that—”

  “No.” She lifted a hand to stop him. Looking at the man was difficult enough. Hearing his voice—deeper now but achingly familiar—was too much. If he came closer, she might give in to some rogue impulse. And that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

  Ophelia swallowed hard. She needed a moment to gather her wits. To rebuild her walls.

  “You dropped something.” He moved toward her, so close his sleeve brushed hers.

  She lowered her hand to avoid touching him and jerked back when he bent to retrieve her book, watching as he turned the volume to read its title.

  “Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines for Young Ladies. How intriguing. Looks as though Ruthven Publishing has some competition.”

  Seeing him again was worse than she’d imagined. And she had imagined this moment aplenty. Far too many times. Not just on her infrequent jaunts to London but most days since they’d parted. The man had lingered in her thoughts, despite every effort to expel him.

  Taking a shaky breath, she braced herself and faced him.

  He’d always been tall. When they were children, she’d looked up to him. Literally. But he’d never used his size to bully others. More often he’d born teasing about his physique. Ungainly, his father had called him, and Kit repeated the word when referring to himself.

  Now he offered no apologetic hunch in his stance. He didn’t cross his arms to narrow his body. More than embracing his size, he wielded his generous dimensions with a virile grace that made Phee’s mouth water. He stood with his long legs planted wide, shoulders thrown back. His chest was so broad that she itched to touch it.

  Stop being a ninny, she chided herself. The most essential observation was that he did not look like a man who’d pined for her. Not a hint of guilt shadowed his gaze.

  He thrust his hands behind his back, and the buttons above his waistcoat strained against the fabric on either side, as if the muscles beneath were too sizable to contain. Phee’s gaze riveted to the spot, waiting to see which would win—the pearly buttons or the dove gray fabric. When sense finally wound its way into her boggled mind, she glanced up into gilded brown eyes. He was the winner, judging by the satisfied smirk cresting his mouth.

  Kit stood too near, close enough for her to smell his scent. A familiar green, like fresh-cut grass, but mingled now with an aromatic spice. Each breath held his spice scent heightened by the warmth of his body. The heat of him radiated against her chest.

  His eyes were too intense, too hungry. He perused her brazenly, studying the hem of her outdated gown before his gaze roved up her legs, paused at her waist, lingered on her bosom, and caught for a moment on her lips. Finally, he met her eyes, and his mouth flicked up in a shameless grin.

  She looked anywhere but at his eyes. On his neck, she noted the scar from a childhood adventure in the blackberry briar. Then she got stuck admiring his hair. Apparently his scandalous London lifestyle—if the rumors she’d heard were true—called for allowing his jet black hair to grow long and ripple in careless waves. Strands licked at his neck, curled up near his shoulders.

  Time had been truly unfair. The years hadn’t weathered Kit at all. If anything, his features were sharper and more appealing. His Roman nose contrasted with the sensual fullness of his lips and those high Ruthven cheekbones. And his eyes. Gold and amber and chocolate hues chased each other around a pinwheel, all shadowed by enviably thick ebony lashes. One theater reviewer had written of the “power of his penetrating gaze.”

  Ophelia only knew he’d once been able to see straight to her heart.

  Retreating from his magnetic pull, she dipped her head and stared at his polished black boots, the neatly tailored cuffs of his trousers. Black as pitch, his clothing reminded her why he was here. He’d come to the village to bury his father. He was no doubt as eager to return to London as she was to close her eyes and make the too tempting sight of him disappear. But why had he come to her home?

  “My condolences to you and your sisters,” she offered, and almost added Mr. Ruthven. That’s what everyone in the village would call him now, and they would expect him to live up to the name. Just as his father had.

  “You didn’t attend the funeral.”

  “Would your father have wished me to?” They both knew Kit’s father had never welcomed her presence in his life. She didn’t bother mentioning that Ruthven’s rule book explicitly instructed ladies to avoid funerals.

  He shrugged. “I only know what I wished.”

  There it was. The heart of all that had passed between them spelled out in six words. Kit had never doubted what he wanted—freedom, fame as a playwright, financial success on his own terms. Unfortunately, she’d never made it high enough on his list.

  “Forgive me for missing your father’s funeral. I promise to call on your sisters soon.” Ophelia slid the door toward him, forcing him to retreat as she eased it closed. “Thank you for your visit.”

  Pushing his sizable booted foot forward, he wedged it between the door and its frame. “I don’t think we can count this as a visit until you invite me in.”

  For a moment Kit doubted she’d relent. Her eyes filled with blue thunder clouds, and her lush lips seamed together, quivering at the edges. Even when she scowled at him, he wanted to kiss her. Pressing his mouth to Ophelia’s had been his first instinct the minute she opened the door.

  Standing on her doorstep all evening seemed extreme, but now he stood close enough to trace the starburst indigo pattern in her eyes and see heat blooming in her cheeks. He wouldn’t turn away. He’d waited too long for this moment. Just a glimpse of her and he already felt lighter.

  “Come in, then. But only for a moment,” she grumbled, issuing the chilliest invitation he’d had from a woman in years.

  Every step he approached, Ophelia retreated, as if determined to put as much distance between them as possible.

  Maybe he only felt lighter because his chest constricted the longer he looked at her, and her reticence tightened the vice. The pinching ache behind his ribs vied with the thrill of being near her, hearing her voice, reacquainting himself with the buzz of pleasure she’d always sparked in him.

  This close, he couldn’t help but note how she’d changed. The girl who’d let her rebellious curls hang in corkscrews down her back and wore wildflowers in the buttonholes of her gowns had been replaced with a woman who looked every inch an eager-to-chastise governess. Her drab dress imprisoned her figure behind a row of tiny, sentry-like buttons from belly to her chin. The coarse-looking fabric made Kit’s skin itch.

  Whatever caused her to hide her passionate nature away behind a guise of propriety, it didn’t work. She still smelled like jasmine, though now the appeal
ing scent was tinged with a bit of starch. Her red hair still glowed like a fiery halo in the afternoon light. Despite her changed appearance, Kit glimpsed the girl he’d once known as well as he knew himself. The young woman he’d missed every day for years.

  “You’re staring,” she accused, clearly displeased with the fact. Lifting an arm stiffly, she gestured toward the room he recalled as the family’s parlor for entertaining guests. “This way. I’ll ask Mrs. Rafferty to make us some tea.”

  “Don’t bother Mrs. Rafferty.” He recalled the Marsdens’ housekeeper fondly, but he wanted Phee to himself. “I’ve had my fill of tea today, thank you.”

  “As you wish.” Pivoting with the precision of a soldier, she marched into the parlor.

  Kit loathed her cool politeness, but he didn’t mind studying the tight knot of curls and the pale flesh at the back of her neck. Mercy, she held herself ramrod straight. He dropped his gaze lower, and a patch of soot on the swell of her backside caught his eye. His hand twitched as he fought the urge to touch her curves and wipe the spot away.

  “You have a mark on your dress.”

  “Where?” She stopped abruptly, and he nearly bumped into her. She turned.

  He stepped back. “Just there.” He reached to grip her waist and turn her.

  She skidded away from him as if he’d set her gown on fire. “I can manage on my own.”

  “I have no doubts on that score.”

  After twirling in a circle, looking over her shoulder as she swiped at the spot on her gown, she pointed to a chair near the unlit fire. “Please, have a seat.”

  Kit waited until she’d taken her own chair, noting how she perched nervously at the edge. It was only then he allowed himself to shift his gaze from her and look around. Phee’s appearance wasn’t the only change since his absence from Longacre.

  “I hardly recognize this room.” The parlor had once been a place of color and music and artful chaos. He recalled impromptu poetry readings, her father’s talent on the piano, and walls dotted with Phee’s youthful watercolors and fine prints her father acquired in London. Now they were virtually empty, and wallpaper was peeling at the edges.