Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  “As you wish.” A long view of her backside proved just as appealing.

  “Is there a specific item you hope to find?” She fussed at the lock, her sighs of frustration paired with sounds of metal scratching wood.

  “An amended will would be nice. Preferably one in which Father insists we sell the business and live happily ever after on the monies earned.”

  When she huffed out another sigh, Kit considered approaching, though he was enjoying the view far too much and doubted she’d allow him to get close enough to assist.

  After wiggling and grumbling and trying again, Phee jerked back, pulling the narrow drawer free of its hiding place. Lifting the first item out, she shot him a guilty look and bit her lip.

  “What is it?” Kit approached, and Ophelia pressed the rectangle to her chest. He held out his hand. “Let me see.”

  She chewed her bottom lip a moment, and Kit swallowed hard. Whatever she concealed, it caused her blush to spread, a rush of pink skimming down her neck. He wanted to trace the color with his fingers.

  Finally, she thrust the object toward him.

  Kit took what proved to be a photograph, faded and worn around the edges. Only the subject in the center remained perfectly clear. Not to mention scantily clad.

  “Lily Verner.” The lady’s creamy shoulders, plump ankles, and a good portion of her ample décolletage were artfully displayed in a keepsake postcard photograph his father had apparently treasured.

  “You know her?” Phee crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

  “She’s a well-known Gaiety Girl. Everyone in London knows her.” But why had his father? Had he actually frequented the Gaiety Theater? Kit couldn’t imagine his dour, upstanding father anywhere near the infamous music hall.

  “Mmm.” Ophelia made an odd sound, much more dubious than an acknowledgment. Was she jealous? Before Kit could read anything in her gaze, she turned back to the drawer.

  “What else did he have hidden in there?” The interior was too shallow to hold much, but Ophelia lifted out a pile of what appeared to be newspaper clippings. “More beguiling ladies?” The Gaiety Girls often featured in the newspapers.

  “No.” Her hands trembled as she offered him the neatly cut bits of newsprint. “These are for you.”

  For him? What would his father save for him in a secret drawer?

  Kit sifted the scraps. All of them mentioned his name—plays he’d performed in or written, his debut at Merrick Theater, even a short essay he’d gotten published in a London theater journal. Before realizing he’d moved, the breath whooshed from his body, and he felt the uncomfortable seat of his father’s chair hit his backside.

  Ophelia stepped close, a sweet-scented presence at his elbow. “He cared, Kit. Despite how he criticized and condemned.” She emphasized her words with a touch, offering the simple weight of her palm against his shoulder.

  Kit flexed his arm to press into the heat of her hand, to soak up all the comfort she offered.

  Feelings rushed in, a tangled jumble of guilt, anger, and sadness he usually kept at bay. The damned room, Ophelia’s nearness, and his sleep-starved mind all conspired to intensify the emotion clawing its way up his throat, burning behind his eyes. It felt suspiciously like grief, and he wanted none of it.

  Far easier was focusing on the woman at his side.

  “And you, Ophelia? Do you still care?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Never allow anyone to convince you that ladies are not as capable of reason and rational judgements as men. Both sexes must strike a balance between passion and prudence.”

  —MISS GILROY’S GUIDELINES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  “That was a mistake,” Ophelia muttered to herself as she stomped up the grassy path through the woods between Ruthven Hall and the Pembry estate. “Total folly.”

  Reaching into her reticule, she yanked out her daily task list. Duties to attend to and chores around the house were printed in neat, careful script above a hastily scrawled notation she’d added the night before.

  Avoid Kit Ruthven.

  She’d woken with every intention of steering clear of the man, vowing that if a social situation threw them together while he was in Briar Heath, she’d offer sympathy and nothing more. Kit came back to Briar Heath to bury his father. He and his sisters needed comfort, not her shallow worry that his first sight of her after so many years happened to be while she wore a soot-smeared gown.

  Forgiveness seemed much simpler when he’d been off living his life in London, but seeing him, being so close she could feel the warmth of his body—nothing could have prepared her. Neither Ruthven’s rule book nor her own Guidelines for ladies had a remedy for unexpectedly encountering the man one’s heart had never quite forgotten.

  Even after years of resolving to forgive him, past hurt welled up the moment she’d found him on her doorstep.

  Getting her condolence call to the Ruthven sisters off her list immediately seemed the best approach. Chances were Kit would still be abed. London actors weren’t known for rising with the sun.

  The visit had gone well until she’d been foolish enough to inquire about him—only out of politeness, of course—on her way out. Sophia had very unhelpfully directed her to old Ruthven’s study.

  The moment she glimpsed Kit standing behind his father’s desk, tall enough to dwarf the hideously ornate thing, all her intentions scattered like dust motes on the air. She’d only managed simple thoughts—Kit was near and bathed in sunlight. After missing him for years, she could speak to him, draw close enough to touch him. Despite every admonition, every rational argument, that was all she’d truly wished to do.

  Nothing about pressing a hand to his shoulder had been intended to tempt her. But he’d been shockingly warm. His body was broad and firm, his muscles bunching and flexing in response to her touch.

  And then that ridiculous question. It rang like a taunt in her mind. She clenched her fists as she recalled the low, purring quality of his voice. How dare he ask if she still cared? What did it matter? He would go back to London, and she would remain here.

  She was on the cusp of accepting another man’s marriage proposal. Wasn’t she?

  The prospect set off a wave of nausea. She swallowed against the queasiness and picked up her pace.

  Kit’s visit wouldn’t alter the choices they’d made. Or the choice she still needed to make.

  The path turned to gravel under her feet, and Ophelia shoved thoughts of Kit Ruthven aside as she drew in a lungful of cool air. She’d entered the grounds of Lady Pembry’s estate and needed all her wits about her to face the group the countess summoned each year to plan the village’s autumn fete. Someday she’d have to conquer her tendency to volunteer for everything. Not that participating in the festival was avoidable. Her mother, who’d been a childhood friend of the countess’s, helped establish the event long before Phee was born. Over the years it had grown into an annual celebration that included games, displays, and activities beyond showing off the best bud or vegetable from village matrons’ gardens.

  After only one short rap on the door, a footman ushered her into the countess’s favorite drawing room.

  “Miss Marsden, don’t you look fresh and lovely this morning.” Lady Pembry didn’t rise to greet her. Her clingy cluster of three miniature poodles vied for space on her lap and made movement difficult. Instead, she ushered Phee over with a sweeping gesture, her numerous glittering bracelets jangling out a merry tune as she indicated the other ladies in the room. “You know Mrs. Bickham, of course, and Mrs. Raybourn. The rest are on their way.”

  The silver-haired vicar’s wife beamed a warm smile, and the elegant, dark-eyed Raybourn girls’ mother offered a polite nod.

  “And me, Mama. I’m here too.” Lady Millicent, the countess’s oldest and only unmarried daughter, called from the corner of the room. She stood, straightened the skirt of her pink frilled gown, and swept back a tawny lock of hair before snapping shut the book she’d been reading.

 
“I wasn’t sure you’d find the power to drag yourself from the pages of your novel.” The countess didn’t favor her daughter’s love of reading.

  “That’s the lovely thing about books, Mama.” As she replied, Milly greeted Phee with the wink of one moss-green eye. “They wait for you precisely where you’ve left them.”

  Villagers referred to Lady Millicent as a bluestocking or, less generously, a spinster, but Phee knew her as the cleverest and most loyal of friends. The two had formed a bond as girls when they’d been sent to the same boarding school. Ophelia’s parents had only been able to afford two years’ tuition before Father resumed tutoring her at home, but Milly had endured five long years at the horrible place. She’d returned from the ordeal a more bookish and serious young lady, but neither the repressive headmistress nor bullying older girls had managed to crush her spirit.

  “You look out of sorts.” Milly spoke low as she sat on the settee next to Phee. They were distant enough from other guests to have a measure of privacy if they whispered. “Your cheeks have gone all pink and splotchy.”

  “I walked quickly. Your mother’s glares are fearsome when I’m late.” Phee wasn’t sure why she concealed the real cause of her flustered state. If she trusted anyone with her secrets, it was Milly.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re well because I have news.”

  “Good news?” Phee could use a bit of her friend’s pleasant tidings to distract from the tall, dark image of Kit freshly imprinted in her memory. His green pine scent still clung to her hand where she’d touched him.

  “Let’s just say it will please Mama. Have you heard who’s arrived in the village?”

  Milly knew. No point withholding any of it now. “I’ve seen him,” Phee confessed.

  “Already?”

  “He called at Longacre yesterday. To torment me, I think.” Whether he’d intended it or not, Kit’s visit had consumed her thoughts.

  “Why?” Milly turned a surprised glance Phee’s way. “Did he press you about marriage?”

  “Marriage?” Kit had never asked for her hand. He never would. Which was why she needed to stop thinking about him. Immediately.

  She’d spoken too loudly. A maid dispensing tea and biscuits tipped her head in their direction.

  “What are you two whispering about over there?” Lady Pembry wagged a bejeweled finger in their direction. “If it’s at all intriguing, do come and sit next to me.” When neither answered, the countess persisted. “Come, ladies, leave that comfortable settee for the others who’ll be joining us.”

  As they obeyed and moved to chairs closer to Lady Pembry and her guests, Milly clutched Phee’s arm and whispered, “Who are you talking about?”

  “Kit Ruthven.” Phee spoke out of the side of her mouth, fearing Lady Pembry’s fame for being able to lip-read gossip from across a crowded room. “Who are you talking about?”

  The moment they reached the two straight-back chairs Lady Pembry indicated, a footman announced a new visitor. “My lady, Lord Dunstan has arrived.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Milly muttered before sitting down and busying herself arranging the ruffles of her gown.

  Phee’s queasiness returned with a vengeance. She took a warming sip the moment a maid handed her a steaming cup of mint tea.

  “Dunstan, thank goodness you’ve returned safely from your adventures.” The baron’s entrance warranted Lady Pembry’s effort to rise from the settee, despite the low-throated protest of her poodles. “I fretted the entire time you were gone.”

  “He was only in New York, Mama. Not the Serengeti.” Milly injected the words so softly, Phee doubted anyone else heard.

  “No need to fret, Lady Pembry. As you see, I’ve returned hale and hardy.” The newly arrived traveler gripped the lapels of his jacket, puffed out his chest, and offered a self-satisfied grin that seemed to encompass each guest.

  Lord Dunstan never failed to draw attention when he entered a room. Not because he possessed Kit’s height or striking features but due to his wealth and title. He carried himself with an arrogant swagger, and while others deemed him attractive, his sandy hair, cold gray eyes, and symmetrical features had never appealed to Phee. Too many childhood memories of his cruel, high-handed treatment prevented her feeling more than what politeness demanded.

  His trip to America had been a reprieve for her. Now he would expect her answer.

  But seeing him again sparked only nervous agitation in her belly. No eagerness, not a sliver of affection or desire.

  What if she refused him?

  Falling out with influential aristocrats like the baron could mean the end of her tutoring services in the village. Briar Heath residents looked to their wealthiest landowners as touchstones. The Pembrys and Dunstans—and The Ruthven Rules, of course—had been dictating proper behavior for decades.

  While the baron greeted those in attendance, two more guests arrived. The vicar joined his wife on the sofa, and Mrs. Hollingsworth, a longstanding and esteemed judge of the best-bloom competition, took a buttery damask chair next to the countess.

  “How did Mr. Ruthven torment you?” Milly leaned close, but she spoke too loudly for her query to go unnoticed.

  “Have you been troubled during my absence, Miss Marsden?” Lord Dunstan took a seat to Ophelia’s right.

  “Merely a figure of speech,” Milly snapped. “I assure you Miss Marsden is no defenseless young maiden in need of saving.”

  Phee winced at the ire in her friend’s tone. Milly and Lord Dunstan had a tendency to snipe rather than converse.

  “Well, it’s a comfort to know if she’s ever in any danger, Lady Millicent, you can slay the enemy with your rapier-sharp tongue.”

  Observing the glare Milly and Dunstan exchanged, Phee mused again about the rancor between them. Milly acknowledged she did not like the man, though their families had known each other, intermarrying and making alliances, for centuries.

  “Was it a fruitful journey, Lord Dunstan?” Phee considered his trip to America a safe topic, especially since the man enjoyed nothing so much as discussing his travels to acquire new objects to expand his collections. His eclectic taste led him to collect both antiquities and newfangled gadgets.

  “Very fruitful, indeed.” He leaned in close. “I’ve brought back a mechanism the likes of which England has never seen. All shall be revealed at Lady Pembry’s fair, though I fear it will put the blooms and pies to shame.”

  Milly clenched her jaw and shot up from her chair, causing Lord Dunstan and Vicar Bickham to stand too. “Goodness, I just remembered. Would you join me in the conservatory, Ophelia? I left a book you loaned me there and must return it.” She cast Phee an impatient look and jerked her chin in the direction of the conservatory before bolting toward the door.

  Phee hurried after Milly, pretending not to see the countess’s displeased glance. She found her near a wrought-iron bench in the glass-walled room, pacing in circles around a towering potted palm.

  “Are you all right?” Phee counted on Milly’s even temper, aside from occasional clashes with Lord Dunstan. When writing Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines, she’d often considered Milly as a model of sensible female behavior.

  “Yes, of course. Dunstan is beastly and completely self-absorbed, but that’s to be expected. It was too much to hope that one transatlantic journey would transform the man.” After perching on the bench, Milly patted the space beside her. “Forget about him. Come and tell me what happened when Christopher Ruthven visited you.”

  “Not my finest hour.” Crumpling onto the bench, Phee let out a bone-deep sigh.

  “That bad?”

  “Worse than you can imagine.”

  “Nonsense.” Milly patted Phee’s arm. “I have a vivid imagination. Nothing could be as bad as what I’m thinking.”

  They both chuckled.

  “I froze the minute I saw his face, Milly. All of it came back.” Those honey-dark eyes were in her mind as if he stood before her again, staring down with that rakish grin ti
pping his broad mouth.

  “You didn’t swoon, did you?”

  “No! Never.” Almost.

  “Then fear not. You were much more poised than memory allows. I’m sure of it. We always judge our own foibles harshly.” Milly spoke with the certainty of a friend who assumed the best of those she loved. “Who could blame you for a lingering tenderness toward the man?”

  “Not tenderness.” Phee bit her lip as she remembered their exchange. “I was cross with myself for feeling anything. Irritated with him for looking so well. Pettiness. Anger. That’s all I could manage for an old friend who’s come back to mourn his father.”

  For a long moment, they sat side by side without speaking, breathing in the scents of greenery, damp earth, and the sweet aroma of hothouse roses.

  “Well, he did leave abruptly all those years ago,” Milly insisted. “He behaved abominably. He broke your heart. Didn’t he? And he never bothered with a single visit.”

  “He left four years ago. I should have been prepared to see him again.”

  “Perhaps.” Even Milly couldn’t defend her on that point. “But he did look well when you saw him?”

  “Better than well,” Phee admitted. “Devastatingly handsome.”

  “So you were a bit pleased to see him?” Milly grinned and nudged her arm.

  Phee bristled. Protest perched on the tip of her tongue. Then she closed her eyes and let out a shaky sigh. This was Milly. They told each other the truth. “I was never more relieved to see anyone in my life.”

  Milly scooted away, swiveled on the bench, and assessed Phee. “That sounds a good deal like affection.”

  “Irrelevant.” Foolhardy too. Kit wasn’t a man she could ever trust with her heart again. “He’ll return to London soon.” And she would return to tutoring, writing, and attempting to hold her household together for Juliet’s sake.

  Phee straightened her back, sitting up tall. “Next time I shall be better prepared.”

  “Certainly, my dear.” Milly tapped her lip thoughtfully. “But a lady shouldn’t throw away a perfectly good opportunity.”