Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  “Yes.” She wanted him more than plans and lists and a perfect, plotted future.

  “We’ve reached the edge.” Their boat bobbed in the lake, no longer drifting. Kit released her leg, and she hated the loss of his heat, but his hands were on her again quickly, a touch at her waist, another gripping her arm, assisting her to climb out of the little skiff. “Wait here.”

  While Kit dealt with returning their hired boat, Phee stood and absorbed the sounds of the park and the lively city beyond. She wanted to feel, only feel, but thoughts rushed in. Mama’s decorum had got in too deep. Despite the rules she’d devised, she knew what her choice could mean. But while everything else seemed uncertain—the publication of her book, even the future of Longacre—her feelings for Kit were never in doubt.

  He strode toward her, long powerful strides, with curled fists and lines creasing his forehead.

  “Will you catch the next train back to Hertfordshire?” he asked when he’d reached her side. “Or do you truly wish to speak with other publishers today?”

  “Neither.” She clasped his hand, and he gripped her eagerly. “Do you still maintain lodgings here in London?”

  “I do. Unfinished business, I suppose.” Stepping close, he tipped his mouth in a sly grin. “I’ll add it to my list.”

  “Take me there.” No doubts. No regret. Just an eagerness to be alone with him.

  Kit narrowed his gaze and stared above her head into the distance, as if he could glimpse his rented rooms from where they stood. “I fear you’ll be mightily unimpressed. The neighborhood isn’t at all the sort of place for a proper young lady.”

  The air rang with Phee’s burst of laughter. Kit dipped his head and managed to look abashed.

  She’d propositioned him for ruin, lost all of her tutoring students because of her audacious notions, and only a few days prior had almost given herself to him as she wished to do now.

  “I shall worry about propriety later.” Stepping into his arms, Phee reveled at how her curves melded with the hard length of him. “Right now, all I wish to be is yours.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ophelia looked shockingly right in his Seven Dials bedroom. As if her color and curves were what the space had lacked all along. Their opposites made for an unexpected harmony—its dingy, dusty corners transformed into a cozy space when subjected to her intoxicating vitality and curious gaze. Every inch of the room fascinated her, judging by the close inspection she offered each surface. She flipped through the notes and scraps of unfinished plays on his desk, cracked open his battered wardrobe to stroke a hand down the arm of a threadbare coat, ran her finger over the mussed heap of clothing piled in the corner.

  Then she stared at the bedstead a long while before drawing in a deep breath that lifted her breasts. The motion made his mouth water like the hungry creature he was.

  One hand fidgeting with the buttons at the high neck of her gown, she finally turned to face him. “I have no notion how to do this.” Phee knitted her auburn brows adorably. “Of course, I have some notion. Books and animals and . . . The physical components involved are clear to me.” She glanced down at his groin, and then hastily up again.

  His body responded as if she’d stroked him with that hot gaze, hardening eagerly until the anticipation of pleasuring her crested into a potent ache.

  Kit started across the room slowly. That pink shade he adored glowed in her cheeks, and she ran her tongue over her lower lip, just as he intended to do again and again. When she opened her mouth to speak, no words emerged, just a sharp inhale. Then a soft mewl when he traced the swell of her lower lip with his thumb.

  “Just feel, sweetheart.” He cupped her cheek in his palm and found he was trembling. He’d wanted her, needed her, for so very long. “Know only this. I want you as I’ve never wanted anyone or anything in my life.”

  “That I know.” She nodded, her gaze solemn. “For it’s how I want you.”

  The smile that broke across his face was new, as if he was learning how to form the expression for the first time. His cheeks tightened and stretched, his heart thudding an irregular beat against his ribs.

  Phee smiled up at him too, sweet and tremulous, and began unfastening the top buttons of her gown.

  Kit caught her nimble fingers. “Those are mine to see to. God knows they’ve driven me mad long enough.”

  He should have let her carry on. Her lithe fingers would have made faster work of the endless line of buttons. His were thick and fumbling. But, for her sake, he couldn’t rush this. He couldn’t bear to disappoint her, or give her any cause to regret the gift she offered.

  “Then I take it these are mine.” Between his elbows, Ophelia lifted her arms and began unbuttoning his shirt and waistcoat, tugging at the loose knot of his neck cloth. The tangled slide of his limbs against a woman’s had never felt so erotic, never ignited such a gnawing desperation to make her his own.

  When the creamy swell of her breasts peeked out through the opening of her gown, his gut clenched, and the muscles in his legs began to spasm. He bent to place a kiss on the soft, plump flesh, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her near.

  Perhaps a bit of haste was in order after all. He needed to be rid of her dress, her corset and chemise, everything keeping her smooth pink skin from his gaze. She sensed his urgency and made fast work of the buttons across her belly. He peeled back her gown awkwardly, pulling and tugging until the bodice slid from her shoulders. He shaped his hands around the lush camber of her hips, still encased in the bondage of her corset.

  “I want you free of this.” He spun her in his arms and meant to start on the laces at her back. Instead he applied his mouth to the tantalizing slope of her nape. She tasted luscious and sweet, like ripe summer fruit.

  “Hooks,” she whispered breathily. “In the front.”

  Reaching around, he felt her working the fastenings expertly, pressing the edges of the garment together until her breasts swelled above the edge. He ran his fingers over her bare flesh until he found the knotted ribbon at the edge of her chemise and began working it loose. When she slid free of the corset, Kit filled his hands with her breasts, and Phee emitted a throaty sigh. Her nipples nudged insistently at the center of his palms. He licked his lips, eager to have them on his tongue.

  Phee lifted her arms and began removing the pins in her hair. The position pushed her breasts further into his hands. On a husky groan, he kissed and laved the tender flesh of her neck, as soft, jasmine-scented curls tumbled across his cheek. And that’s when he knew. Even with Ophelia, he’d be a rogue. He wouldn’t abide her list of rules. Already, he wanted more. One moment of loving her would never be enough.

  There was a reason he’d sought her night after night in the theater. She was the only woman he craved.

  “Help me with my skirt?”

  The buttons were larger, but he still struggled to unfasten them with any degree of finesse. His nerves were too raw with need. The more of her he uncovered, the worse his thirst. She shimmied out of her skirts as he pushed her wide-necked chemise down her shoulders. As soon as her breasts were bare, she turned in his arms.

  “Now you.” Her eager hands worked the remainder of his buttons, pushed the fabric from his shoulders, and she exhaled a sharp gasp. “Goodness.”

  They’d never been this bare before each other, and never with so much longing stretching across the years between them.

  “You’re quite . . . extraordinary,” she whispered. Offering his body the same hands-on inspection she afforded the furnishings in his room, she stroked her fingers across his chest up to the crest of his shoulder, shaping the muscles of his arm. Every stroke, each appreciative murmur, shot heat straight to his groin. Whether she knew it or not, the lady stoked want in him like a fire.

  “Come, love.” Clasping her hand, he led her toward the bed. When she perched nervously at the edge, Kit crouched and made fast work of removing her boots, rolling each stocking along the long shapely length of her legs. “Now,
these”—he dragged his fingers down the backs of her calves—“are extraordinary.”

  “Except for the freckles. And the bramble scars.”

  “Darling Phee.” Lowering to his knees, he kissed one freckle, licked its neighbor, nipped at another with the edge of his teeth. He ran a finger over the scar she’d earned when they’d both stumbled into a briar patch. “These speckles and marks are lovely because they’re yours, as beautiful as every other part of you.”

  She’d clasped her arms over her breasts, and he prayed nerves and all the expectations she’d soaked in during a lifetime in Briar Heath weren’t making her doubt. Only her drawers remained, virginally white cotton fabric decorated at the edge with delicate lace. He’d never wanted to shred an innocent piece of fabric so much in his life.

  Go slow. Phee deserved to be loved with care. Especially this first time.

  “Are you going to remove these?” Sliding one finger into the waist of her drawers, she arched her brow like a seasoned seductress. “And those?” Her eyes riveted on his trousers. When she swept her tongue across the seam of her lips, whatever measure of restraint he possessed snapped.

  Closer. Phee needed Kit’s skin against hers. In one swift move, he slid her drawers away and kneeled above her on the bed, hands braced on each side of her head. In the chill of the room, she’d covered her bosom, but now his deliciously warm chest caressed the aching tips of her breasts.

  She needed to hold on to this moment, sear every sensation in memory, lock it away in her heart.

  He nuzzled her cheek, ran a hand down her neck, his long fingers seeking out one taut pink nipple. When she gasped, he took her mouth in a searing kiss. Mercy, he was hot—the slide of his tongue, the heat of lips. Silky strands of ebony hair stroked her face as he kissed her. He tasted of cinnamon, this man she’d craved all her days.

  With drugging caresses, he swept his fingers over her skin, sliding them down her body, across her stomach to the hollow of her navel.

  More. A terrible trembling ache began between her thighs. She bucked against him, sensitive flesh rubbing the fabric of his trousers. “I want you free of these.” She repeated his words between kisses, and he dipped his head and chuckled, a gust of steamy breath against her neck.

  As much as she wanted him bare, she felt a moment of regret when Kit took all his heat away and stood beside the bed. Gaze locked on hers, he worked the fly of his trousers open and shucked the remainder of his clothing after toeing off his boots.

  Phee gulped against the tickle in her throat. His physical component was as impressive as the rest of him, and she suddenly doubted whether pleasure could be accomplished between them without a good deal of pain. Nothing in her wished to turn back now, but she couldn’t help a gulp of hesitation.

  “Don’t worry, love. We’ll go slow.” Even as he made the promise, his mouth trembled and fingers twitched eagerly beside his muscled thigh.

  As he leaned over her again, Phee opened her knees, knowing just where he belonged. But he did not settle at her center. Instead, he bent his head and drew one tight nipple into his mouth. Sensation rioted through her, and Phee nearly bucked off the bed. The movement only seemed to encourage him. Kit worked his tongue around the tip of flesh that seemed connected to every nerve in her body. When he lifted his head, Phee let out a relieved sigh. Now he would take her, make her his. Whatever came of her future, this moment could never be taken away.

  But he didn’t press his heated length to where she ached for him. He was busy examining the flesh of her stomach, following circling strokes with open-mouthed kisses. When his finger dipped into the hollow of her navel, she bucked her hips again, and he grinned up at her. Gently, far too slowly, he slid his finger through her russet curls.

  “Here, love? Is this where you need my touch?”

  “Yes.” Hissing out the word as he breached her slick center, Phee reached down to grasp his hand. Kit instantly stilled. “No.” She didn’t mean to stop him but to urge him on.

  He cast a questioning glance, and she felt a blush firing her cheeks. “Please don’t stop,” she gasped before tightening her grip on his hand. “But tell me, won’t you, if I do something wrong?”

  “You won’t. You can’t. All your desires and impulses are right, and I’m happy to indulge them all.” Removing his hand from her sex, he stroked damp fingers across her thigh and nudged her leg aside, opening her to his gaze. “There are no rules, Phee. This moment is ours.”

  He bent his glossy black head between her thighs and grinned up at her. “I’m going to shock you now.” And he did, applying his mouth to the slick, swollen heart of her need. He licked at her hungrily, as if he was starving and she was his feast.

  All the pleasure that had come before was nothing to this. Tighter, higher, she was spinning, and he was holding every thread. His fingers gripped her thighs as he stroked her with his tongue. One hand on his shoulder, another tangled in his hair, she pushed and bucked and writhed as every thought, every need centered on the ecstatic dance of his hot wet flesh on hers. Too much, too fast, he came at her relentlessly, laving her until she burst. Words came, bewildered cries, but not a bit of sense. And then Kit’s long, glorious body was warming every inch of her. He took her mouth again and again. Between kisses, he whispered reassurances, sweet murmurs of praise and adoration, and Phee needed him to know.

  “I missed you, Kit.” She pushed her fingers into the wave of hair above his brow so that she could see his eyes. “I never stopped.”

  “I know.” He was just where she wanted him, the hard hot length of him sliding against her. “Tell me again.”

  “I missed you—”

  He eased in deeper, a minute thrust. But she was already so full. It wasn’t the pain she anticipated, more of an unbearable stretching. “Is there more?”

  One of his chuckles rumbled between them as he dipped his head to kiss her neck. “A bit more, I’m afraid.”

  He rocked into her another inch, and she hissed at the stretch, but she needed it too. Longed for more of him, even as she dreaded the pain. When he stroked his tongue across her lips, she bucked and drew him deeper. “Please.” She needed him to move. And he did, taking her mouth as he thrust deep. She cried out against his lips.

  “Only pleasure now, love.” He began an exquisite rhythm, retreating until she moaned in protest and then filling her again. “This moment is ours.” His breath came quickly, his voice a husky rasp. “I am yours.” He shifted and began thrusting into her faster, deeper than before. “And you are mine.”

  “Yes.” In her stubborn heart she’d always belonged to him.

  “Tell me.” His voice was a guttural growl.

  “I’m yours.” Her words seemed to stun him. A fierce expression broke over his face, and he lifted a hand to stroke her cheek as he moved against her. “You’re mine,” he said on a wonder-filled whisper. Then he closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and let out a strangled groan as he called her name.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Don’t dally once you’ve chosen a worthy bride. Make your proposal in person and in the clearest of language so the lady cannot doubt your meaning.”

  —THE RUTHVEN RULES FOR YOUNG MEN

  Kit woke to the relentless brightness of sunlight peeking through parted curtains of his room in Ruthven Hall and emitted a frustrated growl. Despite the scent of jasmine clinging to his skin, Phee wasn’t pressed against his body. He gripped the twisted bed sheet in his fist. She’d been tangled with him in fevered dreams, but now, in the harsh light or morning, he lay in a cold and decidedly empty bed.

  After accompanying her back to Briar Heath, they’d parted after an all too brief kiss at the station. She’d been in such a hurry to get home to her sister, they’d gone their separate ways without making plans to see each other.

  He’d always made it a practice with lovers not to remain overnight. To ensure he woke alone and unencumbered in the morning.

  Now he never wished to wake alone again. He wa
nted Phee by his side. In his bed, and in his life.

  The situation needed a remedy. Immediately. Forever.

  Sitting up and shoving the bedding aside, Kit grinned ruefully, recalling the list Phee had prepared to keep him at bay. No talk of the future. No mention of marriage.

  The rogue he’d been while in London would have considered them his guiding principles. Permanence had been a shackle to avoid, and forever seemed like a very long time.

  Perhaps he didn’t deserve Phee. Or forever. But he wanted them both, and he’d devote every impulse, every reckless bit of tenacity he possessed to loving her for the rest of his days. The time had come to move forward. He refused to be haunted by his father’s damning words anymore. To hell with the accusation that he’d never succeed or achieve his goals. Phee made him believe in possibilities, and her love would always trounce his father’s loathing.

  After rushing through the mindless acts of washing and dressing, Kit stared at his bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror and pondered marriage. Despite avoiding the snare for years, the steps to achieving wedlock seemed clear enough. A license, a parson, and a willing bride seemed the minimum requirements. Two he felt more sure about than the third.

  The question of matrimony had never been broached between him and Phee. He’d been too much of a selfish fool to ask four years ago. But surely she understood his intentions in those magic hours in his Seven Dials room. Failing to say the words couldn’t change what they’d shared. He was hers, and she was his. They’d vowed that much. And wasn’t that the heart of every marriage?

  He rehearsed wording as he made his way downstairs. Will you marry me? Too wordy. Two words seemed better. Simpler. Marry me.