Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  Steam billowed up as the train rolled into Paddington Station, and a swarm of butterflies took flight in Phee’s belly. The household coffers had dwindled to a pittance, and only two families had agreed to allow their daughters to resume her tutoring services. She had to find another means of earning. Currently, the only publisher she knew for certain wished to publish Guidelines was the one man she couldn’t give her book to. She had no more wish to be beholden to Kit than to Lord Dunstan.

  Surely others would be interested in publishing a book that had sold well, despite its critics. If nothing else, she suspected at least a few publishers would be will to take on Ruthven Publishing’s longstanding stranglehold on the etiquette-book market.

  “Is this your station too, miss?” A tall dark-haired young lady who’d shared her train car and kept her nose in a book for the entire journey stood at the carriage door.

  “Yes. Thank you. I was lost in thought.”

  “I understand.” The pretty traveler lifted the volume she’d been reading. “Books often intrigue me so completely I miss my stop.”

  Phee followed the young woman onto the platform. Phee’s cheeks warmed when she peaked at the title of the lady’s book. Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines for Young Ladies. The well-dressed young woman must have purchased a copy before Wellbeck removed them from storefronts.

  “Are you enjoying the book?” After the condemnations from countless students’ parents, Phee was curious to hear a Londoner’s opinion.

  “Not enjoying it, no.” The lady stopped and cast Phee a fervent gaze. “I’m adoring every word. Every Englishwoman should read Miss Gilroy’s book.” She cast a gaze around and leaned in. “Wellbeck’s has stopped selling the volume, but there’s a shop on Fawcett Lane that still has a few copies.” After tipping her hat at Phee, the lady strode away.

  Bolstered by her enthusiastic praise, Phee pivoted on her heel, took one bracing breath, and set off toward the offices of Wellbeck Publishing.

  Finding the front desk clerk’s chair empty, she waited only a moment before rapping on the frosted glass door of Mr. Talbot’s office. After scurrying sounds within, the editor opened the door wide.

  “What a pleasure to see you again, Miss Marsden. I’m so glad you’ve given us this opportunity.” Rather than ushering Phee into his office, Talbot lifted an arm to direct her toward Wellbeck’s more palatial domain.

  “I haven’t given anything yet, Mr. Talbot.”

  “Quite right.” The older man blushed to his graying pate. “Hear us out, Miss Marsden.” He gestured again toward his boss’s office and waited for Phee to precede him.

  She’d only met Wellbeck on one other occasion and found him intimidating and unpleasant. He tended to bark rather than speak, and he’d perfected the art of staring down his beakish nose over the rim of tiny metal pince-nez glasses.

  Today, he was another man entirely. He welcomed her with open arms and a broad smile. “Come, come, Miss Marsden. Mr. Talbot, we’ve been remiss. See to tea for the young lady. Anything else you fancy, Miss Marsden?”

  “Uh, no.”

  Wellbeck came around to assist her into a chair, though she’d been quite competent at seating herself for years, even taught other young ladies to sit in the most ladylike manner.

  A moment later, Talbot returned bearing a small tray with a plain white teapot and three cups. She wasn’t used to being fussed over, especially by gentlemen, but Mr. Talbot poured tea before offering her the first cup.

  Wellbeck beamed at her. “Have you ever had a change of heart, Miss Marsden?”

  Phee swallowed her hot tea too quickly and winced as the liquid burned a trail across her tongue. Wellbeck’s comments caught her off guard. Change of heart? Kit came vibrantly to mind, but he was far too distracting to ponder.

  When she didn’t answer, Wellbeck waved apologetically. “Forgive my impertinence. I shall speak only of my own turn of the tide. Mr. Talbot conveyed this news previously, so allow me take my turn and say that we would very much like to publish your book.”

  Phee ignored the flutter of excitement in her belly, an echo of what she’d felt the first time. On this occasion, she wouldn’t simply agree. As much Phee desperately needed income, she no longer trusted Wellbeck to keep his word or honor a contract.

  Both men held their breath. Phee heard movement in the outer office and muffled ticking, as if somewhere a pocket watch insisted on being heard.

  “I appreciate your interest, Mr. Wellbeck, but I must decline.” The butterflies in her belly went wild as soon as the words were out. She didn’t regret refusing Wellbeck’s offer, but her body insisted that turning down income was utter folly.

  Seated in the chair beside her, Mr. Talbot sagged in disappointment. Wellbeck shed his friendly mien, piercing her with a baleful scowl over the top of his glasses.

  “So you’re Ruthven’s girl, are you?” The venom in his voice was as thick as the honey had been a moment earlier.

  “I’m not anyone’s girl, Mr. Wellbeck. I’m a spinster.” The word scalded her tongue like the hot tea she’d swallowed. “I belong to no man and have both the burden and privilege of making choices for myself.” Phee stood, vibrating with too much emotion to remain seated between two men who looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “I choose to find a publisher who values the content of my book, and you do not.” She spared her former editor a half-grin. “I wish you well, Mr. Talbot. Good day to you both.”

  Energy fizzed in her muscles like galvanic electricity. Each step away from Wellbeck’s office made her feel stronger, more determined. Yet a question tickled at the back of her mind, one she hadn’t taken the time to ask.

  She heard Mr. Talbot’s lanky shuffle behind her.

  “Why, Mr. Talbot? What caused Mr. Wellbeck to change his mind about my book?”

  “Rivalry, Miss Marsden.” The upright man scrubbed a hand across his mouth, plucking at the edges of his grizzled beard. “Though I’m not privy to the details, Wellbeck and Ruthven loathed each other.” After clasping his hands behind his back, the editor stared at the tips of his boots. “As soon as I told Mr. Wellbeck about the younger Ruthven’s offer to publish your book, well—”

  “He wants to best him.”

  “Indeed. I believe Mr. Wellbeck was glad to see the demise of Ruthven’s. Everyone expected the man’s son to quit the field.”

  She resisted a rush of temper to defend Kit. Though she was stubborn, he was something else. Having been the focus of his single-minded pursuit once, she knew the depth of his tenacity. While she invariably gave in to duty and necessity, no one could deter Kit when he set his mind on a goal.

  The danger with Kit was that his goals could change on a whim.

  “Will you allow him to publish your book?” Talbot grinned at her as if intrigued by the possibility.

  “Perhaps I shall.” Defiance brought a heady burst of confidence, but as she strode out of Wellbeck’s, Phee immediately began to doubt. She’d spoken impulsively. Kit was the one who made breakneck decisions, not her.

  Of course Ruthven’s was just there, too close to allow her time to think. Her marching tread slowed as she approached. Pacing back and forth in front of the glass-fronted door, she argued the merits and risks in her head.

  How could she let Kit publish her book? Everything between them was already tangled. The pleasure of foiling Wellbeck wasn’t an insubstantial consideration, but her book had been written in response to Ruthven’s Rules for Young Ladies. No publisher in his right mind would publish both volumes. And what would happen when Kit sold his father’s business? Would the new owner favor Guidelines or bow to the same outraged readers who’d plagued Wellbeck?

  “Are you lost, Miss Marsden?” A gruff male voice emerged from the doorway of Ruthven Publishing, and Phee recognized the burly outline of Gabriel Adamson, lit from behind by bright gaslights. “Or is this some sort of one-woman protest?”

  “Just contemplating my options, Mr. Adamson. Would you be so kind as to spare me a
moment of your time?”

  His black hair gleamed in cloud-filtered sunlight as Mr. Adamson stepped out onto the pavement, narrowed his eyes, and nodded curtly. “I’ll spare you several moments if you’ll cease perambulating in front of our place of business.”

  His office was as tidy as she remembered. More so, since most of the volumes of The Ruthven Rules had been removed from the shelves behind his desk. Curious, that.

  After offering her a seat and taking his own behind the desk, the young man tented his fingers under his chin and stared at her expectantly.

  “I’ll not waste your time, Mr. Adamson. I’ve come to London to find a new publisher for my book.”

  He narrowed his clear blue eyes. “An ambitious objective.”

  “Who do you trust among the publishers of London?” Phee took Ruthven’s young editor for a plain-speaking man and one with far more experience in the world of London publishing than she possessed.

  “Not Wellbeck, of course. The man’s an utter bounder.” Apparently Adamson knew what she’d only just learned. Wellbeck’s principles had all the permanence of soap bubbles.

  “I have a list of prospects.” Pulling her list out, she offered it to the broad-shouldered editor. “Would you have a look?”

  He seemed to appreciate the fact that she sought his advice and scanned the paper with interest. “May I?” He lifted a fountain pen and scribbled for a moment. When he returned her slip of paper, he’d put a line through three publishers and added square tick boxes next to the remaining three. The man took lists seriously, and Phee couldn’t help but grin.

  “I notice Ruthven’s isn’t on your list, Miss Marsden.”

  “You said you did not wish to publish my book, Mr. Adamson.” In fact, he’d added that Leopold Ruthven would have rejected it too.

  “So I did.” He looked as firmly decided against her as the first day she’d met him. “However—”

  “Have you read Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines?” Phee interrupted him, then sucked in a breath, attempting to temper frustration that had more to do with the past days’ disappoints than Adamson’s curt dismissal. “There are no outrages in its pages, sir. The book does not foment rebellion or advise women to behave in scandalous ways.”

  “No, but you do urge them to weigh duty against their desires.”

  “So you have read it.” His paraphrase of her words left no doubt. Phee didn’t try very hard to stifle a triumphant grin.

  “My sister has. She’s a voracious reader and, unfortunately, not terribly discerning.” His mouth twitched. Phee thought the dour man might actually return her grin, but he merely cleared his throat and settled back in his chair. “She is also fourteen years of age. I’m afraid her recommendation does not sway me.”

  The heavy tread of footsteps drew Mr. Adamson’s eyes to the threshold of his office. Whoever stood in the open doorway caused him to tense, his square jaw drawing hard and taut. A little muscle took to spasming in his cheek.

  Before she had the chance to turn and see who’d entered, a prickle of awareness set Phee’s nerves tingling. A familiar scent in the air made her pulse thrum in her veins.

  “Ophelia?” There was a heart-wrenching thread of hopefulness in Kit’s tone. When he stepped into the room, the same emotion lit his gaze.

  “You’re here,” she whispered. Not in some actress’s bed or planning his next success on the stage.

  “I am.”

  “I’m here on business.” Let there be no mistake about her intentions. Heaven forbid he think she’d followed him to London to hurl herself into his arms and beg him to return to Briar Heath. “Mr. Adamson was advising me.”

  “I see.” Kit drew out the two syllables and cast Adamson a questioning glance. He seemed to be holding himself in place with adamantine effort. Then he drew in a deep breath and took one long stride in her direction.

  “About my book.”

  “Your book?” A frown, then theater magic. He smoothed his face into an expressionless mask. “Have you changed your mind about allowing us to publish?”

  “Do I get a vote?” Adamson rolled his chair back and stood, broad arms braced above his chest.

  “No.” Kit chuckled as if the man had said something amusing. “Did my father run this enterprise as a democracy?”

  Adamson’s shoulders stiffened. “I cannot say that he did, but he considered my recommendations.”

  “Perhaps next time, Mr. Adamson.” Kit shot the young man a steely gaze. “Give us a moment.”

  The young editor held his ground, gritting his teeth long enough to make his displeasure known. As he strode from his office, he offered Kit a pointed glare as he passed.

  “I’m sorry,” Kit said as soon as Adamson departed. “I’ll make an effort to hire more agreeable editors in future.”

  “The man wishes to act on his principles. Who can blame him?” It was more than she could say for Wellbeck. Phee swallowed against a lump in her throat. Kit looked striking in his new suit, and somehow, surprisingly, as if he belonged in a publishing office. “I’m sorry. Mr. Adamson saw me outside, and . . . I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Don’t. Please.” He held up a hand. “You never have to apologize to me, Ophelia. Not ever. I’m pleased to see you.”

  When he stepped toward her, Phee knew he’d touch her. Heaven help how much she wanted him to. An aching heat flared in her body.

  “More than pleased.” The raw rumble of his voice made her shiver.

  “Kit.” Her sensible half—the woman who’d written Guidelines—knew perfectly well how to extract herself from temptation. So why did his name fall from her lips wantonly? More petition than refusal.

  Her petition didn’t work. Kit cast his gaze out the room’s only window. “Are you planning to marry Dunstan?”

  “No.” The question was the last she expected. “I refused him.”

  “I’m glad you’ll let us publish your book.” He turned back to her, staring with such intensity Phee could almost feel the warmth of his lips against her cheek, the heat of his mouth on the column of her neck.

  She hadn’t agreed to anything yet, but he’d always been one to let his eagerness and enthusiasm propel him ahead of practical details.

  When he stepped closer and dipped his head, Phee braced her free hand on the warm wall of his chest. “Remember? You can’t mix kissing and commerce.”

  Stepping away, his mouth tipped in a halfhearted grin. “Says the woman who likes rules as much as my father did.”

  “Guidelines,” Phee protested. How could he compare her to a man who’d treated him with such disdain?

  “Ah yes.” Kit raised a brow and crossed his arms. “Guidelines for young ladies. You only wrote rules for me.”

  He’d seen her list of rules, but they’d been more about guarding her heart than regulating his actions. After he’d carried her up to her bedroom and departed, she’d found them crumpled in her bedclothes.

  “Ruthven’s never agrees to an author’s rules. We set our own terms.” Adamson stood in the doorway with a sheaf of documents in his hands.

  Phee stepped away from Kit, and he moved toward the window behind Adamson’s desk. “Shall we all take a seat and discuss the contract?” Adamson arranged pens at the front edge of his desktop, fanning pages out for Phee’s inspection.

  Kit strode forward, took up a pen, and signed his name without looking at any of the typed terms. He lifted the same pen out to Phee.

  It was all moving too fast, and she was buzzing for reasons that had nothing to do with contracting her book. Doubts assailed her. She’d signed Wellbeck’s contract too quickly, flushed with excitement, humbled and gratified that anyone might care to read her book. This time she wanted to be certain. Striding forward, she skimmed the words on the first page, paragraph after paragraph of obscure legal language.

  “Have you read it?” she asked Kit.

  “The Ruthven contract? Yes. It’s comparable to what you signed with Wellbeck, I suspect.”

/>   “My book. Have you read my book?”

  “You know I have. I complimented you on its merits.” Kit furrowed his brow as he scanned the shelf behind Adamson. “Even Adamson owns a copy.”

  “I do not own a copy,” he declared as if testifying in court, loud enough for everyone to be certain of his innocence. “The one I brought for our meeting with Mr. Talbot belonged to my sister. I’ve since returned the volume to her.”

  “There, you see.” Kit pointed at his managing editor. “Even Adamson’s sister loves your book.”

  Perhaps Kit had read the book, but she still wondered if his commitment would be as flimsy as Wellbeck’s. Wasn’t a question of commitment at the heart of all that had passed between them?

  Other publishers’ offices dotted this street and the next. She’d intended to visit several before making this decision. As usual, her feelings for Kit obscured all her good sense.

  “May I take these documents and consider them more thoroughly, Mr. Adamson?”

  “By all means.” The editor’s striking slate-blue eyes ballooned and his full mouth split in a smile, apparently thrilled at the prospect of her refusing to sign at all. “Consider as long as you like.”

  “Thank you. I won’t take up any more of your time today, gentlemen.” She nodded to Adamson and then Kit before folding the contract and tucking it under her arm.

  There was no question of Kit’s letting her depart so easily. She sensed him moving behind her as she dashed into the main office. Before she could escape, his hand shot out above her head to push the front door open.

  “You’re having doubts.” He followed her out of the building and stood gazing at her in that penetrating way of his.

  “Constantly.” Worry and doubt had become her constant companions since her mother’s death. Kit’s departure and her father’s illness had only given her more practice. How could a man who avoided duty and flicked away obstacles as if they were lint on his coat sleeve understand? “You may mock my lists, but I’ve learned to plan and organize in order to prevent adversity. To remind myself what must be done and impose a bit of order.”