Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  “I own half her land. Why not the rest?” The baron turned to look through the conservatory’s glass walls. “Dunstan land stretches west of this estate as far as the eye can see. Go back in village history far enough, and you’ll find Longacre belonged to my family, not hers.”

  The man had always been an insufferable prig, but now Kit realized he was also a fool. No one who cared for Phee could imagine her as a secondary prize to the acquisition of land. And he did care. Still. Far too much.

  “You approached me to discuss your father’s business, Ruthven. Name your price and tell me your man of business. I’ll make inquiries and consider the purchase. Land provides a paltry income these days. Clever gentlemen recognize the need to choose diverse investments.”

  Kit ignored the implication that he was no gentleman and stared at the aristocrat’s smug smirk, imagining different choices he could have made.

  What if he’d stayed and taken over the publishing business as his father insisted? What if he’d offered Phee the life she deserved, a stable future with wealth enough to provide for all their needs?

  “You’re having second thoughts about selling?”

  Apparently he wasn’t a very good actor. “I meet with our London manager next week. I’ll know more then.”

  “Very well. Come to Dunstan Park when you return.” The baron offered the slightest of nods, all a commoner like Kit merited for leave-taking. “Good day, Ruthven.”

  A deep sigh fought its way up Kit’s chest. Just before he exhaled, Dunstan turned back.

  “Yes, do come to the house, Ruthven. You did know Miss Marsden once. Perhaps you can give me a bit of insight into how best to woo the lady.”

  Kit rallied all he knew about acting to summon a blank expression. Dunstan nodded again. Kit nodded too, only to get the man to leave.

  Two words rang in his head, echoing through every fiber of his being. Hell, no.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Once you’ve reasoned through arguments, consulted your common sense, and come to a decision, trust in your own judgement, ladies.”

  —MISS GILROY’S GUIDELINES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  The morning after Lady Pembry’s committee meeting, Phee headed out of doors for an early walk to sort her thoughts. At one point she veered toward Lord Dunstan’s estate, stopped, turned back, retraced her path for several steps, and then pivoted to pace in the direction of his home once again.

  Leaving matters unfinished wasn’t her way. She hated loose threads, unchecked items on lists, and unanswered questions. Now that Dunstan was back in Briar Heath, she could no longer put off responding to his proposal.

  Never mind who else had returned to the village. Kit had no part to play in her future.

  There was just one rather important problem with approaching Lord Dunstan.

  She hadn’t decided. Or rather, she had and then changed her mind. She’d never been so muddled when making a decision in her life.

  Lowering her gaze as she walked, Phee rolled her shoulders and tipped her head from side to side to ease the tension in her neck. Unfortunately, she had no cure for the tangle of unease in her chest.

  She pulled a piece of folded foolscap from her skirt pocket. Two columns laid out the reasons for and arguments against accepting Dunstan’s proposal. The list of reasons to marry was considerably longer than the other.

  Phee shoved the list away. She wasn’t even convinced by her own arguments.

  Birdsong and the sound of water bubbling over rocks drew her to a side path running near Dunstan’s stream. She’d loved the spot since childhood and spent many days in or near the water.

  “Thinking of wading in?”

  Phee inhaled sharply and jerked her gaze upward, following the sound of Kit’s voice. He sat on the thick branch of an old tree, one long leg dangling, one booted foot braced against the oak’s massive trunk.

  “No, but that tree is ancient, so you’re likely to fall in.”

  He chuckled until his laughter bloomed into a grin. “I suspect the only danger of injury would be if you decide to start skipping rocks.”

  “Nonsense. I’m quite proficient.”

  Kit lowered both legs and jumped from the oak tree, thudding to the ground in front of Phee.

  “I beg to differ.” He lifted a glossy black wave of hair from his forehead. “And I have the scar to prove it.”

  Phee longed to touch the spot where a fine line, only slightly darker than the rest of Kit’s skin, slid into his hairline. He bent at the waist to give her a better view, tempting her to reach for him. He was so close. Near enough for her to press her fingertips to his skin.

  She resisted.

  “An accident on my first attempt.” Despite her flippant reply, she remembered everything about the day he’d received the injury. Kit had been determined to teach her to skip rocks across the widest part of the stream. In her eagerness to impress him, she’d fumbled and let the smooth, heavy stone slip from her fingers too soon. “Perhaps your technique was to blame,” she teased.

  “Careful, Phee.” He leaned an inch closer. Until she could see the threads of gold twined through the brown of his eyes. Feel his breath against her skin. “Men are quite sensitive about their technique.” After arching one brow in challenge, he stared at her mouth, gazing so intently Phee thought he might claim her lips. “But I’m quite confident of mine.”

  Somehow they’d strayed from a discussion of rocks and streams.

  In a frantic attempt to steer them back, Phee whispered, “My technique has improved since you’ve been gone.”

  Kit straightened to his full height, and Phee noted the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Her own breath was coming fast too, and she turned away from him.

  “I should make my way back to Longacre.” She had duties at home, and tutees due to arrive for lessons. Enough time had been squandered this morning.

  “Show me.”

  Phee turned to find Kit squatting by the waterside, scanning the bank for prime skipping stones. She tried not to gape at the way his black trousers outlined his muscular thighs and firm backside. He collected as she watched, depositing two rocks in his waistcoat pocket and holding a third out to her.

  “Come and display your prowess, Miss Marsden.” He punctuated the words with a smile, dimples on each side of his mouth forming deep parentheses in his cheeks.

  After casting a glance in the direction of Longacre, Phee reasoned that a single throw wouldn’t take more than a moment. She stepped toward Kit and thrust out her hand. “Just once.”

  He stood and shot her a triumphant grin, dropping the rock into her palm. “If you’re that good, one try is all you’ll need.”

  Phee rubbed her fingers across the cool flat surface, recalling all his lessons and the times she’d come to this spot alone, tossing pebbles across the water to clear her thoughts.

  Of course, a large, distracting, pine-scented man hadn’t been hovering at her back during those visits.

  “You mustn’t stand so close,” she grumbled over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t wish to give you another scar.”

  In her periphery, she saw Kit lift both hands in the air and retreat several steps.

  When she took a deep breath to steady her aim, Phee noticed something in her chest had loosened. The knotted ache she’d felt all morning had begun to ease.

  Circling her thumb and forefinger around the outer edge of the stone, she pivoted left, then flung her arm out in front of her, releasing the rock parallel to the surface of the water.

  Plink. Plunge. One solid skip and the pebble sank like a millstone into the stream.

  Gritting her teeth, Phee glanced back to find Kit standing with arms crossed, one hand clamped over his mouth.

  “Hmm,” he mused, lowering his hands to his hips. “Want another go?”

  “No,” Phee ground out. “I don’t have time for foolishness. As I said, I was just on my way home.”

  “Just once more?” Kit extracted a stone from his pocket and flipped
it in his fingers.

  Phee lifted her arm stiffly, hand open. Kit didn’t drop the stone this time. He approached quickly—too quick for her to pull back—cupped her hand in his much larger palm, and curled her fingers around the little projectile.

  Jerking away, Phee unfastened the buttons on the cuff of her throwing wrist, then swung her arm back and forth to ease the snug fit of her gown.

  “Would you like assistance with your technique?” Kit queried in a playful tone.

  “No,” Phee growled.

  “Carry on, then.”

  This time Phee took more care. Gripped the rock more gently, flicked her wrist more artfully, executed her toss on a long exhale. One plop, then another, and the bit of mineral sank along with any hope of besting Kit at skipping stones.

  “You win,” Phee conceded on a sigh, gazing out to where the stream’s surface barely rippled. “I’m dreadful at this.”

  “Nonsense.” Kit spoke behind her. Too close. He lowered his voice to a soothing timbre. “You just need a bit more practice.”

  What she needed was to leave, to forget about this silly interlude.

  Then Kit touched her.

  Phee jumped at the contact but didn’t retreat. One hand lay heavy and warm against her waist. Kit held still, letting his heat seep under clothes. He held motionless, as if waiting for her to pull away.

  “Or maybe,” he whispered near her ear, “you need a reminder of technique.”

  Reaching around, he slid his fingers down her arm, deposited another stone in her palm, and clasped her hand far longer than necessary.

  “Hold it gently,” he instructed, still speaking in that low murmur that made her skin prickle with gooseflesh. “With confidence, but not too tight.”

  He pressed his body to hers. Phee could feel him at her back, his chest against her shoulders, his pelvis flush with her backside. He slid his hand across her belly, bracing her ’round the hips to twist her into position.

  “Most important of all.” His voice deepened, taking on a husky rasp that caused her toes to curl in her boots. “No matter how right the stone feels in your fingers.” He curved his hand over hers. “You must be willing to let go.” He spoke against her skin, his mouth skimming her cheek.

  In one swift move, he eased her arm back and pushed forward. Phee let go. Plink, plink, plink, plink. A dozen lovely circles rippled out from each spot where the stone touched water.

  She could feel the curve of Kit’s grin against her face where he continued to nuzzle her cheek.

  “Well done,” he praised.

  It was all too much. He overwhelmed her senses—his heat, his scent, his pleased tone.

  When Phee stiffened in his embrace, he released her. “I must go. I have someplace I need to be.” And it definitely wasn’t here in his arms.

  “May I walk with you?”

  “No.” She couldn’t meet his gaze as she ran a hand over her hair to make sure her pins hadn’t come loose. At every encounter, the man seemed to unravel her a bit more. “While you’re visiting Briar Heath, we should keep our distance.”

  Kit froze as if he’d turned to stone. Feet braced, body stiff, he didn’t move or speak or given any indication he’d heard her reply. Only his eyes revealed the maelstrom. Colors swirled like clouds in a storm and then darkened as he stared at her. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

  Phee knew she should go. Now. But she found herself as fixed to the spot where she stood as he seemed to be to his patch of ground.

  “Why?” Despite his harsh tone, his face remained expressionless.

  “Why?” she echoed, knitting her brows. Because he breached her defenses too easily. Because she enjoyed his nearness too much. “Because you’ve made your choices, and I must make mine.”

  He raised his arm as if he’d reach for her. Instead, he lifted his hand and raked it through his hair. As he started past her, Phee sidestepped to prevent his arm from brushing hers.

  Kit stopped abruptly. Stepped toward her. Encircled her upper arm gently in his hand. He dipped his head until he could stare into her eyes.

  He searched her face as if he’d locked something away, and she held the key. When he licked his lips, Phee’s gaze snagged on a mouth she knew too well—full, sensual, tender when he wished to tease; firm when he wished to plunder.

  Heaven help her, she wanted his kiss. Just one more time.

  But he didn’t kiss her. Not even close. He lowered his head, closed his eyes a moment, and sucked in a deep lungful of air.

  Then he let her go.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Croft.” Kit settled into the miserable chair behind his father’s desk as he welcomed the paper manufacturer and his wife. “And Mrs. Croft.”

  The lady lifted her eyes from a copy of his father’s etiquette book only long enough to acknowledge his welcome.

  Croft had been the first to respond to a round of notes Kit sent out to his father’s associates, hoping to find a buyer for Ruthven Publishing who wasn’t Lord Dunstan. Kit knew next to nothing about conducting business meetings, but Croft surprised him by arriving at Ruthven Hall with his wife. Though Mrs. C. appeared more content to listen than participate. She’d plucked a copy of The Ruthven Rules for Young Ladies from a shelf before taking a chair beside her husband.

  “Appreciate the invitation, Mr. Ruthven,” Mr. Croft said in his deep, rumbling voice. “We offer our condolences.”

  Kit nodded and considered all he knew about the man and his business. Sophia insisted Croft was one of Ruthven Publishing’s key associates, and she’d heard their father mention Croft’s interest in starting his own publishing business. If it was true, Kit hoped to make the man an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Croft interjected, keeping her eyes glued to the pages of his father’s book. Her silver brows furrowed as she continued to read. “Ridiculous.”

  “Have you found an exciting bit?” Kit teased.

  Mrs. Croft cast him an unamused glance. Kit couldn’t blame her. His father’s books made him grumpy too.

  “Let me not parse words or waste your time,” he began. Drawing in a breath to voice his proposal, Kit caught scents wafting up from his clothes. Jasmine and fresh air and the water of Dunstan’s stream.

  He swallowed hard. His thoughts scattered. Scattered and reassembled in the shape of Ophelia.

  He wanted to be back on that stream bank, holding her body against his, not sitting behind a desk.

  Disturbing questions besieged him. Had her skin always been so soft? Had she always fit so perfectly in his arms?

  A drumbeat began thudding in his head.

  Had she walked away after he’d let her go and given Dunstan the answer he craved?

  “Mr. Ruthven?” Croft cleared his throat, ending on a hum like the low note of a tuba.

  “Would you like to buy my father’s business, Mr. Croft?” Kit wanted the burden gone. Needed to shake off the memories and lures of Briar Heath and return to London. Preferably before he had to stomach the news of Ophelia’s engagement.

  Croft and his wife convened a discussion, both frowning as they leaned together and whispered in each other’s ears.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Ruthven, but we assumed we’d been invited here to settle accounts.”

  “Settle accounts? By all means.” If the man was willing to buy his father’s business, Kit would throw in a jig for free.

  Mrs. Croft laid his father’s book on her lap and bent to retrieve an item from her travel satchel. “All the details are there, sir.”

  The document listed amounts owed, sums that had gone unpaid for months, judging by the dates.

  “Your father was ill,” Mrs. Croft said softly. “The arrearage is understandable, but we rather hoped you’d square the matter now.”

  Kit had yet to see the balances of Ruthven Publishing’s accounts. Sophia’s assistance with their father’s correspondence offered no insight into the ledger books. Kit hoped to learn more when he vis
ited the London office. Whatever the balance, repaying the Crofts would make a sizable dent. They’d been more than generous to allow his father to carry such a debt.

  Another thought struck, and he gripped the sheet of paper until his knuckles cracked. What if there were other such documents, other bills unpaid?

  “I’ll see that this taken care of.” He would make it his first priority when he met with Ruthven’s office manager.

  The couple exchanged a glance, then nodded at Kit in unison, apparently satisfied.

  “You’re determined to sell the concern, then?” Mr. Croft leaned forward. Was that a glint of interest in the older man’s eyes?

  “Immediately.” Kit tamped down his eagerness and cast Croft a rueful grin. “After all accounts are settled, nothing will alter my intention to sell.”

  Mrs. Croft edged forward in her chair and laid The Ruthven Rules for Young Ladies on the desk. “Forgive me saying so, Mr. Ruthven, but that book is ghastly.”

  Kit chuckled and crossed his hands over the volume. “I cannot disagree.”

  “Have you read it?” The lady narrowed an eye at him. Her interrogation style reminded him of Sophia’s.

  “I admit I have not.” He’d been forced to read the original Ruthven Rules that spawned all the others but never the additional volumes for ladies, young men, brides, and every other group his father thought required rules. One book full of his father’s strictures was enough to last him a lifetime.

  Mrs. Croft pointed a finger at the offending volume. “Ladies must not engage in commerce, according to this book. I suppose women are too delicate, too weak, to manage more than the household menu.”

  “I didn’t write the book,” Kit protested. God forbid anyone think him a champion of his father’s outdated notions.

  “His father wrote them, Nessa,” Mr. Croft pleaded with his wife on Kit’s behalf.

  The lady scrutinized, gazing at Kit without blinking. Finally, her mouth twitched into a toothy smile. “Fair enough, Mr. Ruthven, but might I offer a spot of advice?”

  “Please.” Any business advice was welcome, though he hoped to have no need for it much longer.