Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  “Christopher Ruthven.” Aunt Rose pronounced his name slowly, drawing out each syllable. “The young man who got you into so much trouble as a girl and haunted our doorstep like a stray cat.”

  Tipping her head, Phee scrutinized her aunt. “I never knew you disliked him.” Aunt Rose had always been kind to Kit, as affectionate toward him as Father had been.

  “I loved the boy.” She sniffed and lowered her gaze. “But he broke your heart, didn’t he? Jaunted off to London, never to return.” Had Aunt Rose missed Kit too?

  “But he did return.” And nothing had been the same since.

  “But does he mean to stay? Has he asked for your hand?”

  “No.” Phee shot out of her chair, rattling a table nearby. She steadied her cup and let out a tiny groan. This was the hardest part to admit. “I don’t know.”

  Aunt Rose lifted a hand to her mouth and began to splutter on a bite of lavender scone. Phee moved to pat her back.

  “You bewilder me, my dear.” Aunt Rose reached for Phee’s hand and tugged her around until they faced each other. “Young ladies making their own choices is well and good, but must you take away Mr. Ruthven’s? What if the man wishes to marry you?”

  “I’m not sure he does. He’s never asked me.” Etiquette and society’s rules obligated a gentleman to propose to a young lady after they’d shared what Phee and Kit had in London, but Kit had never been terribly interested in rules.

  Aunt Rose enfolded Phee’s hands, gripping them with surprising strength. “Then perhaps, my dear, you should give him a chance to do so.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  By late afternoon, Phee knew Kit wasn’t coming. The disappointment bearing down on her wasn’t rational. And telling herself so a hundred times hadn’t eased the feeling at all. They’d made no plans to meet again after their return from London. For all she knew, he’d returned to the city on the first morning train.

  Calling in at Ruthven Hall to spy out his whereabouts seemed foolish, especially if he’d already departed.

  “We’re off.” Aunt Rose stepped into the parlor, wearing her traveling gown. Juliet stood in the hall behind her, grousing about putting on gloves.

  “Off where?”

  “It’s Wednesday, Phee,” Juliet reminded her without much enthusiasm. “We always go visiting on Wednesdays.”

  They did, and she was usually busy with students until the day’s end. “I can go with you today, since my tutoring roster is clear.” Phee stood and started toward her room. “Just give me a moment to get my cloak.”

  “I was hoping you’d take on an errand for me, my dear.” Aunt Rose turned to Juliet, who lifted a neatly tied package from the hall table.

  “Tarts,” Juliet said with a toothy smile.

  “After my lemon tarts won at the festival, the youngest Miss Ruthven made me promise to send a batch over.” Aunt Rose offered Phee the beribboned box. “Take them while they’re fresh, won’t you, dear?”

  Phee squinted one eye at her aunt, who beamed back with a beatifically innocent smile.

  “Isn’t a visit to the Ruthvens on your list for the day, Aunt Rose?”

  Juliet glanced up at their aunt hopefully. Apparently the Ruthvens were a more appealing prospect than Mrs. Hollingsworth, who Aunt Rose enjoyed visiting, and Juliet did not.

  “Not today.” Aunt Rose fussed with the little bow on top when Phee took the package into her hands. “But you should go. Don’t you think?”

  Phee nodded, though she wasn’t sure about the prospect at all. Even after she’d donned her coat and started across the field between Longacre and Ruthven Hall, she worried. Worried almost as much as she looked forward to seeing Kit again.

  Even before she reached Ruthven Hall, Phee knew something was amiss. She recognized the village doctor’s gig sitting in front of the house and picked up her skirts to run toward the door.

  The frantic gaze of the housemaid who admitted her only ratcheted her fears. “I’m here to see Mr. Ruthven. Is someone ill?”

  “Wait in there, please, miss.” The girl pointed toward the drawing room. “I’ll see if Mr. Ruthven is at home.”

  Phee paced the rug in the center of the room until she thought she’d go mad. She’d never been good at waiting. When she heard a woman’s shriek overhead, she couldn’t wait any longer. No maids or footmen were in sight to stop her when she peeked out of the drawing room, and she rushed up the stairs toward the sound of female moans.

  Pushing through a door on her left, she reared back at the sight of Kit draped over a half-dressed woman reclining in bed.

  “A kiss would lessen the pain,” the woman said as she wrapped her arms around Kit’s neck.

  Kit grinned and placed a hand on her arm. “Grey would be more than happy to oblige, I’m sure.”

  “Jasper’s a plaything, Kitten,” she cooed. “You’re the one who’s won my heart.”

  Phee made a choked sound, and the lady snapped her gaze toward the door.

  “Ophelia.” Kit unlatched the woman’s arms and stood.

  “Thank goodness,” whined the bedridden woman. “I rang for tea an hour ago.” She squinted at Phee’s hands. “But you don’t have any tea.”

  Kit approached until Phee had to step back or have him pressed against her. He kept moving until they stood in the hall and closed the bedroom door behind them. The lady inside protested loudly, screeching his name.

  “I can explain,” he said over the woman’s shouts.

  “You needn’t. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t entangle you.” Though judging by the knots of pain in her chest, she’d done a terrible job of protecting her own heart.

  “Too late.” He reached for her, his hand warm, grip firm on her arm. “I am entangled, love. I want to be tangled up with you. Now and forever.”

  A saucy retort about the woman in his bed sprang to her lips, but another man’s voice rang out before she could say a word.

  “What have you done to her?” The stranger’s voice was low, almost as deep as Kit’s, and he carried himself like a man who expected others to take notice. “Hello,” he said to Phee on a warm drawl. “It’s her,” he said to Kit. “The other goddess.”

  Kit crossed his arms and offered the man a sharp nod. “She’s the one.”

  The handsome gentleman reached for Phee’s hand, but Kit swiped his arm away. “I don’t think so, Grey.” Kit dipped his head toward the closed bedroom door. “Why don’t you see to our mutual friend?”

  The lady’s calls had diminished, but every once in a while she let out a mournful high-pitched squeal.

  “Thanks very much for getting her riled before sending me into the fray.” Grey, as Kit had called the man, drew in a sharp breath through his nose. “What did you do to her anyhow?”

  “I left the room and closed the door.”

  “Good God, man, that’s the worst you could have done.” Grey winked at Phee and then smirked at Kit. “You know Tess requires an audience.”

  After squaring his broad shoulders and running a hand through the reddish-brown waves of his hair, the man stepped into the bedroom with the lady Kit had been draped over moments before.

  “Will you come with me, Phee?” He offered his hand, but she refused to take it.

  “Where?”

  “Someplace quiet where we can speak privately.”

  Phee nodded but didn’t take his hand. He led her downstairs and into his father’s study. Phee hesitated a moment on the threshold, but he urged her, beseeched her, really, with his dark gaze. When she stepped inside, he closed and latched the door.

  “She’s an actress,” he started, answering the question she hadn’t yet asked. “We worked together at Merrick Theater. She wished for more. I did not.”

  “You were never lovers?”

  “Never.”

  Phee gnawed at her lower lip. She believed him but wasn’t certain she should. “But she said you won her heart.”

  “She’s mistaken. I never sought Tess’s affection, a
nd my heart was never on offer. It’s taken. Has been, I suspect, since the day you jumped out of that tree and frightened me half to death.” He smiled weakly, uncertainly.

  “You didn’t seem frightened.”

  “No. Fascinated. Intrigued. My interest in you was never in doubt.”

  “Except that you left.” Phee realized she was still carrying Aunt Rose’s box of tarts and had crumpled the ribbon while toting it under her arm.

  “But now I’m here. With you.” He started toward her, and Phee swallowed down a lump of anticipation in her throat. “Right where I want to be.” He took the box of tarts from her hands and laid it on the desk behind her. “A culinary gift from Aunt Rose?”

  “Tarts” was all she could manage. He was standing too near, smelling divine, warming the side of her body.

  “Did you sample any?”

  Phee shook her head and let out a little hiss when he cupped her cheek in his palm. She didn’t pull back or shrink from his touch. She craved it too much.

  “Pity. If you had, I’d get to taste their sweetness from your lips.”

  He dipped his head to kiss her, and her body flared as if they were bare and entwined in that rickety bed in London again. But she needed answers as much as she needed his kiss.

  “Is this truly where you wish to be?” She pressed a hand to his chest and felt the galloping rhythm of his heart under her fingertips.

  Kit frowned and pulled an inch away. “Yes, of course. I’ve thought of nothing but you since I opened my eyes this morning. I didn’t invite Grey and Tess here, I assure you. They arrived unexpectedly, and then she twisted her ankle.” Pausing his ramble, he stroked a finger down her cheek. “Where else would I wish to be?”

  “London. Your theater. Your room in Seven Dials.” It was hard to think, difficult to speak when his gaze kept riveting on her mouth, when his eyes were bright and warm as golden syrup. “Briar Heath has never felt like home to you. I can’t remember when, but you told me that once.”

  Her words chilled all the heat between them. Kit stepped back. One step, then another, and he turned to slump down on the sofa arranged near the room’s fireplace. He gazed at her hard, then buried his head in his hands.

  Every impulse urged her to go to him, comfort him, but fear held her in place. She needed to hear his answer. To know whether he planned to leave Briar Heath. Leave her. Again.

  “You’re right, love.” He sat up, hands slack between his knees. “I never belonged here, and this house never felt like home.”

  She couldn’t hold back and went to him then. Lowering herself onto the sofa, she reached for his hand. He grasped hers eagerly, almost tight enough to hurt.

  “So you’ll go back to London.” It wasn’t a question. She knew the truth. As much as she wanted Kit by her side, she also wished for him to find the place where he belonged.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Phee bit the inside of her cheek to stop the tears burning her eyes.

  “But I’ll always come home. The trains can take me there and back in a day, a few hours.”

  “What home? You said this has never been your home.”

  “You, love.” Kit hooked a finger under her chin, drawing Phee’s face toward his so that he could gaze into her eyes. “You’re my home.”

  Phee braced a hand on his thigh so she didn’t tip into his lap. She tried to make sense of what he was saying, but her heart seemed to know. A breath-stealing tickle swelled in her chest, like a cluster of butterflies taking wing.

  “I’m your home?” She said the words as much for confirmation as to make herself believe.

  “I was a fool to leave you.” Little lines of worry formed between Kit’s furrowed brow. “Regret will always color that decision and the hurt I caused. But I will never leave you again.”

  For a long moment, Phee soaked in his words. She’d forgiven him for going, but she struggled to believe he wanted to stay as much as she longed for him to do.

  “Can you forgive me?” His voice broke as he squeezed her hand.

  Phee wanted to show him. She leaned into Kit and pressed her mouth to his. Her kiss was tentative, a gentle brush against his lips. But one taste of him and she wanted more. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she tipped toward him. Kit took her further, wrapping his hand around her waist and pulling her into his lap. He deepened the kiss, stole her breath. One hand stroked her back, gripped her hip; the other shaped her breast. His palm was pure heat and she arched against him. Gathering her skirts, he nudged her legs apart, one on each side of his. He tugged her hips until she was flush against him.

  “There’s far too much fabric between us.” His lips tilted in a grin, carving long dimples on each side of his mouth.

  “Yes,” Phee whispered huskily. Layers and layers, but she could still feel the hard length of him between her legs.

  He looped a finger in one of the curls pinned near her ear and slid it loose, pulling the tress down her neck. “I prefer you disheveled.”

  She preferred herself that way too. With her hair down, feet bare, corset off, she felt more alive. More herself. How many years had she resisted before Mama convinced her to pin up her hair? To concede at least that much to propriety.

  “Wearing my hair unbound is a sign of wildness. Isn’t that what your father said?” The man had loathed her on such a short acquaintance and never given her a chance to disprove his hasty judgements. Fire-haired witch, he’d christened her that day in his study. This very study. She looked around the wood-paneled walls, trying to recall the man. Her memory blurred. She could only feel this moment—Kit in her arms, his long, hard body snug against hers.

  “Are you wild, my love?” Kit rocked his hips, stoking a pulsing need that made Phee gasp to catch her breath. The ache in her was a tightness, a taut tension waiting for release.

  Wildness was in her. She’d always known as much. Mama’s lessons and rules and guidelines were meant to tame her, to make her a proper young lady. Eager to please her mother, Phee sometimes worried her hungers and urges would burn her up inside if she set them free. Lists, duties, occupying herself with tutoring and writing held her impulses at bay. But only just. They were always there, banked but never extinguished. And no one but Kit knew how to spark them into flame.

  Boldly, brazenly, she slid a hand between them, past the buttons of his trousers to the scalding ridge of his arousal. “I’ve spent so long trying not to be.”

  He cast his gaze down to where Phee moved her hand over him. When he hissed and caught her fingers, she feared she’d hurt him and stilled in his lap.

  “You needn’t curb your urges with me.” Kit moved his hand lower as he spoke, and Phee squirmed against him. “I love your eagerness.” He grinned when he found the opening of her drawers. Slipping past the ribboned closure, he stroked through her curls only a moment before sinking his finger inside her. “I love you, Ophelia.”

  “Kit.” She fumbled over his buttons, desperate to feel his bare skin. When she pulled the final fastening free, he was such smooth, glorious heat in her hand. “Please, Kit.”

  He knew what she craved, knew how to sate her wild urges. With one hand on her hip, he guided her to take him inside. There was no pain this time, just a glorious fullness. One tilt of her hips and Kit let out a husky groan. She felt powerful and wanton. “You’re mine.”

  He smiled at the echo of his words. “I’m yours.” He tightened his fingers on her hip and pulled her hard against him. “I’m home.”

  Phee bent to take his mouth, to stroke his tongue with hers as he’d taught her to do. He moaned into her mouth, slid a hand into her hair to pull more tresses from their pins.

  Gripping his shoulder with one hand, she pressed her other palm to his cheek. This was the man she wanted, not because she should. Not because she must. But because he understood her as no one ever had. He loved all the practical and wild parts of her.

  As Phee rocked against Kit, he held her hips but let her build the rhythm. He watched her ev
ery move, breath gusting from his lips each time she took him deep.

  “I love you,” she managed on a breathy moan as her release rioted through her body.

  Kit gripped her neck and pulled her in for a kiss, letting out his own muffled groan.

  “Kit?” Sophia’s resonant voice carried through the locked door. “The housemaids say you’ve barricaded yourself in the study.”

  Phee gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. Kit closed his eyes, clenched his jaw. “Yes,” he called toward the door, “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  “Which I can understand,” Sophia continued. “Your guests are atrocious. Especially Mr. Grey.” A soft thud sounded against the door, as if Sophia had slumped against the wood. “They’re leaving,” she said quietly. “I thought you might wish to see them off.”

  All Kit wanted was the woman in his arms. Magnificent and full of passion, Phee was everything he’d ever craved. And he was a lucky bastard, as Grey so perceptively pointed out. But now she was shifting off him, and he wanted to haul her back in his arms.

  But being a man who deserved Ophelia meant taking responsibility, even if it was for his bedraggled theater comrades. “Give me a bloody moment, Sophia.”

  Phee leaned against his shoulder as she got to her feet. Kit reached down to settle her skirt around her ankles, fighting the urge to flip the garment up, lay her down on the sofa, and make love to her again.

  “Do you think Sophia knows I’m here with you?” Phee whispered the words as she shoved pins into loose strands of hair.

  “Probably not.” Even if she did, Kit intended to ask Phee to be his wife before the day’s end. Worry over impropriety would soon be irrelevant. Kit buttoned his trousers and turned back to where Phee stood. She cast him a worried look as she bit the nail of her index finger.

  “Don’t fret. Just wait for me, love.” He placed a kiss on her lush mouth and failed to keep it brief. Phee seemed to feel the same and reached up to stroke her fingers through the hair at his nape, sending sparks of pleasure down his back, his thighs, all the way to his toes. When they were both breathless, he smiled against her lips and whispered, “Wait for me. We have important matters to discuss.”