Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  “Dreadful is missing the target entirely, and you never do.”

  “That’s because I imagine it’s Dunstan when I aim.”

  Phee laughed and peered at the brightly painted target. “Then judging by your shot, you don’t truly wish him any harm.”

  “Nonsense,” Milly retorted. “I simply need to improve my aim.” She reached into her quiver for another arrow. “But, more importantly, what are your wishes where Dunstan is concerned?”

  Phee had already nocked her arrow and lined up her next shot, but she faltered at Milly’s question.

  “You must give the man an answer,” Milly chided gently.

  “I know.”

  “He came to visit Mama yesterday and spoke as if you’d already accepted him. Apparently silence equals acquiescence in his pompous mind.”

  “You truly loathe him.”

  Milly laughed, high-pitched with a brittle undertone. “I’m afraid I always have. From the time Mama took me to Dunstan Manor and they left us together in the nursery. As soon as Nanny turned her back, he yanked my hair.” Reaching up, she twirled a gilded brown strand around her finger. “We’ve been battling each other ever since, and there is one skirmish I’ve yet to forgive.”

  Milly was kind, infallibly loyal, and forever willing to rush to a friend’s defense. Phee couldn’t imagine what Dunstan had done to earn her longstanding ire.

  “He’s petty, Ophelia. I’d never presume to make your choices for you, but I feel you should know what he’s been saying, and what kind of man he is.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I should have told you this from the start.” Milly stared into the distance, toward a meadow strewn with golden oak leaves. “We were supposed to marry. But when I came of age, I rejected the union our parents had been orchestrating since our youth. Papa was frightfully angry. I’d offended his friend, old Lord Dunstan, you see. And Douglas too.”

  Phee rarely heard Milly refer to Lord Dunstan by his given name, and she’d never known the details of their shared history. She’d always suspected some hurt lingered between them. Every interaction she’d witnessed was tinged with bitterness.

  “After a while, he spoke to me civilly,” Milly continued. “I assumed he’d recovered from the slight, yet the moment I showed interest in another gentleman, Dunstan thwarted the match. Mama’s always been fond of Douglas. After a few warning words to her and spreading a handful of spurious rumors in the village, Dunstan achieved his goal. Papa forbade a connection I hoped might flourish with time.”

  “Mr. Biddlethwaite?” Phee swallowed hard and pressed a fist to the lump of pain pinching above her corset.

  “Yes,” Milly said quietly.

  Phee approached and placed a hand on Milly’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Milly.”

  “Thank you, my friend, but that was many years ago.”

  Phee asked softly, “You’re still in love with him?”

  “No.” Milly barely got the word out before pressing a hand to her middle. Her eyes had gone glassy, welling with emotion and unshed tears.

  Phee laid down her bow and dislodged Milly’s from her hands before settling them both on a bench near the Pembry’s back terrace. She waited until her friend quieted and took a few deep breaths.

  “You know how I detest weepy women,” Milly said through sniffles. “Now I’ve become one.”

  “You haven’t shed a single tear. I don’t think we can call it a character flaw yet.” In a quiet voice, almost a whisper, Phee said, “You never told me about Mr. Biddlethwaite.”

  “We kept our feelings secret, but Dunstan spies out everything. George was older, my brother’s friend. I’m not sure he saw me as anything other than a nuisance for years.” Milly offered Phee a tremulous grin. “Then our acquaintance blossomed into more, like you and Christopher Ruthven.”

  “There is no me and Kit.”

  “Oh Phee, you know my secret now, but I know yours too.”

  “Do you?”

  “The man has your heart, and he brought you a great deal of happiness once.” Milly clasped Phee’s hand. “Four years’ absence has not altered the way he looks at you either.”

  Milly was right. Her feelings for Kit had never waned, but she knew better than to trust his impulsive heart.

  “Kit craves freedom above all else. He’s made a life for himself in London, and hopes for more success with his plays. How could I ask him to remain in Briar Heath if he has no desire to do?”

  Milly sighed wearily.

  “Perhaps I’ll never marry.” The moment the words were out, Phee thought of London and imagined a life with Kit. She couldn’t envision a place for herself in his theater world.

  “Try harder,” Milly teased. “That wasn’t very convincing.”

  “I tried for years to forget him. Now he colors my every thought. Since father died, we’ve been making do, budgeting and curbing our wants down to needs. Now I find I want as I’ve never wanted anything before.”

  “I know a lady.” Milly tapped a finger against her lips. “A Miss Gilroy. She advises young women to take their futures into their own hands.”

  Phee chuckled. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m willing to embrace an unmarried future, but I won’t accept a bleak existence.” Milly stood to retrieve her bow and quiver. “If we’re to settle on spinsterhood, shouldn’t we seize every chance for a bit of passion?”

  Phee glanced over one shoulder and then the other, looking for servants or a village spy. “You do realize what you’re suggesting is scandalous?”

  Milly grinned. “Mama would blame it on too much novel reading.”

  “Well, neither of us would ever concede that point.” A shared love of novels had seen them through many a miserable homesick night at the boarding school.

  Milly plucked at the string of her bow. “Mama’s autumn ball is in a week. A perfect opportunity.” She nocked an arrow and took aim. The shot landed near the first, and she emitted a growl of frustration.

  “For?” Phee cocked a brow.

  “A dance, or two, with Mr. Ruthven. A private moment in the maze garden.” She tipped a grin at Phee.

  “And if a bit of passion wreaks havoc with my heart?” Phee busied herself with taking up her bow. Private moments with Kit were precisely what she’d vowed to avoid. She’d even been successful for a few days, but distance hadn’t kept him from her thoughts.

  “You wrote a book of guidelines for young ladies, my dear.” Milly turned to Phee with a hand perched on her hip. “You oversee your home and students and have a list for each day of the week. Surely you can manage your feelings for one tempting playwright.”

  So Phee had been telling herself for two weeks. And failed at miserably every time she encountered Kit.

  She took position in front of the targets next to Milly and caught her friend’s eye. “You make it all sound so simple.”

  “There is one dilemma.”

  “Just one?” Phee could think of a dozen.

  “Dunstan.” Milly had an arrow ready but waited for Phee to take her shot. “You’ve made your decision, haven’t you?”

  “Many times.” As often as she convinced herself with lists and reasons and Aunt Rose’s logical arguments, her heart rebelled. “But I cannot marry him, and I mustn’t keep him waiting any longer for my answer.”

  “Good.” Milly lifted her bow and let her arrow go quickly, more instinct than steady aim. The shot pierced the ring just left of the target’s center. She bounced on her toes and beamed at Phee triumphantly. “You should tell him before the ball. If you need me to, I’m willing to accompany you.”

  “No,” Phee said grimly. “This task is long overdue, and I must go on my own.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “When conveying unpleasant tidings, do so swiftly and honestly. A difficult truth is always preferable to a happy lie.”

  —MISS GILROY’S GUIDELINES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  The scent of coffee lured Kit out of his father’
s study toward the breakfast room like a smoky, seductive siren, and he was grateful for the reprieve. According to the paperwork Sophia stashed away, their father had been avoiding correspondence for months prior to his death. One ink supplier sent several exasperated letters before finally threatening to sever their contract altogether; another manufacturer sought a reply his father never sent, judging by the multiple missives from the company.

  Getting Ruthven Publishing into any proper state to sell would take weeks, possibly months. During which he’d need to balance work on Fleet’s play while mending business matters his father left unsettled. Managing Ruthven’s from its London office held no appeal, if it meant listening to Gabriel Adamson’s self-important rambling.

  Kit had come to the shocking realization that remaining in the home he’d been avoiding for years made sense. He’d moved out of his childhood bedroom into one of the guest suites and found countryside quiet conducive to creativity. His writing was flowing as never before.

  In the breakfast room, his sisters sat eating in companionable silence. Sophia read from a newspaper by her elbow between bites, and Clary scribbled merrily on a slip of paper next to her teacup. Something about the familiarity of the sweetly domestic scene made Kit’s chest ache.

  After exchanging greetings, he filled a plate at the sideboard, joined them, and found a neatly folded copy of the Times next to his silverware. Unfortunately, he couldn’t read a single headline because someone had placed an elegantly engraved invitation on top.

  Sophia had taken to managing his social engagements like a fussy mama maneuvers a debutante through her first Season.

  Kit skimmed the details and rolled his eyes. So much for the bliss of country life. “No one told me there would be a ball.”

  “There is always a ball, though it’s truly more of a country dance.” Sophia patted daintily at each edge of her mouth and laid down her napkin. “How could you have forgotten that Lady Pembry hosts a ball every year after the autumn festival?”

  “How could you forget I spent my youth avoiding the social obligations our father was so fond of?” He hadn’t forgotten the Pembry balls, of course. One in particular would always be seared in his memory.

  “I’d be fond of them too if I was ever allowed to go,” Clarissa groused. She hadn’t finished chewing her bite of toast before speaking and gulped a bit of tea to keep from choking.

  “Your day will come, Clary.” Sophia smiled reassuringly before flattening her mouth in chastising moue. “And don’t speak with your mouth full.”

  Clarissa nodded, waited until Sophia had gone back to sipping her tea, and rolled her eyes in Kit’s direction.

  He chuckled under his breath and lifted his cup in a toast. Your day will come, he mouthed.

  After a bracing swig of coffee, he declared, “I won’t attend.” Not only did he have a play to write and business matters to attend to, but his dancing skills were rusty. The lessons his father insisted on seemed a distant memory. He’d last danced at a London music hall while too deep in his cups to recall any of it. Nowadays, he wouldn’t know a proper quadrille from a country jig.

  “You must.” Sophia sat down the scone she’d raised to her mouth with irritated fervor. “Our family is respected in Briar Heath. Enough to receive an invitation from a countess. Father isn’t here and mourning prevents me from accepting, so you must be our representative now.”

  “Because our family is in mourning, Lady Pembry will understand if I refuse.” And he could avoid making a fool of himself in front of Briar Heath society, such as it was. And Ophelia, if she was there. He refrained from asking, loath to reveal to anyone how much their red-haired neighbor occupied his mind.

  He had a dangerous ballroom history. At the only Pembry ball he’d ever attended, he’d fallen under Ophelia’s spell. At twenty-two, he’d just returned from university in Oxfordshire. Phee had just turned eighteen. After seeing her infrequently during his years of study, that first glimpse had stolen his breath. He still wasn’t certain he’d fully recovered.

  “Brother.” Sophia set down her teacup with enough force to scrape the delicate bone china bowl against its saucer. “It will embarrass all of us if you refuse Lady Pembry.”

  “Stop fretting.” Kit laid his hand over his sister’s. Sophia was the reasonable member of the family, sensible and strong-willed, but without their father’s cruel edge. He didn’t like seeing her unsettled. “If it means that much to you, I’ll go to the damned ball.”

  After a shocked widening of her eyes, Sophia offered him the first genuine grin he’d seen since the funeral. “Thank you. You might enjoy yourself. Dancing can be invigorating. And now that you’ve inherited father’s estate, you’ll be considered quite a catch.”

  “Once they’re sure I won’t cause a scandal and they get over looking down their noses at me for how shabbily I’m dressed.” He’d worn the only decent suit he had for their father’s funeral.

  “Perhaps we could have one of Papa’s evening suits altered.” Sophia tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully.

  Clarissa giggled around a mouthful of eggs, clasping a hand over her mouth so she didn’t splutter any of them out. “Kit is exceedingly tall. Much more so than Papa. The tailor will need miles more fabric.”

  “I’ve agreed to go to the bloody dance. They’ll take me as I am.” When Sophia’s left eyebrow shot up, Kit clarified, “The polished society of Briar Heath, not the unmarried ladies. I have no interest in being caught.” Even the word sounded unappealing, like a fish snagged in a net. “Don’t expect more than my attendance.”

  “Lady Pembry will expect more. You must dance with a few of the young ladies,” Sophia pressed. “There is often a lack of eligible men to partner them.”

  “Would you like to make a list? Pick the ones you wish me to squire around the dance floor.” Poor women. “Choose those you don’t particularly like, since they’re apt to end the evening with crushed toes.”

  “Will you let me stowaway in your carriage?” Clarissa whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Not this time, love.” Not that he could imagine ever attending a country dance again, even if he made it through this one unscathed. “But perhaps you could assist me with a dance lesson or two before the ball.”

  “Miss Marsden could teach you,” Clary helpfully injected. “She gives lessons.”

  “Is there any subject she doesn’t teach?” Kit coughed down a mouthful of coffee, immediately distracted by the notion of holding Ophelia in his arms, dancing with her as he had four years ago. They’d come so close to making love that night. He’d been a fool to ever let her go.

  “She doesn’t teach taxidermy, which is a shame.” Clary slid an elbow onto the table and perched her dimpled chin on her hand, staring off wistfully. “I should very much like to learn.”

  Kit shot Sophia a worried glance, who mirrored the expression.

  “Busy yourself with teaching our brother to dance, Clary, and I’ll see if I can find him some suitable evening attire.”

  “His lordship is in the annex, Miss Marsden. Follow me, please.” Lord Dunstan’s butler intoned the information with such gravitas, Phee wondered if she was dressed well enough to enter the “annex,” whatever it might be.

  Heaving a sigh, she glanced down at her dress. She’d come straight from archery with Milly and spotted a few grass stains on her hem. Her curls felt looser, no matter how many times she pressed at the pins in her hair. She shoved them in again as she followed the butler.

  “Here we are, miss.” The servant deposited Phee on the threshold of a room similar to Pembry Park’s high-ceilinged conservatory, except there were no plants in sight. Cluttered shelves lined the walls and crates were stacked throughout. Some had been wrenched open with their straw stuffing escaping; others were seemingly untouched. She knew Dunstan was a collector, but she had no notion of the enormity of his collection.

  Phee made her way toward the sound of male voices and found Lord Dunstan and another man
near a camera in the center of the chaos. They stood in front of two long tables covered with artifacts, gadgets, sculptures, and art.

  “Ah, Miss Marsden, I did not expect you today.” Dunstan stared down his nose at her over a pair of spectacles she’d never seen him sport.

  “Shall I return at a more convenient time?” Phee wasn’t sure what he and the photographer were up to, but it looked as if might take a while.

  “Not at all. In fact, your presence is quite useful.” He nodded toward the man with the camera and pulled a wooden stool from below one of the tables. “Sit here.”

  Phee perched on the stool and tried to pull the clean part of her hem over to conceal the soiled area.

  “Hodges, where are you, man?” Dunstan’s shout echoed off the domed ceiling of the annex.

  A moment later a young man emerged from the stacks carrying an object concealed under a cloth. Eyes wide, jaw clenched, he inched forward as if fearful he might cause the item harm.

  “Careful, man. That artifact is worth more than you’ll earn in a lifetime.” Dunstan’s bark only caused Hodges to jump and then proceed more slowly before laying his burden on the table.

  Dunstan turned his back to Phee, busying himself with uncovering the object, then pivoted to face her. “Will you assist our cataloging efforts, Miss Marsden?”

  “If I’m able, my lord.” Phee was anxious to refuse Dunstan and be done with the matter of his proposal, but the man had been patient with her for months.

  The baron and Hodges approached carrying a glittering gold object. Endless links of wafer thin gold leaves tinkled as the men lifted the artifact and placed it over Phee’s hair. Another object, dozens of gold circlets, were placed across her neck. She held still, afraid to move, but each breath caused the gilded pendants to quiver.

  “What is it?” she asked, trying to shift her gaze and study the strand of gold near her cheek.

  Dunstan held up a finger. “Silence, Miss Marsden. Don’t move.”