Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  “Forgive me for telling you in this way. And at this moment. He only informed me minutes before you arrived. I should have told you immediately.” Mr. Talbot laid his hand tentatively on her shoulder, withdrawing it a moment later. “I am sorry, Miss Marsden.”

  Phee nodded and tried to remember how to breathe.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Adamson,” her soon-to-be-former editor said to a young man who opened the door of Ruthven Publishing to them.

  “Yes, of course. Right this way.” The clerk gestured to a room off a large main office that hummed with activity.

  Why were they here? The entire meeting was pointless now. She’d barely earned enough to justify the hours she’d spent writing Guidelines. If the first print run was selling well, more funds would be coming. That was a relief. Telling herself that she’d no longer need to worry about others learning she’d written the book eased her mind too. Yet it all still dropped down on her like failure.

  Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines was more than a collection of controversial advice to young ladies. The work represented her heartfelt beliefs, and more, her independence. An attempt to strike out and earn by doing something she loved.

  Talbot exchanged greetings with Mr. Adamson, who immediately stepped toward Phee.

  “You must be Miss Marsden.” The man looked like a pugilist stuffed into a gentleman’s suit, broad and muscled, with striking blue eyes and hair blacker than Kit’s.

  As soon as he turned to lead them into his office, the air shifted, and Phee sniffed an appealing scent. Coffee, rich and smoky, and another aroma. Kit. His scent—sandalwood and cinnamon and the green of the countryside—wafted out of the office behind Mr. Adamson.

  Panic kicked her pulse into a canter. With Talbot behind her and Adamson ahead, there was no place to go. Not a single moment to catch her breath or stop her heart from trying to thrash its way out of her chest.

  The Ruthven Publishing man stepped aside and gestured for them to enter his office.

  Phee looked straight into the honey brown eyes of the man she’d spent the entire morning trying not to think about. Years trying to forget.

  Kit stood near a desk, frozen at the sight of her. He gripped a cup suspended halfway to his mouth, his knuckles as white as the porcelain.

  “May I present our proprietor, the younger Mr. Ruthven? Fortuitous timing has allowed him to join our meeting.”

  Adamson gestured them toward chairs, and Mr. Talbot moved to take his. Phee and Kit stood motionless, staring at each other, mouths agape. Phee snapped her jaw shut first and forced her legs to carry her to a chair near Talbot.

  “Miss Marsden. Or do you prefer Miss Gilroy?” Adamson pulled a copy of her book from his desk. Numerous pages were marked with slips of paper.

  “Miss Marsden writes under a pen name.” Mr. Talbot jumped in before she could answer. “But she is anxious that her real name not be associated with Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines. She teaches decorum to those more favorable to Mr. Ruthven’s precepts. She knew the elder Mr. Ruthven, you see.”

  “She knew me.” Kit’s possessive tone made the claim sound like a brag. He reached for her book, lifting it off of Mr. Adamson’s desk. “We grew up together.”

  Phee ground her teeth and glared at Kit. Aside from the irritation of being talked about rather than to—a common dilemma for ladies that she’d addressed in chapter of twelve of Guidelines—she prayed he’d refrain from revealing more of their past relationship.

  As if he read her mind, Kit winked at her and added, “Your secrets are safe with me, Miss Marsden.”

  The two editors exchanged a raised-brow glance before Mr. Talbot cleared his throat and interjected, “I know you have specific questions you wish to address, Mr. Adamson, but I received some unexpected news this morning . . . ” He cast a questioning look at Phee, as if seeking her approval to proceed.

  Gratified to finally be acknowledged directly, she nodded. Her editor took a deep breath before continuing.

  A burst of deep rumbling laughter stopped him short. Kit, standing rather than sitting as the all the rest of them were, smiled at Phee over the edge of her book. “You wrote this? It’s extraordinary.” He flipped pages and skimmed the printed words. “I think you challenged every rule my father wrote.”

  “Thus, our potential suit, Mr. Ruthven.” Adamson tapped the bookmarked volume on his desk. “And the newspapers’ references to ‘Etiquette Wars.’ More a battle of principles over profligacy, if you ask me.”

  Kit came around and planted himself at the front edge of Adamson’s desk, directly in front of Phee. The long length of his thighs filled her view. His bulk nearly blocked out Adamson’s own broad frame. For a moment, he stared at the inches of carpet between their feet. Then his gaze lifted, along with one corner of his mouth. “I knew the high-necked gowns were a disguise.” He whispered the words as if the two editors weren’t sitting near enough to hear. “You’re not some dour governess. You’re Athena, wise and fierce, underneath all of that propriety and starch.”

  “Stop talking nonsense.” He’d always had a talent for fantasy, for allowing his imagination unfettered freedom. She suspected it made him an excellent playwright. But Phee couldn’t afford fantasy. She could barely afford another one of the high-necked gowns he obviously disdained.

  Mr. Talbot, eyes bulging and skin reddening from holding his breath, blurted, “I’m afraid this meeting is a waste of time. I regret to say that Wellbeck’s will no longer publish Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines for Young Ladies.”

  Every gaze riveted on her, but Phee studied the whorls in the polished wood of Mr. Adamson’s desk near Kit’s muscular thigh. Heat flared in her cheeks like a freshly fed fire. She didn’t care if Mr. Talbot told the truth of the matter, but it stung that the tall, dark man towering over all of them was privy to her failure.

  “Excellent news.” Kit lifted her book in the air and beamed one of his infectious smiles.

  Phee pressed a fist to the aching knot tightening in her chest. Impulsive, Kit had always been. A fantasist, perhaps. But never cruel. Indeed, he’d spent their childhood protecting her, showing her kindness when other children offered taunts because of her red hair and Shakespearean name. Was he truly so happy to see the downfall of a Ruthven Rules competitor? Especially if she was the competitor?

  “You are out of order, Mr. Ruthven,” Mr. Talbot exclaimed in the loudest voice she’d ever heard him employ. “This is no time for mirth.”

  “Oh, but it is.” Kit stepped forward, so close his spice and greenery cologne scented every breath Phee took. He tossed her book back and forth between his palms, smiling down at the slim red volume. “If you’re not going to publish Miss Marsden’s book, then Ruthven’s will.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “In matters of fashion, meal planning, and social diversions, a feminine opinion should be consulted on all occasions. But for life’s momentous choices, good sense should lead every young lady to lean on the wisdom of her father, husband, or brothers—men who place her happiness above their own.”

  —THE RUTHVEN RULES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  “Never forfeit your choices, ladies. Devote as much—no, more!—diligent thought and honest soul-searching to the great decisions of your life as you do to the selection of a fine hat at the milliner’s or a juicy novel at the lending library.”

  —MISS GILROY’S GUIDELINES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  “No!” Phee shot of out of her chair and stood before him, her bosom grazing his chest.

  Kit relished the patches of pink staining her cheeks and the fire sparking in her eyes. Finally, a glimpse of the Ophelia he remembered, the fiery young woman who’d held him completely in her thrall.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Ruthven.” Adamson cut in gruffly. “While I am still managing editor at Ruthven Publishing, I will decide which books we acquire.”

  “Then you may not be managing editor for long.” Kit didn’t intend to carry through with the threat. Not entirely, anyway. The man seemed competen
t enough and couldn’t be held responsible for his father’s poor decisions, but fitting in the same room with Adamson’s overconfidence was going to be a challenge.

  “This is highly unusual. Not at all appropriate,” Talbot muttered.

  “Wellbeck is our competitor,” Adamson pointlessly announced, his polished accent slipping as a bit of East End cockney filtered into his speech. “Miss Marsden—or Miss Gilroy, as she styles ’erself—and that bloody book are outselling The Ruthven Rules for Young Ladies.”

  “All the more reason to publish it.” Kit didn’t look at him, didn’t want to bother with anyone but Ophelia. He could feel her breath lashing his face, see her chest heaving. If he dared one completely improper step forward, he’d be pressed against her, able to feel the racing beat of her heart reverberating through his body.

  “Let me publish your book,” he whispered for her ears alone.

  “No.” She swallowed and breathed deep, closing her eyes so that he could study the fan of sable lashes on her flushed cheek. When those lashes fluttered up, she shot him a fearsome glare. “If I’d wanted your father to publish my book, I would have submitted it to him.”

  “And he would have rejected it,” Adamson threw in.

  Kit cast the young man a quelling look, intimidating enough to earn him blessed silence, followed by an irritated sniff.

  In the moment it took to quiet Adamson, Ophelia stepped away. She planted herself in front of the office’s single window and stared out on the busy thoroughfare beyond.

  “You cannot be serious, Mr. Ruthven.” Talbot approached, mashing his hands together nervously. “Mr. Wellbeck won’t be pleased with this turn of events.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have decided to stop publishing Miss Marsden’s book.” Kit felt no ire toward Talbot or Wellbeck. They’d provided him with an opportunity. A chance to bolster sales. A perfect excuse to do something to redeem himself in Ophelia’s eyes. That was what he craved most of all.

  “Mr. Wellbeck made a practical decision.” Adamson dared to interject but this time more quietly, his posh accent back in place. “Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines has attracted a good deal of attention but not the sort any respectable publisher would covet.”

  “I thought you planned to sell your father’s publishing business.” Her voice. Finally. The only sound Kit wished to hear.

  “Indeed, but I must make it successful first.” Kit approached her, trying to leave her space, loath to box her in.

  “Success is—” Adamson started, but Kit lifted a finger to stop him.

  The room clouded with quiet tension. Kit heard Talbot drawing a breath to speak, and then Adamson, who never seemed to run out of words, but he only wanted to listen to Ophelia. One word.

  “Let me do this for you,” he said quietly to the soldier-straight line of her back.

  “No.” She whirled on him, setting red-gold strands ripping loose of their pins. The tight coiffure she wore settled in a wavy bundle at the base of her neck. She was too busy glaring at him to notice.

  One by one, Ophelia cast a scathing glance at each man in the room. “I won’t have any of you gentlemen deciding my fate. And you.” She turned to Kit, poking a finger into the center of his chest. “I don’t need you to save me.”

  When he reached up to grasp the long, slim finger digging into his waistcoat, she yanked her hand away and swept past him. “Good day to you, Mr. Adamson. Thank you for your faith in me, Mr. Talbot.” She cast Kit a glance over her shoulder. “Good-bye, Mr. Ruthven.”

  “Sir.”

  “Mr. Ruthven.”

  Adamson and Talbot started a chorus of protest, but Kit couldn’t be bothered with their concerns. “Not now, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lady to pursue.”

  “How dare he?” Phee huffed and grumbled under her breath as she stomped away from Ruthven Publishing’s offices.

  She couldn’t let him publish her book. Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines represented her one taste of independence, an accomplishment she’d achieved on her own. Whatever she could earn from the book mattered less than keeping it out of the hands of Ruthven Publishing.

  If Kit thought he could make amends by publishing her book, he was wrong. Did the infuriating man actually think he could undo all the years of missing him, aching to hear his voice, longing to touch him? No matter how many copies he printed, he could never give her back all those lonely years of wondering why he’d never returned.

  For a while she’d decided he simply didn’t care. That he was the selfish, depraved pleasure-seeker his father accused him of being. Except that she knew him better.

  When he’d gone away to pursue his dream of being a playwright, she’d tried to love him enough with all the pieces of her broken heart to wish him well. Truly, she’d tried.

  Follow your heart and flourish.

  Through a blur of tears, she’d printed her mother’s favorite saying on a square of paper in an attempt to close a chapter. She’d meant the saying as a reminder to herself as much as a wish for Kit. She would carry on with her life, and Kit with his.

  It was none of her business if he found happiness in the arms of seductive actresses or a passel of stage-door admirers.

  Scoundrel.

  His brief return to Briar Heath changed nothing. Memories of a few breath-stealing kisses were all she’d have when he returned to the city. He’d asked to publish her book, but he wouldn’t offer more. Even allowing him to publish wouldn’t truly bind them together, since he’d expressed a desire to sell Ruthven Publishing as soon as he was able.

  “Ophelia.” Kit’s deep voice rang out, and Phee jerked to a stop. Then she started walking again, quickening her pace. A few minutes of him gazing at her with those sultry eyes, beseeching her with sweet words, and she’d be tempted to agree to his ridiculous notion of publishing her book. Or worse, she’d let her gaze stray to his mouth and kiss him again.

  She called back, “Please leave me alone.” As you did for four years.

  His footfalls stopped, and Phee slowed her pace. Another set of footsteps sounded from behind, but they weren’t his. Even the rhythm of his gait was stuck in her head. A moment later a gentleman passed and tipped his bowler in her direction.

  Maybe Kit had retreated and gone back to his father’s office.

  Spotting a bookshop window, Phee approached to gaze at blue leather-bound copies of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. Tilting her head slightly, she cast a sideways glance down the lane.

  Kit stood—no, reclined was a more accurate description—against a gate post. As soon as he noticed her looking his way, he latched his hands behind his back and turned, scanning the skyline, then a patch of neatly cut grass beyond a fence.

  Phee huffed out a sigh, took a bolstering breath, and started toward him. “You’re not going away, are you?”

  He pivoted gracefully and ducked his head, causing a few silky strands of black hair to spill onto his forehead. When he drew near, her fingers itched to stroke them aside.

  “I am, actually. Returning to the same village you are. Perhaps we could share a train car.” He did that thing with his voice, pitched it into deep resonant bass notes that echoed in her chest.

  “Nothing you say will convince me to let you publish my book.”

  “You do realize you’ve just issued a challenge?” He squinted one eye and tipped the corner of his mouth in a smirk.

  “No, I didn’t.” Or at least she hadn’t meant to, though she wasn’t a bit surprised he’d take it as such. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid bickering with you isn’t on my list today.” To distract herself from staring into his green-flecked eyes, she dug in her skirt pocket for her task list. She needed to hold it in her hands, focus on what needed to be accomplished. Kit was ephemeral, his presence temporary. He belonged in his vibrant, bustling city. One glance at his languid ease as others rushed past proved how completely he’d embraced London’s bustle.

  “Let me see that.” He offered his sizable pa
lm. For some unfathomable reason, she laid her list down obligingly.

  Flipping the paper upright with a flick of his fingers, he scanned her list and chuckled.

  “Something amusing?”

  “No.” He furrowed his brow. “That’s the problem. Don’t you ever allow yourself a moment of enjoyment?”

  After haphazardly folding her list and shoving it into his coat pocket, he reached out and took her hand, enfolding it completely in his.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice sounded appropriately indignant, but she didn’t resist or pull away as she ought.

  “I’m going to take you on an adventure.” Kit drew her an inch closer, linking their arms at the elbow. “London is filled with amusements. Let’s find some.”

  She should have refused, had intended to the moment he reached for her. But his body was enticingly warm, and he gazed at her with mirth dancing in his eyes. Phee missed that most of all. He’d always been the puckish one, encouraging her to set aside worries and pull her from duty into a bit of mischief.

  “We have a train to catch,” Phee reminded him. So much for lingering in London to avoid facing Kit again.

  “Then you will share a train car with me?” A soft grin widened his mouth and a crescent dimple emerged on his left cheek. Clasping her arm, he started forward at a blistering pace, as if he feared she might change her mind about allowing him to lead her off on some unknown diversion.

  “Where are you taking me?” As a rule, Phee loathed the unknown and unexpected. Misfortune came too often without warning. “To see a play?”

  He slowed his stride so quickly she nearly stumbled. “Would you like to attend a play?”

  “Only if it’s one of yours.” The truth came out before she could think of anything less enthusiastic to say.

  “Be careful, Phee.” He lifted a finger and swept it down her cheek, drawing close to whisper in her ear. “I’ll kiss you again right here if you keep talking to me so sweetly.”

  She dodged away, slipping her arm from his. “No, you won’t, and I don’t have time for an adventure.”