“Well, that solves a bit of the mystery.” Sophia sat her teacup down gently and curved one hand around the warm porcelain, assessing Kit so closely it made his skin itch. “She’s the reason you want to do all of this.”
“Miss Marsden?” Clary looked from Sophia to him and then back again, her brows drawing down into a confused frown. “I don’t understand.”
“After leaving her behind to become a famous London rogue, our brother is still in love with Ophelia Marsden.”
Feeling exposed, Kit reached up to tighten his necktie, forgetting that he was at home and hadn’t yet donned one.
He’d spent his four years in London insisting on shallow encounters. Entanglements and love were traps to be avoided. But not with Ophelia. With her, he sensed a rightness, that all he’d been avoiding, and whatever he’d escaped Briar Heath to find was fleeting. His moments with Phee mattered most. Those were what he craved more of, what he wished to gather up and hold onto.
“Wait—when did you fall in love with Miss Marsden?” Clary’s grin belied the irritation in her tone. “And why am I the last to know everything?”
“I suspect he loved her from the first.” Sophia took a sip of tea and offered a knowing grin of her own over the cup’s rim.
“Nonsense.” The first time he’d met Ophelia, she’d scared him half to death. He’d planted himself under an apple tree near Longacre to feast on a piece of fallen fruit, only to bolt out of the way when a fire-haired pixie climbed down from the branches. She’d scolded him for stealing the apple from her tree, and he’d stomped away, planning to avoid the tree and its screeching harpy.
Except that he couldn’t stop thinking of the girl. Her wild leaf-tangled hair, the constellation of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, and the way she glared at him with the clearest blue eyes he’d ever seen.
Kit glanced up from his woolgathering to find Clary smiling at him with her chin perched on her hand.
“And what happens when you tire of responsibilities?” Sophia asked pointedly. “How long before you wish to escape to London again?”
“It’s true, then?” Clary asked. “You love her. Please tell me it’s true. Other than you and Sophia, there’s no one I like more than Miss Marsden.”
Kit ignored Clary’s enthusiasm and Sophia’s doubt. “We’re all agreed, then? The Ruthven Rules needs an overhaul, and we will acquire new authors? Publish popular fiction.”
Clary nodded eagerly.
Sophia narrowed her eyes and dipped her head once in the affirmative, as if forcing herself to bear a decision she hadn’t wholly embraced. “We must try to salvage Ruthven’s,” she said. “I would rather see the business altered than fall into the hands of a stranger.”
A weight lifted off Kit’s chest. If the three of them put their minds together, they could make Ruthven’s into a business they could all be proud of. And a viable one, providing enough income to keep money worries at bay. He felt a bit breathless, as if he’d overcome an enormous hurdle.
More than anything, he wanted to see Ophelia. She’d fled the ball as if she had a reason for shame. In his opinion, the high and mighty of Briar Heath should be the ones experiencing remorse this morning.
He wasn’t sure he could speak of love as freely as his sisters, but it was long past time to make his feelings clear.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kit spied two figures walking in the distance as he made his away across the field toward Longacre. Quickening his steps, he recognized the retreating figures of Phee’s aunt and sister as they approached the main lane toward the village center. He lengthened his stride, eager for the chance to speak to Ophelia alone.
After knocking at the front door and getting no response, he twisted the knob and debated whether he should head inside. As a child, he’d come and gone from Longacre freely, but Phee had nearly refused him entrance a few weeks before.
“Ophelia,” he called, for the umpteenth time and listened with his ear to the wood for any reply. None came, but he heard a thud, as if an object had fallen, and then an odd intermittent buzzing sound. Worried, he turned the latch and stepped inside. “Phee,” he tried again, but heard only that awful sound. A bit like a sickly horn stuffed with cotton.
Following the noise, Kit pushed open the library door and found her slumped over her desk, one arm dangling off the side, the other tucked under her head.
“Phee.” Rushing to her side, he placed a hand at her back and lifted the waterfall of hair that had slipped over her face. Her eyes were closed. “Are you all right?”
She mumbled incoherently, twitched her lashes, and then nuzzled into her arm again. A moment later that sound—the terrible sickly horn—gusted from her lips. A snore. Possibly the worst he’d ever heard.
Kit covered his mouth but couldn’t stem a rumble of laughter.
Finally, Phee roused, pretty long lashes fluttering before she sat up with a start.
“Kit?” She rubbed one eye and pushed her hair aside. “What are you doing here? I fell asleep. Did Aunt Rose let you in?”
“Your aunt and sister are headed toward the village. I heard an odd sound and let myself in.” He approached and examined her. With her hair down and cheeks flushed, she looked lovely, but the circles under her eyes were darker than his. “No sleep last night?”
“Not much,” she admitted before cupping a hand across her mouth and letting out a huge yawn.
“You need some rest, Phee.” He glanced behind her at stacks of envelopes on her desk, and she caught the direction his gaze.
“I can’t. I have more letters to write before the last post.” She turned back and shoved a stack of envelopes toward the corner of her desk, as if she wished to conceal them.
“Looks like quite a project.” A few sheets of paper had been crumpled and discarded in a small pile near her bare feet. Her fingers were stained with ink, and she’d smudged a bit on her forehead. “Does it have anything to do with last night?”
The minute the question was out, Phee’s gaze riveted on his. He knew she wasn’t thinking of the rumors that had driven her from the ball, but the intoxicating moments they’d shared in the garden.
“I don’t want to talk about last night.” She sounded so weary. He hated the slump in her shoulders and the fatigue drawing down the corners of her mouth.
“Phee.” He started toward her, and she pushed up from her chair.
“Aunt Rose and Juliet will be home soon. You should go.” Pivoting as if she meant to lead him the few steps toward the door, she stumbled on a slipper by the fire. Kit reached out to steady her, and she let him take her arm, then let out another barely stifled yawn.
Bending down, he slipped a hand behind her knees and lifted Phee in his arms.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She tried for outrage, but only managed to sound sleepy.
“Taking you up to bed.” He closed his eyes a moment, willing his body to stop reacting as if he was doing so for any reason other than to insist she get some rest. As he started toward the stairs, she wriggled in his arms.
“I can manage on my own.” She pushed a finger into his chest as she protested, then reached up to hook her arm around his neck. “You can’t just come in here like some brute and . . . ” She broke off midsentence and gazed up at him, eyelids droopy. “You’re very warm.”
So was she, warm and soft and sweetly scented. “You smell like jasmine,” he whispered against her head, where she’d laid her cheek on his chest.
By the time he strode through the bedroom door, her eyes had drifted shut again. They flew open when he placed her on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” she started. “I haven’t had anything to eat and not nearly enough tea.” She scooted to the edge of the bed. “I can’t nap until I get those letters into the last post.”
“Let me take care of them.” He sat beside her on the bed and clasped her hand. “You need sleep.”
“And you?” She cast him sideways gaze. “You have blue crescents under y
our eyes too. No sleep for you either?”
“My mind was too occupied for sleep.”
“With?” She licked her lips, and Kit’s gaze snagged on her mouth.
“Business, if you can believe it. And you, Phee. Always you.” He wrapped a hand around her neck and pulled her close.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get any rest.” She reached up to feather a fingertip across the circle under his eye.
“Likewise.”
She tipped her head back, and he took her lips gently. Forced himself to kiss her slowly, to savor the soft heat of her mouth, the way her breath caught as she leaned into him.
When he pulled back to gaze into her eyes, she turned her face aside and nuzzled his cheek. Kit slid his fingers through the long curling strands of her hair, pulling a few tresses over her shoulder so he could trace a path over her breast. God, she was beautiful.
And exhausted.
“Come on. Lie back, and I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep.” He suspected she’d drift off quickly.
Her shoulders stiffened, and he thought she might refuse. Instead, she scooted further back on the bed and stretched out on her side, facing him. Perching her cheek on her palm, she took on a siren’s pose, if not for her drooping eyelids.
“Promise you’ll post those letters?”
“Trust me.” He craved her trust as much as he wanted her affection. He’d hurt her once, shattered her heart, but he hoped someday she might have a bit of faith in him again.
“They’re letters to my students’ parents,” she admitted as she eased back onto her pillow. “Many of them sent notes after Mrs. Raybourn’s rumormongering last night at the ball.”
“Not good news, I take it.” Kit reached for a throw at the foot of Phee’s bed, settling it over her legs.
“Most of them relieved me of my tutoring services.” She drew in a shaky breath. “All of them did.”
“Truly?” Kit groaned and shook his head. “Over a book I wager most of them have never read?”
Phee pressed her lips together to repress another yawn. “None of them will read Guidelines now. Not only has Mrs. Raybourn painted me as the worst sort of influence on their daughters, but Mr. Wellbeck won’t be selling any more copies of my book.”
“Which is why you should allow Ruthven’s to publish a new edition.” He kept his tone light, offered her a grin, and tried not to reveal how much he wished to help her. Phee was far too self-reliant to ever love a man who would stifle her independence.
She shot him a quelling look, but an idea began to form in Kit’s mind. He got lost in momentary woolgathering, but Phee’s movements brought him back to the here and now. She lay on her back, stretched her arms above her head, and twisted her hips like a sinuous cat.
Kit sat still and quiet, watching her close her eyes and then force them open, fighting sleep. She reached for his hand and clasped his fingers.
“Don’t forget the letters, Kit. I can’t lose every bit of tuition.”
“I promise.”
When her eyes fluttered closed, she turned away from him but pulled his hand along with her. Arm curled around her, he leaned on the bed and listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing. His own eyelids grew heavy.
Why had he ever wanted to be anyplace but here by her side?
A soft mumble emerged, and he thought she spoke once more about the letters. He hoped she hadn’t groveled. The Mrs. Raybourns of the world didn’t merit an apology. If anything, she owed one to Phee.
“Stop worrying, love,” he said quietly, desperate to reassure her. The woman devoted the same intense energy to worry as she did being stubborn.
Another murmur, and Kit hunched down to hear.
“Stay,” she whispered. “Don’t go.”
“I’m right here, Phee.” The words burned in his throat, and he choked on the guilt of what he’d done to thread her voice with that sad, pleading tone. She rarely showed an ounce of vulnerability to anyone.
Turning over to face him, she burrowed against his chest. Leaning back, he wrapped her in his arms. He’d never known such a fierce impulse to protect and love anyone in his life.
“Stay.” Her plea came soft, barely a whisper, but he felt the heat of her breath through his shirt. Her fingers gripped the cloth, then loosened as she melted against him.
Just a few more minutes watching over her, and he vowed to go. She was sleeping soundly, and he had to mail those damned letters. Though he couldn’t imagine why such small-minded fools deserved her efforts. If she ever allowed him to publish her book, he’d encourage her to do so under her own name, to claim her work as her own. London journalists already speculated about Miss Gilroy and why she’d yet to publicly weigh in on the debate about her book.
Perhaps Phee would be the one to end up a famous London writer after all.
Kit grinned, and his eyes slipped shut as he let his mind wander.
He jolted awake. Phee slept in his arms, mouth slightly ajar, snoring softly. What felt like a moment’s slumber must have been much longer. The light filtering through the curtains had dimmed to dusk.
Carefully slipping out of Phee’s arms, Kit settled her comfortably and pulled up the knitted throw. He tucked the blanket around her arms and legs to keep her warm.
As his hand crested her hip, his fingers snagged on a sharp edge. Lifting the blanket, he found an envelope protruding from her skirt. A broken wax seal bore an enormous “D,” and Kit gritted his teeth as he tugged the note from Phee’s pocket. Only Dunstan would be pretentious enough to waste a wax seal for a note to travel half a mile.
As he laid the note on the bed beside her, another slip of paper fell from her pocket.
Ophelia’s perfect handwriting and a list, of course. He immediately loathed the heading, which read Rules for Kit. His gut twisted in knots as he skimmed the rest. The first rule was to Never speak of love or the future. Rage flared, and disgust. More for himself than Ophelia.
He crumpled the list and tossed it aside, then tore Dunstan’s missive from its envelope.
You will no doubt be relieved to hear that I wish to renew my proposal despite your foolhardy refusal and the revelations at Lady Pembry’s ball. Your authorship of the scurrilous volume can easily be denied, and, yes, I remain willing to gift you the Trojan diadem as an engagement present.
Call on me at your earliest convenience.
—D.
Kit slumped into the chair near Phee’s bed. Sharp pain seared in his chest, as if the Ophelia of Clary’s painting had taken up her sword and pierced him through the ribs. He scrubbed a hand across his face and lowered his gaze to the list she’d written to remind herself not to speak of love or a future with him.
And what of Dunstan’s note? The blighter was disturbingly tenacious, and Kit couldn’t deny the man’s influence in the village. One word from the baron and Phee’s standing could be restored. Would she reconsider the aristocrat’s proposal now? Was it mere selfishness to stand in the way of a man who could offer her a settled future?
He stood and bent over Phee, pressing his lips to her forehead to place a kiss on the ink-smudged patch of skin above her brow.
He’d been a bloody fool to believe he could mend what he’d broken between them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Too often we conceal that which would give our hearts ease to reveal. Ladies, consider your words carefully but be forthright in your expression. Speak your mind with grace and an open heart.”
—MISS GILROY’S GUIDELINES FOR YOUNG LADIES
In a tally of plans going spectacularly awry, even Juliet couldn’t argue that the numbers were on Phee’s side.
Her tutoring business had collapsed entirely. A publisher had contracted her book and then decried it completely. And Kit had come to the village for a few short weeks and returned to London, as she always knew he would.
Two days after his visit to Longacre, Aunt Rose passed on a bit of village gossip that the Ruthven prodigal had headed back to the city.
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London was where he belonged, where he wished to be.
Phee bit her lip and cast her gaze out the train car window. Paddington Station was still miles off, but she imagined Kit in the city. Back in his theater world. Fawned over by actresses and seductresses far more skilled than Miss Booth of Briar Heath.
They hadn’t made any promises. She wished he’d said good-bye, but her heart was intact, despite the persistent twinge behind her ribs. She rubbed two fingers over her sternum and focused on the list in her lap.
This was a new day. Sunbeams warmed her skin through the train car window, and she felt a—perhaps foolhardy—surge of anticipation. Despite the tattered schemes piled at her back, Phee had a fresh plan.
Never mind Kit’s departure and the loss of nearly every single student on her roster. The note from Mr. Talbot had been too intriguing to ignore.
When she’d first spied the letter on her desk, she steeled herself to read another dismissal from a tutee’s parents. Recognizing Mr. Talbot’s slanted script piqued her curiosity. Rather than finding her null and void contract enclosed, the editor invited her to meet regarding a “change of heart” on Mr. Wellbeck’s part, even offering to reimburse her travel expenses.
Whether or not Wellbeck intended to continue publishing her book, Phee had a list of a half dozen publishing houses she’d researched when initially submitting Guidelines. She would walk the streets of London all day if that’s what it took to find a publisher willing to buy her book. Preferably one with more commitment to its contents than Mr. Wellbeck. New ideas for fictional stories had sparked in her mind, as far from etiquette and advice as she could get. Though she’d only managed to sketch out a few basic plot points, she’d present those too.
London came into view through the train window. St. Paul’s Cathedral dome soared up like a beacon. Phee relished the prospect of a day in the city, despite the daunting task of finding a new publisher for her book. After Mrs. Raybourn’s small-minded censure and neighbors treating her with chilly disdain, London held enormous appeal. She could understand why Kit escaped here. London was a city to get lost in, a place to leave expectation and duty behind and start anew.
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