Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  Leaving Phee in his father’s study was only possible because he told himself she’d be there when he returned.

  The chaos he found in the front drawing room made him wish he’d never left the haven of his study. Sophia and Grey and Tess stood in the center of the room, bickering, while Clary sat cross-legged on the settee, watching the ruckus with wide eyes and swiping her pencil madly against the paper of her sketchbook.

  “Would anyone like to tell me what’s going on?”

  “And there he is, the traitorous cad.” Tess hobbled toward him, then reached for Grey, who lifted his arm to steady her. “Who was that red-haired strumpet who lured you away from me?”

  Sophia snapped her gaze toward Kit, arching one fair brow in that imperious way of hers.

  “She was a goddess,” Grey interjected unhelpfully. “One of two in this idyllic little hamlet.” He fixed his gaze on Sophia. Far too long, and far too heatedly. “Almost makes one consider a long sojourn in the countryside.”

  “Too bad your train is leaving in half an hour, Mr. Grey.”

  Kit grinned at Sophia’s tart reply. Apparently Grey’s charms hadn’t worked their magic on her yet.

  “There are other trains, Miss Ruthven.” The scoundrel abandoned Tess and stepped closer to Sophia. His sister held her ground, but Kit noticed her eyes had gone a deeper shade of blue and the Cupid’s bow of her upper lip trembled. “Goddesses, on the other hand . . . ” Grey spoke in the low theatrical voice that made women swoon. “Are few and far between.”

  “And Tess’s ankle will swell the longer she’s on her feet.” Kit pointed to the petite actress who glared at him as she leaned on an obliging wingback chair. “You should get her back to London.”

  “Yes, Mr. Grey. Surely your gaggle of female admirers back in London are longing for your next performance.” Sophia nervously twirled her jet necklace around her finger, belying her caustic tone.

  “I’m not leaving without him.” Grey pointed at Kit.

  “You’ll have to, my friend. I have matters to attend to here.” The most pressing of which was making Ophelia his wife. He could still taste her on his lips and most of his thoughts were still locked in that study with her.

  “Then give me your play at least.”

  “The play’s not finished.” The piece was close. A few more days and he’d have something worthy of Fleet Theater. He hoped. “I’ll send it as soon as I’m able.”

  “Good God, man, haste. Don’t you want the success you’ve been working toward for years?”

  “You know that I do.”

  “Then bring it yourself.” Grey stepped close and leaned in to whisper. “You’ve stirred the hornet’s nest with Tess. Fleet will take some convincing now.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Kit peeked over Grey’s shoulder at Tess, who frowned back at him. “Though as I recall, you were quite adept at offering the lady solace for her broken heart.”

  Grey lifted his lips in a smirk. “Broken hearts are my specialty.”

  As Kit herded his friend and Tess toward the front door, Grey stopped short and turned back for a last glance at Sophia, who’d taken a seat on the settee with Clary. “Take care of your ladies, Kit. All of them.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Kit placed a hand on Grey’s back and pushed him toward the door.

  “And when you come to London,” Grey added on the threshold, giving in to an actor’s need for the last word, “bring Sophia so she can take in one of my performances and join my gaggle of admirers.”

  “Did you miss the fact that my sister is in mourning?”

  “Is she?” Grey lifted onto his toes and leaned back for another glimpse into the drawing room. “Mercy. No woman should look that delicious in mourning clothes.”

  “Enough. Go now, or it’s pistols at dawn. Your choice.”

  “This is me, going.” Grey lifted one hand in the air, and offered the other to Tess to aid her down the steps. A footman rushed forward to help her into the Ruthven gig that would deliver them to the train station. Grey turned once Tess was tucked inside and waved at Kit. “This is me, waving good-bye.” He cupped his hand around his mouth and whispered. Loudly. “Come to London soon.”

  Kit closed the door.

  Two steps into the drawing room, Clary asked, “What red-haired woman?”

  “Miss Marsden, I presume.” Sophia looked far too smug.

  “Miss Marsden came to visit, and no one told me?” Clary sprang from the sofa, dropping her sketchbook on the cushions. “Is she still here?”

  I bloody well hope so.

  “It’s almost time for dinner. I’m sure she’s returned home.” Sophia stood and placed a hand on Clary’s shoulder. “Speaking of which, we should ready ourselves for our dinner.”

  “We should have invited your friends to stay, Kit,” Clary suggested.

  “No.” Kit and Sophia answered in unison and with equal vehemence.

  “Upstairs.” Sophia patted Clary’s back and urged her toward the stairs. “I’ll come up in a moment and help with your hair.”

  Once Clary was out of the room, Sophia crossed her arms and assessed him.

  “Is Ophelia still locked in your study?”

  “I am not holding her captive. But, yes, I very much hope she’s waiting for me there.”

  “Do I need to remind you this is entirely inappropriate?” She heaved a weary sigh, like someone who’d been scolding wayward children all her life. “Apparently, I do.”

  “I’m going to ask her to marry me. Right now. As soon as I get back in that room.”

  His sister clasped a hand over her mouth, and Kit wasn’t sure if she was appalled, horrified, or simply shocked that he’d finally bowed to more of their father’s expectations.

  “You’re very rarely silent, Sophia.”

  In two quick strides, she stood before him. His sister stunned him by reaching out and taking him in a fierce embrace. When she pulled away, her blue-green eyes had gone glassy. “I’m rarely this happy. I wish you both nothing but joy.”

  “Thank you.” There was more in Sophia’s gaze than mere happiness for his good fortune. Kit sensed his sister longed for her own happy ending, and he sincerely wished her to find it. But not with Jasper Grey. Or any rogue of his ilk.

  After she’d followed Clary upstairs, Kit started toward his study. His study. This rambling house his father built had never felt like home, but he intended to change that. Making love with Ophelia in each room seemed a good start, but he’d take Clary’s advice and redecorate too.

  At the threshold of his study, he took a deep bracing breath. Marry me. He only intended to speak the words once in his life.

  As the door swung open, he choked on an exhale. She hadn’t waited. The room was empty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Choosing not to wait for Kit had proved an excruciating decision.

  Phee paced the oddly floral carpet in his father’s study until she couldn’t wait any longer. Intending to duck out through the back terrace doors, she’d stopped near the main hall and overheard Kit offering good-byes to his theater friends.

  Mr. Grey urged Kit to return to London. Asked him if he still craved the success he’d gone to the city seeking four years before. Kit admitted that he did. He’d told Phee as much on that bench in Hyde Park too.

  How could she love him and wish to keep him here if London was where he truly wished to be? He’d assured her of the short train journey between the city and the village, but what if he tired of being torn between the two? Kit’s impulses had always been for adventure, pleasure, enjoyment. He might bear Briar Heath society for a month but for years?

  As Phee made her way back toward Longacre, she reasoned in her head against the urge to reverse course and return to Kit’s arms. Juliet and Aunt Rose would return from their social calls soon and wonder where she’d gone. Aunt Rose, in particular, would wish to know the results of her tart delivery errand. What could she admit? That Kit encouraged her to release her wild na
ture, and they’d nearly made love in his father’s study?

  I’m home he’d said, and Phee saw the truth in his eyes. He’d always been seeking a belonging his father never allowed him to feel at home. But London, with all its enticements, was the one place he’d chosen to make a home. He spoke of ridding himself of his Seven Dials room without a hint of feeling, but she could easily imagine him there. She’d always have fond memories of that cozy little space.

  The colors of dusk washed over Longacre as Phee approached through the vegetable garden. The house’s loveliness always struck her at this time of day. A wave of wistfulness sparked a sharp ache in her chest. Longacre was the only home she and Juliet had ever known, a piece of their family’s long history left in their keeping. Even if Kit could force himself to reside in the country, could she let Longacre go in order to make Ruthven Hall their home?

  Movement in the front parlor window caught Phee’s eye, though none of the lights in the house were lit. Seeing the windows dark, she’d assumed Aunt Rose and Juliet had not yet returned.

  She began chafing her hands as she entered the parlor. A fire was definitely in order. Kneeling at the fireplace, she prepared kindling, lit a steady flame, and bent to shovel coals onto the grate. A noise at her back made her jump.

  She turned to see a man lurking in the dim room. He stood near the window, outlined from behind by the darkening sky.

  “I did not mean to startle you.”

  Phee recognized Lord Dunstan’s voice but gripped the fire poker as she stood.

  “If you had no wish to frighten me, you shouldn’t have entered my home uninvited.” She’d never spoken to him so coldly, never failed to give him the courtesy and respect his title and position in the village demanded. Tenacity was one thing. Now the man’s behavior had gone beyond the pale.

  When he strode forward, a twisted grin curved his mouth. The same he’d worn as an arrogant, bullying boy so many years ago.

  “I came out of concern for you, Miss Marsden.”

  He’d said the words once before. On the day he’d come to Longacre and asked for her hand in marriage shortly after her father’s death.

  “Your concern has always been appreciated, but—”

  “Shouldn’t you be mine, Ophelia?”

  Phee let out a shaky breath and fought down a wave of nausea. The man’s persistence exhausted her, but it also pricked straight to her stubborn heart. The more he pressed for some union between them that was never meant to be, the less she wished to attempt kindness or patience.

  “Please go, my lord, if you plan to renew that topic. My refusal must be sufficient.”

  “Your father thought you should be mine.” Lord Dunstan moved toward her as he spoke. Phee tightened her grip on the metal poker. When he leaned in, she drew a deep breath and prepared to strike. But he wasn’t reaching for her. He crouched down and began seeing to the unlit fire. “Did you know that, Ophelia?”

  Her name sounded wrong on his lips. Too much emphasis on the O. None of the warmth and tenderness Kit infused into each syllable.

  “Your father believed you would encourage my pursuit.” He lifted his hand toward the metal implement in her hand. “May I have that?”

  Phee looked at Dunstan, the fire poker, and decided to relent. Bashing a local aristocrat over the head didn’t seem the best course of action. Though considering how he ignored her rejection, she wondered if it might finally get his attention.

  After a moment of agitating the fire and heaping on coals, Lord Dunstan stood and swiped at the dirt on his fingers. “He said you were lonely. Broken-hearted.”

  “My father shouldn’t have spoken so freely.” Papa had been a talker. Eager to share his opinions, especially the most radical among them. But it pained Phee to know he’d spoken of her to Lord Dunstan. Two men plotting her fate. Papa had to know she’d never bend to such manipulation.

  “He was concerned about you as well.” Dunstan gestured to the two closely arranged chairs in front of the fire. “Shall we sit?”

  “Only for a moment.” Phee sat, but her body remained tense, ready to flee. Something about Dunstan’s tone, his intense stare, put every nerve in her body on alert.

  “You confound me, Miss Marsden.”

  “Do I, my lord? I’m not a terribly confusing woman.” Kit had claimed she confused him, but she’d never considered herself mysterious. She’d never dabbled in secrets until she’d chosen a pen name for her book. And spent one glorious afternoon in a rented room with Kit in London.

  “Oh, but you are.” He leaned forward, much as Kit had done on that first day he’d visited her after returning to Briar Heath. Dunstan wasn’t nearly as tall or long-legged as Kit. Even bending forward, there was no danger of their bodies brushing against each other. Phee tucked her knees in, just in case. “I am not a man given to strong emotion. Competitive? Yes. Determined on a course once I’ve fixed on a goal? Absolutely. But I so often win because I do not allow myself to be distracted by sentiment.”

  Phee stared at her folded hands. In many ways, he was describing the sort of resolve she’d often wished to possess. Not being competitive, perhaps, but devoting herself to a purpose without being waylaid by passion and emotion. She’d never quite achieved his brand of willpower.

  “But you,” Dunstan said on a choked whisper, as if some obstruction blocked his throat, “have completely upset the orderly progress of my life.”

  “No, my lord.” Phee shook her head. She was not fond of the man’s high-handed manner, but she’d never meant him any harm. And she’d never been coy or given him cause to hope. In her own mind, she may have wavered, but he never knew of her misgivings.

  He braced his hands on the arms of the chair, gripping so tightly his knuckles went white against his skin. “I believe I may love you, Ophelia. I certainly want you.”

  “This is entirely inappropriate, my lord.” Phee bolted from her chair and started toward the parlor door. “My aunt and sister will return soon.”

  “Are you concerned about a chaperone, Miss Marsden?” Dunstan stood too, braced his arms across his chest, and showed no indication he was interested in leaving. “You weren’t concerned when you were with Mr. Ruthven.”

  Phee’s cheeks flushed with heat. “Why are you here, my lord?” Her desire to see the back of him was almost as acute as her regret at not waiting for Kit as he’d asked her to.

  “My solicitor’s offices are quite near Hyde Park. You’ll recall the day I met you not far from the park. We returned together on the train.”

  “I remember.” Kit had asked to publish her book that day. She should have agreed to that too. “Were you following me?”

  “I saw you again yesterday, walking with the same man, toward the same park. I observed a very friendly interlude between you and Mr. Ruthven on the Serpentine. Then your joint departure via cab to a wretched building in Seven Dials.” Dunstan emitted a dry rasping sound. From the tilt of his mouth, Phee guessed he’d intended to chuckle. “What I did not observe was a chaperone.”

  “Are you attempting to shame me, Lord Dunstan? Threaten me? If your opinion of my behavior is so low, you must concede that I’m not the woman who should become your baroness.”

  “I concede nothing.”

  “You must. How dare you invade my home and privacy?” A shiver chased down her spine at the thought of him watching her, following her about London.

  “I consider it protection, not invasion. I’ve been looking on for weeks as you gallivant to London and make a fool of yourself with Christopher Ruthven.” He shook his head and offered her a pitying grin. “But you’ve been doing that since we were children, haven’t you? Why do you think I told Mrs. Raybourn you’d authored that terrible book?”

  “You?”

  “What else was I to do when you disappeared into the garden like a wanton with Ruthven? You needed to be brought to heel, Ophelia.”

  He started toward her, and Phee flinched back. The look of hurt in his eyes shocked her, but no
t as much as watching him lower to one knee.

  “Marry me, Ophelia. I suspect you’re not a maid, and the book you’ve written will cause us no end of disgrace. But I can forgive you in time.”

  At the creak of the front door and thud of footsteps Phee’s chest swelled with relief. She rushed toward the hall to greet her aunt and sister and slammed straight into a wall of forest-scented man.

  “I’m glad to see you too, love.” Kit bowed his head for a kiss, but Phee retreated from his arms.

  “Lord Dunstan is here.”

  He seemed to take the warning in her tone and stormed past. By the time she reached the parlor, Kit had hauled Dunstan up by his lapels. The baron swiped a hand across his chest to dislodge Kit’s hands.

  “Tell me you aren’t proposing to her again.” Kit’s voice was half growl. Phee had never seen him so enraged. “My God, man, is one refusal not sufficient?”

  “This has nothing to do with you, Ruthven.” Dunstan crossed his arms again, spread his feet into a wide stance, as if he had every intention of holding his ground, come what may. “My feelings for Miss Ruthven cannot be repressed. Believe me, I’ve attempted to quit them.” Dunstan cast Phee a disturbingly heated gaze. “She will be mine. Longacre will be mine.”

  Phee was beginning to think single-minded determination wasn’t a terribly appealing character quality after all.

  “Longacre?” Kit knitted his brow, glancing back at Phee and then Dunstan.

  “Her father owed a debt against the house,” Dunstan proclaimed. “My father loaned Marsden funds that were never repaid.”

  “My father never mentioned any such thing.” Phee knew they’d been struggling for years, but she believed Longacre was clear of any debt.

  Dunstan snorted. “I can provide all the proof you might require, Phee.”

  “Don’t call her that.” Kit pointed a finger at Dunstan. “What does Longacre have to do with anything? Take the bloody house, Dunstan. Ophelia is mine.”

  “My God, you have had her.” Dunstan shifted his gaze to Phee. “How could you offer yourself like a common strumpet?”