Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  The photographer ducked under a hood and directed his camera in her direction.

  “I’ve never been photographed,” she whispered. A strange panic set in. She was wearing an object that had likely been dug up from some ancient woman’s tomb, and now she’d be captured in this moment forever. Neither man seemed bothered to ask her consent.

  With a sizzling pop and burst of light, the flash blinded Phee. She could see nothing, but she felt Dunstan and his assistant remove the diadem and necklace, pulling her hair in the process.

  “That one next, I think,” Dunstan directed.

  When her eyes adjusted to the light, Phee saw him approaching with another object. He reached out to drape the beaded pendant around her neck.

  “No.” Phee jumped off the stool and sidestepped away from him.

  “Are you truly refusing to be useful?” Dunstan let out a sound halfway between a guffaw and a disgusted chuckle.

  Pinching pain twisted in Phee’s chest. Useful was what she’d tried to be her whole life, to her father after Mama’s death, and now to Aunt Rose and Juliet as the household’s breadwinner. Useful is what she hoped Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines might be to young women like herself.

  “I came to give you an answer, my lord.”

  Dunstan frowned in confusion before his eyes widened. “Leave us, gentlemen.”

  When they were alone, Phee’s throat closed as if she’d swallowed one of those skipping stones from the stream.

  “If you admire the diadem, Miss Marsden, I shall make it an engagement gift.” He moved toward the table and stroked his finger along the gilded strands of hammered gold. “Unfortunately, it’s too fragile to allow you to ever wear the jewels again, but we’ll have the photograph.”

  “No.” The word burst from Phee’s lips like a breath she’d been holding too long. She shook her head and found her voice. “I cannot marry you.”

  “Of course you can.” Facing Phee, Dunstan braced his arms across his chest. “If you need a bit longer to consider—”

  “Please hear me, my lord. My answer is no.” Saying the word a second time felt even better. Tension ebbed from her body, and she took a deep, steadying breath. “I was honored by your proposal and know every reason I should accept, but I cannot.”

  He stared at the tiled floor, then cast a gaze around his collection.

  When it became clear he had nothing to say, Phee stepped forward to take her leave. “Good day to you, Lord Dunstan.”

  The moment she turned her back on him, Dunstan gripped her hard by the arm and spun Phee to face him.

  “You’re being a fool. I’ve admired your beauty and poise for years. I want you, Ophelia, despite your lack of title and breeding. You should be gratified by my interest.” On a jagged inhale, he loosened his grip. “You’re overwrought. Still mourning your father. I’ll ask again, and you will accept.”

  Phee stared at the spot where he squeezed her but said nothing. There was no use arguing with the man. He did not truly see her, refused to hear her, but he’d convinced her on one point.

  Refusing him was the best decision she’d ever made.

  Twisting her arm, she slid from his hold and rushed from the room. At the threshold, she picked up her skirt and hurried past the dignified butler, straight out the front door.

  Only when she was near the stream did she ease her pace, pressing a hand to her chest as she struggled to catch her breath. She glanced up at the old oak tree, wishing to find Kit there.

  The weight of what she’d done rushed at her all at once. Relief came but worry too. There was still the leaky roof, the household bills, and Juliet’s formal education to pay for.

  More students? Another book? She’d find a way.

  Phee rubbed at the pain in her arm as she walked toward Longacre.

  Suddenly, spinsterhood didn’t seem such a terrible prospect after all—no risk to her heart and no chance of ending up a voiceless artifact on a gentleman’s shelf.

  As she approached Longacre, clouds scattered overhead and waning afternoon light set its red brick façade aglow. Ivy hugging the arbor over the front door needed a trim, and the garden gate sagged on its hinges, but Phee still viewed the house as more haven than burden.

  Inside, she found Juliet reading in a chair near the fireplace.

  “Phee, what’s happened?” Juliet chucked her book aside and rushed to Phee, reaching up to touch a few loose curls. “You look dreadful, and your hair is all mussed.”

  “I’m fine, but let’s sit down.” Phee clasped her sister’s hand and led her back to their fireside chairs. “I have some news to share.”

  Juliet chewed at the nails of her right hand while she waited for her to begin. Phee couldn’t bring herself to chastise her sister’s nervous habit.

  “You remember that Lord Dunstan asked me to marry him?”

  Juliet nodded solemnly. “It’s one of Aunt Rose’s favorite topics. She says we could repair Longacre, and you’d go to live at the manor and everyone would have to call you Lady Dunstan.”

  “Well, none of that will come to pass because I’ve refused his offer.” Phee kept her gaze glued on Juliet’s, waiting for any sign of disappointment or the worry she was battling.

  Dimples bloomed in Juliet’s cheeks as she beamed. “That’s wonderful.”

  “Is it?” Phee knitted her brows and relaxed against the back of her chair.

  “You know my opinion of marriage,” Juliet said with a sniff of disgust. For a twelve-year-old, she had surprisingly fixed opinions on numerous topics.

  “I do indeed.” Phee suspected time would alter Juliet’s notions about men and matrimony, though her own experiences hadn’t given Phee much cause to trust either.

  “Don’t you think it means something important,” Juliet said, scooting to the edge of her chair, “that Papa named us after Shakespearian ladies who died for love?”

  “Oh sweetheart.” Phee leaned forward and swept a loose tress behind Juliet’s ear. “Papa didn’t choose our names.” She swallowed against the burning in her throat and fought the tears threatening. For the thousandth time, Phee wished Juliet had known their sweet, optimistic mother. “Mama chose them. She adored those characters because they believed in love.”

  Juliet slumped back in her chair and chewed the nail of her index finger. She stared into the fire awhile and finally asked, “Do you believe in love, Phee?”

  “Yes, sweet.” Despite her claim to Kit and countless efforts to build walls around her heart, Phee did believe.

  Before Phee or Juliet could say more, Aunt Rose bustled through the front door. “Ophelia, dear, I’m glad you’ve returned,” she said as she entered the library. “I have a matter to discuss with you.”

  Phee closed her eyes and braced herself. She’d heard. Somehow, Aunt Rose already knew she’d refused Lord Dunstan. Rumors flew fast in Briar Heath.

  “You cannot wear a day dress to a ball.” Aunt Rose insisted.

  A long exhale loosened the knot of anxiety in Phee’s chest. The ball. Aunt Rose wanted to talk about the dress she planned to wear. Juliet must have told their aunt of her intention to wear a barely worn day dress.

  “It’s one evening, Aunt Rose. A few hours. My turquoise dress will do.” With far too many frills to be any use as a work dress, Phee had relegated it to the rear of her wardrobe, but she liked the ruffles at the back and its bright blue color. “Might as well get some use out of the old thing.”

  “Why not buy a new dress?” Juliet had taken up her notebook and didn’t bother lifting her gaze to inject a question.

  “Not in our budget.” Not even if we doubled our budget.

  “Then make one.” Juliet suggested. Problems never stirred her emotionally. She simply took each dilemma as a challenge for her logical mind. At times, however, she missed key details.

  “Have you forgotten I’m a wretched seamstress?”

  Aunt Rose cleared her throat loudly. “I’ve no wish to blow my own trumpet, but I’ve been putting needle
to fabric since I was a child. Bring me the gown, Ophelia dear, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Phee feared what her aunt could do with her old dress. Aunt Rose had an alarming affinity for embellishment. Her lemon tarts were invariably plated with a garnish of mint leaves or a swirl of butter cream icing on top. Scones were accompanied by a sprig of lavender or a spiral of orange peel and sprinkled with raw sugar to catch the light.

  What might she do with an already busy day dress to effect a ball gown transformation?

  “Thank you, Aunt Rose. Whatever you can do will be much appreciated.” Phee started toward her bedroom to fetch the dress, then turned back. “But remember, nothing too . . . ” Phee waved a hand up and down her body. “Fancy.”

  As she shuffled toward her room, the prospect of the Pembry ball set Phee’s teeth on edge. Now more than ever. Dunstan would be there, and probably Kit too.

  How would she face him and think of anything but the last dance they’d shared?

  Milly viewed the ball as an opportunity. Phee considered the event a potential disaster. One ball six years ago had been devastating to her heart.

  That night filled with so much bliss still haunted her dreams. Memories of Kit were seared in her mind. He’d returned from university after two years’ absence, and his raw masculine beauty had taken her breath away. They’d danced too close far too many times. She’d escaped with him into the Pembry estate’s hedge maze, where they’d exchanged moonlit kisses and whispered promises and ended the evening in a smitten haze.

  “Is Clary’s brother the reason you dread the ball?” Juliet pushed past Phee’s half-open bedroom door and plopped onto the edge of the bed. “It can’t be because of a silly dress.” She drew up her knees and folded her slippered feet underneath her, holding both hands out to warm them before the grate. “Or is it Lord Dunstan?”

  Beyond being eminently practical, Juliet was also perceptive. She read Phee’s mood as easily as Milly.

  “It’s not that I don’t wish to go.” Phee retrieved a knitted throw from the end of the bed and laid it over her sister’s knees before sitting in the chair across from her. “I do enjoy dancing.”

  So many years had passed since that first ball. She’d changed. Kit had changed. The expectations born that night so many years ago had already been dashed. This time when he returned to London, it wouldn’t break her heart.

  “It seems an awful waste of time.” Juliet scrunched up her nose as if she’d just smelled boiled brussels sprouts in the air.

  “Awful, is it?” Phee reached out and patted her sister’s knee. “Don’t you ever dream of your first ball? You’re a fine dancer.”

  “Precisely. I adore dancing, but at a ball you must wait on a gentleman to ask you. You can’t dance how you wish, when you wish, or even with whomever you wish. I’d loathe that.”

  Phee couldn’t contest any of her sister’s complaints, but she couldn’t imagine Juliet waiting on a gentleman to give her permission either. What a daring young lady she would be. Pride and eagerness to see her take on the world warred with worry for how others might treat her independent nature.

  “One of them will ask you to dance, won’t they? Probably both.” Juliet pulled a blank sheet of paper from her notebook and began folding. “Which one will you choose?”

  All her choices had been made. She’d refused Dunstan. For the most part, she’d resisted Kit and accepted that he’d soon return to London.

  “Here. This will help you decide.” Juliet slid forward and held out a device she’d fashioned from the paper. The object looked a bit like a four pointed flower. With her fingers tucked underneath, Juliet opened the folded flaps in one direction, then snapped them shut to open an opposite set of folds. On flaps inside, she scribbled KR and LD with the stub of pencil she always kept stowed in her pocket.

  Phee tipped her head and studied Juliet’s creation. “So I’m to leave choice to chance and the flick of a paper flap?” Her little sister wasn’t usually given to anything as fanciful as chance.

  “Not chance.” Juliet pursed her lips in disdain. “Probability. Now pick a number. Your favorite one.”

  “Six.” The day of her birthday and the number of years it’d been since that Pembry ball she’d never forget.

  Juliet flipped the paper back and forth six times before allowing Phee to see. Her belly plummeted when she peaked inside. The paper fortune teller chose Dunstan, but Phee had made a choice too. A choice full of hope she had no right to feel. She’d wanted to see Kit’s initials on the paper.

  More than a new ball dress, additional pupils to swell the household budget, or a publisher for her book, Phee craved another dance with Kit.

  But she was no longer that naïve girl she’d been years before, vulnerable and full of expectations. Temper my feelings. That’s what Milly advised.

  This time she’d be sensible. This time she wouldn’t risk her heart. This time her dance with a rogue would require a few rules.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “If a gentleman asks a young lady to dance, she must accept. Only a prior agreement to dance with another can excuse her. Refusing an invitation to dance is an incivility no proper young lady would expect a reasonable man to bear.”

  —THE RUTHVEN RULES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  There were two types of coveted social invitations in Briar Heath—those to small dinner parties hosted by wealthy families like the Raybourns and those to elaborate extravaganzas organized by Lady Pembry. The countess prided herself on setting the standard for fashion and opulence in the county, which meant her events had to be memorable. She spared no expense for her annual autumn ball and insisted on a fresh theme every year.

  After being announced with the pomp of royal presentation, Kit approached a colossal statue as gaudily painted as the theater boxes at Merrick Theater. The Egyptian-style figure stood with one foot forward and wore a breastplate glittering with unconvincing paste jewels. Other statues were positioned throughout the ballroom, along with lit torches set out at even intervals. Footmen monitored their smoking flames warily.

  As Kit observed the decor, he noted a cluster of young ladies trailing him. The giggling gaggle took in his every move, then raised their fans to chatter excitedly. He caught words and phrases as they assessed him. Actor. Scoundrel. So terribly tall. They were either trying to be heard or doing a dreadful job of whispering.

  “Not fond of Egypt, Mr. Ruthven?” Lady Millicent approached in a rustling cloud of yellow fabric dotted through with beading that made her glimmer in the gaslight.

  “I’ve never had the opportunity to travel farther than London, my lady. Have you?” The wealthy and titled seemed mad for all things Egypt since the discoveries of Flinders Petrie became fascinating newspaper fodder.

  “Only to France, though Miss Marsden and I often fantasize about an expedition to Egypt.”

  He tried to imagine Ophelia as a world traveler. As a child, she’d dreamed of places to visit one day, and, of course, being Ophelia, had created a list of lands to be explored. Now she seemed content with the uneventful quiet of Briar Heath.

  “Have you seen Ophelia this evening?”

  “No.” Kit glanced around the room. A trickle of anticipation chased down his spine. Reluctance about attending the ball instantly ebbed away. He needed to see her. Dancing suddenly seemed appealing, if he could have Phee in his arms. “I wasn’t aware she’d attend.”

  “Of course she’s here. My mother is fond of Ophelia.” Lady Millicent drew close. “I consider her my dearest friend. Her happiness is paramount to me. Treat her well, Mr. Ruthven, or there shall be consequences.”

  Kit looked down at the petite noblewoman at his elbow and would have chuckled at her scowl, but for the warning in her smoky green eyes, insisting he take her seriously. He admired her loyalty to Phee.

  When she nudged his arm and narrowed her eyes, he promised, “We both want her happiness.”

  After flaring her aquiline nose at him, she offered a curt nod and r
etreated to a less threatening distance. “Your reassurance pleases me, but there is a significant difference between us.” When she looked up, her features had softened. “I can only stand by and wish to see her settled and content. You have the power to offer her a happy future.”

  She didn’t allow Kit to reply before turning and striding away, leaving him to contemplate whatever power he might have to make Phee happy. He felt someone watching him and turned his head, hoping to find his gaze tangling with turquoise eyes. Instead, he found one of the giggling young misses had made her way to his side.

  “Mercy, you’re so tall, my neck already aches from looking up at you.” She grasped the fan tied to her wrist, attempted to flick it open, and fumbled with the clasp. “You are so handsome, Mr. Ruthven, it’s worth the effort. Will you take me for a walk in the garden and kiss me? I’ve never kissed an actor before.”

  Apparently country misses had become very forthright while he’d been away. Impatient too, judging by how the young lady pursed her lips, preparing for his kiss. Her upturned eyes and dark hair put him in mind of a young man he’d known in the village years before. “I rarely kiss a woman to whom I haven’t been introduced.” He leaned down and she sucked in a huge breath. “I want to know what name to whisper before I take her mouth.”

  “Oh yes.” She nodded vehemently, loosening the feather in her hair until it dangled over her left eye.

  “George Booth isn’t your brother, by any chance? Perhaps he could introduce us.”

  His question had the desired effect. The overeager debutante shivered as if he’d doused her with ice water. “You know my brother?” Apparently, Mr. Booth wouldn’t be pleased to learn of her brazen flirtation.

  “Many years ago.”

  “You won’t tell him what I said?”

  “Not a word.”

  She fled from him like a heroine in a melodrama escapes a monster, dress hiked above her ankles, feathers bobbing frantically in her hair, tiny ballroom slippers skidding on polished wood. But when she reached the harbor of her friends, Miss Booth glanced back with an expression of naked interest.