Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  He grinned, as if he didn’t believe a word of her denial. Which, of course, caused her gaze to fix on his mouth.

  “You have just offered me a business proposal,” she reminded him. “You can’t combine kissing and commerce.”

  “Can you not?” Kit smirked, and Phee wondered if he often kept company with women who made kissing, and other intimacies, their business.

  “You’re a scoundrel.”

  Kit shrugged. “I know.” No shame. No sign of those regrets he claimed to bear. He watched her with a flirtatious glint in his eyes, as if she was a confection he wished to savor.

  Phee did her best not to scream in frustration.

  “I fully acknowledge that I know much more about pleasure than business.” He stepped toward her, bridging all the distance she’d created. “But you seem to forget one relevant fact.”

  “Which is?” She tapped her foot and crossed her arms. She was the one who recalled facts. He was the man who behaved as if their painful history was a distant memory.

  “You refused my business proposal, Ophelia. Thus, there’s nothing to keep us from”—he lifted his hand and gripped her chin, sweeping the pad of his thumb across her lower lip—“indulging any urge.”

  Phee jerked her head away from his fingers and snorted, then closed her eyes in horror. She never snorted. She taught her students not to snort. The man was so provoking, he made her forget every bit of decorum she touted to other young ladies.

  Skirting past him, she began striding toward the train station.

  Kit was on her heels a moment later. “Are you angry with me because I wish to publish your book or because I want to kiss you again?”

  “Both.” She kept marching toward the station. In a few pavement-eating strides Kit overtook her and planted himself in her path.

  “Hyde Park is just there. Let me walk with you. We have to pass through to get to the station anyway.” He offered her his arm, as any gentleman would when escorting his lady. Except that she wasn’t his lady, and never would be.

  A few blocks ahead, the park’s close-clipped grass gave off a verdant scent in the midday sun, and the Serpentine glittered at its center. On each visit to London, the park beckoned to Phee more persistently than a siren. She often walked through to get to her destination but suspected there was much more to see.

  Phee started walking again, but at a slower pace, and Kit fell in step beside her. Her silence seemed to unnerve him. He flicked his gaze toward her face a dozen times over the distance of a city block.

  “You needn’t look so grim, Phee. I promise not to kiss you again.” When she glanced up to gauge his sincerity, he winked and added, “Unless you ask very nicely.”

  Total and absolute rogue.

  He led her toward one of the quieter paths through the park, exactly the kind she preferred to traverse when visiting Wellbeck’s. He seemed to know the area well and veered toward a spot where vendors sold food and wares from carts.

  “Fortification for our journey?” He paid a man for a bag of roasted chestnuts and headed for a bench near the water. “Why don’t we sit?”

  She shook her head. Firmly. “I hadn’t planned on stopping.”

  “Just for a moment while we eat.” He softened his tone, tipped his head, and waited.

  Apparently he remembered enough of their past to recall that nothing persuaded her as effectively as allowing her time to make her own decisions.

  “Very well,” she finally agreed, “but only for a moment.”

  After they were seated, Kit bounced a hot chestnut in his palm until it cooled, peeled back its shell, and offered her the first delicacy.

  Slightly sweet, the texture was smooth, almost buttery, on her tongue. Kit watched her so hungrily she turned her gaze from his. Finally, he settled back against the bench and fixed his attention on boaters rowing across the Serpentine.

  Phee took the opportunity to study him. His waistcoat had been fashioned in a lovely dark green fabric, but the garment was old, frayed at the edges. His outmoded suit did nothing to diminish the striking contrast of his trim waist and wide chest and shoulders. His black trousers were tight rather than tailored, revealing every muscular inch of his long legs. He wore his necktie looser than most and left his long hair to its own disheveled devices, except for his nervous habit of lifting a hand to push back the wave that continually hugged his forehead. She thought again how his looks hadn’t changed, only improved.

  “Surely staring at men isn’t among the advice you offer in your book. If so, I’m definitely not allowing Clarissa to read it.” Apparently nothing about his love for teasing her had changed.

  Phee ignored his remark and reached into the bag for another chestnut. He seemed less interested in partaking than in watching her enjoy the treat.

  “Your book truly is some of the cleverest writing I’ve read in a long while.”

  Phee pressed a fist to her mouth to keep from choking. The man would choose to shock her with a compliment when her mouth was full.

  “Thank you,” she finally managed. “As clever as your plays?”

  Kit cast her a sideways grin. “My plays are popular. I’m not sure they’re terribly ingenious.” He looked out toward the Serpentine again. “Though I hope to change that.”

  “How?”

  He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs. “I have an opportunity to write a play for the grandest theater in London.” When he slumped back beside her, his weight caused the bench to vibrate. He let out a breathy chuckle. “Now I simply have to pull it off.”

  “You will.”

  He looked her way again, gifting her with a blinding smile. “I’m not sure I deserve such conviction.”

  Phee wasn’t sure either, particularly in matters of the heart. But tenacity? The drive to achieve his goals? No one could doubt Kit on those counts.

  They fell silent, and Phee noticed his scent, the rise and fall of his chest, his thigh and arm and elbow pressed against hers. Being with him was too easy.

  “If I’d gone on an adventure with you, where did you plan to take me?” Phee disliked unknowns. Plans and looking ahead to the next task on her list made her days manageable.

  “Telling you would ruin the surprise.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “You used to.” His deep-set eyes were shockingly intense.

  Phee glanced down and fussed with the cuffs of her coat, anything to avoid the snare of Kit’s gaze. “Did you think I wouldn’t change in four years?” She steeled herself and glanced up. “Perhaps you rarely spared a thought for me at all.”

  Kit’s jaw tightened and his body jolted as if she’d struck him. He shot to his feet, and she expected him to walk away. Instead, he took two steps, turned, and approached until they were toe to toe. He leaned over her, bracing his palms on the back of the bench next to her shoulders. Arms caging her in, he hovered over her. Phee tipped her head back.

  “I thought of you, Ophelia.” His voice grew husky, barely above a whisper. “Too bloody often.”

  Phee clenched the wooden slats of the bench next to her thighs until her hands burned.

  “Did I ever cross your mind?” He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head until they were nose to nose. “Kiss me, Ophelia,” he rasped, more plea than command.

  Tension wracked Phee’s body. One inch forward and she could taste him again, drown in his intoxicating kisses, but she couldn’t give him what he asked. Couldn’t give in to what she wanted. One taste and she’d want more. Risk more.

  He’d just told her his desire was to be here in London, writing a play for a grand playhouse. The city was where he longed to be. And the theater, where he thrived as he never had in Briar Heath.

  She shook her head, never breaking their locked gaze.

  Kit did. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. “I always knew your stubbornness would be the death of me.”

  He lifted his hands from the bench, stood in front of her, and shoved
a shaky hand through his hair.

  Phee was shaking too, trembling from her forehead—where she still felt his heat—to the tips of her toes.

  “We must have some fun before returning.” Kit pointed to the stand of boats for hire along the east end of the lake. “Shall we?”

  She’d often mused about renting one of the boats but had never had the gumption to do it alone. The breeze on the lake would be cool, the lap of the water soothing. Her legs still quivered like jelly, but eagerness to be on the water propelled her off the bench.

  When she wobbled on her first step, Kit reached out and clasped her wrist. “So, to be clear, that’s a yes to boating and a no to kissing?” he asked, his tone playful.

  “Yes.” Phee couldn’t resist a fleeting grin. The man’s persistence knew no bounds.

  Stepping close, so near his legs tangled in her skirt, he stroked his finger along her wrist. Sensation flamed where he touched her and unfurled in ribbons of heat down the length of her body. “Do you have any idea how much I love hearing that word from your lips?”

  “Miss Marsden?” Lord Dunstan’s voice sounded in the distance. “You’re in London.”

  Kit winced, and Phee stepped away from him, pressing the back of her hand to the fire in her cheeks. In the minutes it took the baron to reach their side, Phee willed her heartbeat to steady, and Kit let out a ragged sigh.

  “Good afternoon, Ruthven. Back in your old stomping grounds, I see.” As Dunstan spoke to Kit, Phee felt the baron’s eyes on her. She prayed her cheeks weren’t still ruddy. “Are you headed to the station, Miss Marsden? The two o’clock train?”

  “Yes.” The word burst out, and she couldn’t take it back. Returning home made sense. Boating with Kit made none at all.

  Kit blinked, his mouth open, shock and disappointment written in every line of his face, every muscle of his tensed stance. “I thought—”

  “I should get back home. No matter how much London makes me wish to linger, time is always better spent seeing to duties at home.” Phee spoke the words with such careful deliberation, both men frowned. She referred to Kit as much as to the city and wondered if he caught her meaning.

  “We should be off,” Lord Dunstan insisted. “The trains wait for no man or gentlewoman.”

  Kit said nothing when she offered him a polite “good day” and started off with the baron. Each step toward the station grew heavier, as if the pavement had turned to sand under her feet. Phee resisted the urge to look back.

  “Miss Marsden?” A rush of warmth washed over her at the sound of his voice. Kit approached in quick thudding steps. “I believe you forgot something.”

  Phee closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned to face him. Lord Dunstan huffed a sigh and yanked out his pocket watch to emphasize the need for haste.

  “Your list.” Kit lifted the folded paper from his waistcoat pocket and reached for her hand, pressing the square into her palm. “I wouldn’t want you to forget what you should do.”

  He strode west, his enormous gait allowing him to disappear around a corner before Phee and Dunstan resumed their walk toward the station.

  The baron remained quiet until they’d taken seats opposite each other in the train car. “Quite a coincidence that your path should cross Mr. Ruthven’s during your London outing.” He examined her face, but Phee refused to be baited. Of all the man’s traits she found irritating, Dunstan’s attempts to manage her rankled most.

  “Perhaps London isn’t as large as it seems, my lord.”

  “London is the largest capital in the world,” he snapped, as if offended on the metropolis’s behalf. “The city’s population exceeds four million.”

  “Then it’s quite a coincidence our paths crossed too, my lord.”

  “Fortuitous, Miss Marsden. Since returning from my travels, I’ve hoped for a private word between us.” He paused, inhaling sharply. “I wish to renew my proposal.”

  Phee clenched her jaw, and the rest of her body followed suit, muscles tensing one by one. The minute she’d stepped into the train car with Lord Dunstan, she feared he might broach the topic.

  “I won’t press you for an answer here and now,” he reassured. “I merely wish you to know my intentions have not altered.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She was truly grateful for the reprieve, especially considering that her own intentions—about Kit, her book, and the baron’s proposal—were more muddled than ever.

  When she said nothing more, Lord Dunstan took up a copy of The Sporting News discarded by a previous passenger and began reading.

  “Is that the Times, my lord?” The folded issued lay on the seat adjacent to the baron’s thigh. Phee lifted her hand, and he passed her the newspaper.

  She tried to read but found herself flipping pages, seeing none of the words. Questions filled her mind. Where had Kit rushed off to? To his theater or London lodgings? To visit a woman who awaited his return to the city?

  A handful of encounters after four years, and the man could still steer her from all her practical intentions. She laid the newspaper aside and dug in her pocket for her list. What she should do, he’d called it. Easily said for a man who’d only ever done what he wished, who’d shirked every duty.

  The paper in her pocket felt odd in her fingertips, a smoother texture than the type she used for her daily lists. She unfolded the scrap, noting its yellowed and tattered edges.

  It wasn’t her list at all but a slip of paper containing her own words. Words she’d written to Kit years before. Follow your heart and flourish.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Marriage is the rightful pursuit of every young lady, but wedlock should be entered into solemnly, with full knowledge of its duties and obligations.”

  —THE RUTHVEN RULES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  Four days after parting from Phee in Hyde Park, Kit hadn’t called on her, written to her, or climbed the tree by the stream hoping to find her rambling by. The lady asked that they keep their distance. So be it.

  But he hadn’t been idle. Not entirely, anyway. He’d paced his father’s rug until his feet ached, discovered and downed the old man’s secret stash of whiskey, and even managed to add a few pages to his play for Fleet.

  But throughout all his days of fortitude, he’d ached—his chest, his head, every inch of his body that he longed to mold against Phee’s.

  How could the woman kiss him with such passion one day and reject him the next?

  He refused to pine. He was a rogue, and pining was out of the question. But he ached, and when he woke up on the morning of the long-touted village fete, he dressed and sped down the stairs with more haste than he had in four days.

  After agreeing to Phee’s request for help at the event, he’d received a note from Lady Millicent informing him of his essential role as a judge. As far as he could tell, it would involve sampling pies and tarts. Not, unfortunately, Phee’s lips.

  Now, sitting on the drawing room settee, his body buzzed with energy. He was eager to get to the festival grounds, but his sister insisted on having her say first.

  “Clary must not accompany you.” Sophia circled the drawing room, twisting mercilessly at a long strand of jet beads around her neck. She had turned fretting into a fine art. Even worked up as she was—color high, eyes shooting green fire—Sophia walked like a debutante who’d spent months balancing books on her head to improve her posture. “In a few months, perhaps exceptions could be endured, but we’re not even a week past the funeral.”

  “Village fetes are meant to be enjoyed by the young.” Kit adjusted his new tie and pulled down the edges of the waistcoat he’d found waiting for him in his bedchamber. The charcoal gray wasn’t what he would have chosen for himself, but he recognized Sophia’s exquisite taste in the fashionable cut of the garment and Clarissa’s penchant for decoration in the intricate pattern of leaves and flourishes embroidered into the fabric.

  “Did you drink too much absinthe while you were in London?” His sister cast him an expectant
look, one blonde brow quirked high on her forehead.

  “Never cared for the green fairy myself.” Kit frowned. “Wait, how do you know about absinthe?”

  “I do read, Christopher.” Sophia sometimes employed an imperious tone to deflect questions she wished to avoid. The tactic worked a charm when he was young. Not anymore.

  “I’ve no doubt you do, but now I find myself wondering exactly what kind of books you read.” He quite liked the notion of Sophia rebelling against their father by reading books he’d denounce. She’d never been carefree, even as a child, but Kit found himself wishing for a means to ease her worries so that the curious young woman she’d once been could emerge again.

  “I asked about drink because your memory continues to fail you. Have you forgotten everything about Briar Heath?”

  If only he had. If only the place wasn’t getting under his skin a bit more each day he remained. If only he didn’t enjoy knowing Ophelia was close by, that the spot in England where he laid his head at night was a brisk walk away from where she lay hers.

  “As children, we looked forward to the May fair all year,” he reminded her. Three-legged races, the egg-and-spoon race, the steeplechase. Running out of doors seemed to figure a great deal in every childhood memory. And Ophelia. She was there too, whenever he looked back.

  Sophia took a seat in the chair across him, folded her hands primly in her lap, and took a deep breath. “Lady Pembry’s annual festival is nothing like the May fair. The countess and Miss Marsden’s mother never intended their ladies’ autumn flower show to spawn a village celebration.”

  “How frightful for them.” Kit couldn’t resist quoting their father. “Public celebration is such a nuisance.”

  “At least you haven’t forgotten your skill for sarcasm.” She heaved a sigh. “The fall festival has become a competition of sorts, not just flowers but baked goods, handicrafts, even technological marvels.”

  “Perfect. Something to feed Clarissa’s curiosity and get her out in fresh air.”

  “Kit.” Impressive how Sophia managed to infuse the single syllable with so much disapproval by simply making her voice rise at the end.