“What goes on in here?” Phee eyed a lacy piece of lady’s lingerie dangling from a bookshelf just inside the door.
“More than either of us needs to know, I suspect.” Kit pressed a fist to the center of his chest, fought to steady his breathing. He hadn’t experienced this kind of gut-twisting fear since he’d faced his father as child. This moment mattered. Perhaps more than any ever had.
“Did you often join the festivities at Mr. Grey’s townhouse?”
“No.” Kit swallowed down the impulse to diminish his past. “But I was no saint during my years in London.” Now was the time for the truth. She deserved as much, and she’d never let him get away with anything less.
“Then why give it up?” She’d positioned herself near the center of the room, clasped her hands before her, and squared her shoulders.
He still hadn’t touched her, kissed her, and he fought the urge to think of anything else. Think. Phee was the thinker. He needed to learn her contemplative ways.
“You’ve returned to London,” she continued. “Why not resume this life?”
“Will you be here?” He gestured around the book-lined room and noted more discarded clothing near a velvet settee.
“No.” Phee’s brows puckered as she followed his gaze and took in the rumpled lump of what appeared to be men’s trousers. “Not here.”
“Then I’ve no wish to be here either.” Kit started toward her. She was too far away, and he was too tired of missing her. “Wherever you are, love, that is where I belong.”
She leaned into him, planting two warm palms on his chest when he clasped an arm around her waist, and he closed his eyes against the exquisite relief of having her in his arms.
“Even if that belonging is in Briar Heath?” She was still frowning, not with displeasure or confusion but an earnestness that pinched at his heart.
“Briar Heath, Buckinghamshire, preferably not Belgravia.” He tugged her closer until he could feel her breath against his face, feel her soft curves against the length of his body. “You are my home, Phee. I’ve been homesick for four years, but it wasn’t for the village or that house my father built. I missed you. I always looked for you.”
“Looked for me? You knew where I was.”
“In the theater . . . ” He’d never admitted his foolish, endless searching. “I looked for you every night. Imagined you sitting in a theater box watching every performance. Even then, all those years apart, you were my polestar, love.”
“I love you, Kit.” She rose onto her toes.
Kit took her the rest of the way, lifting her in his arms, tasting her mouth, pouring his heart into a kiss he hoped would mark the start of their future as man and wife. When he lowered her, he continued stroking her lips with his, greedy for more. “I love you, Phee. Marry me.”
“Yes,” she said on a breathless whisper.
He stilled against her. He’d wanted the word. Dreamed of hearing it from her lips. But he needed to hear it again. “Tell me.”
“Yes, I will marry you.” She chuckled and that delicious pink hue flooded her cheeks.
Kit kissed the color, stroked her cheek. “I will never leave you.”
“You will follow your heart and flourish?” she teased, fingers plucking at the buttons of his shirt.
“Following my heart will always lead me back to you.”
Her smile swept away all the fear he’d felt moments before, any doubt that she was his, and he was hers. The future wasn’t colored anymore with a clawing hunger for success but an eagerness to savor every single day with Ophelia.
He swept his thumb across her mouth and lowered his head to taste her again.
A woman’s sniffles drew both their gazes to the library doorway.
“You two may convince me marriage isn’t a shackling prison after all.” Grey slapped his palms together and began applauding as if he’d just watched himself perform on stage.
“So romantic.” The scantily garbed young lady at his side lifted the edge of her sheer chemise and dabbed at her eyes.
Kit turned back to Phee, his soon-to-be wife. “I hope this doesn’t mean we have to invite them to the wedding.”
Phee peeked around his shoulder at Grey and his lady friend. “Oh, I think we should. If Mr. Grey is finally marriage-minded, it would be a disservice to the unwed ladies of Briar Heath not to do.”
That sent Grey chasing his companion up the stairs, leaving them alone.
After only a moment of laughter, Kit kissed Ophelia again. And again. Until they were both breathless, until there was no doubt that together was precisely where they belonged.
EPILOGUE
Deafening applause greeted the actors when they stepped to the edge of the stage to take their final bows. Fleet Theater’s floorboards shook as patrons near the pit began stomping their feet.
Grey, at center stage, turned his gaze toward the wings and reached out to urge Kit forward. “Come, man. Soak in this success.”
Kit shook his head. He had a better view from the wings. But Grey was not to be deterred. He stormed toward Kit, gripped his arm, and dragged him to center stage.
Drawing in a deep lungful of stale playhouse air, Kit strode forward and joined the line of actors.
“Our talented playwright,” Grey shouted.
Kit bowed with the rest of the troupe, then lifted a hand to block the glare of the arc lamps along the front of the stage as he searched faces in the boxes lining the west wall of the theater.
Ophelia lifted a hand and waved at him. He could make out the white of her glove, the flash of a smile, and the auburn curls of her glorious hair. Then she pressed a hand to her chest. When she placed her palm over her heart, Kit knew hers was as full as his. For a long moment, he fixed his gaze on her, drinking in the sight he’d sought so long. He smiled back and joy welled up, filling him whole.
When the curtains fell, Kit rushed past the rest of the troupe. Drunk on the success of his play’s opening night, they laughed as they planned celebrations for the evening. Kit could think of only one way to commemorate the night’s triumph.
As he made his way down the narrow passage toward Ophelia’s theater box, the door slammed open, and Clary rushed toward him, nearly tripping on the lavender ruffles of her gown.
He caught her in his arms and swung her around, as he’d done since she was a child, before setting her down where she’d started.
“Properly spectacular,” she said, her voice vibrating with excitement. “Utterly amazing.”
“You liked it, then?”
She clutched at her throat, waved a hand, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Eyes huge, she finally managed, “It’s perfect.”
As he patted his sister on the back, Phee emerged from the theater box and swept toward him in a stunning blue gown that perfectly matched the cerulean shade of her eyes. Juliet followed close behind and beamed one of her rare smiles.
Phee laid her hand on his chest. “I’m so proud of you.” Her words, her soft earnest smile, the warmth of her hand over his heart—Phee loosened something inside of Kit. A knot somewhere deep inside. The place where he’d buried years of pain and a secret yearning for his father’s love and approbation.
Ophelia’s approval mattered more. Her love was all he needed.
He bent to brush a kiss on her lips, resisting the temptation to take a deeper taste. Clary watched them far too closely, as if she planned to sketch the scene the moment she got home. Juliet tipped her head to study the theater’s décor, as if kissing didn’t interest her at all.
“Shall we head back home?” Kit asked. After months of work, layers of paint, and yards of wallpaper, Ruthven Hall was beginning to feel like home. Longacre remained a bone of contention with Lord Dunstan, but Kit had begun paying down Phee’s father’s debt. Most importantly, the man had finally given up his pursuit of Ophelia. Aunt Rose remained at Longacre, and Phee still pondered transforming the Marsden home into a progressive school for girls.
“You don’t
wish to join any of the others to celebrate?” Phee asked.
Kit arched a brow in his wife’s direction. “I can think of far better ways to celebrate. Can’t you?” He let his gaze drop to the swell of her bosom and licked his lips, counting the various ways.
“We have one errand before leaving the city,” Clary cut in.
“Do we?” Though the evening was still young by London standards, Kit could imagine nothing more urgent than returning home to Briar Heath and spending the remainder of the night pleasuring his wife.
“We promised Sophia we’d stop by Ruthven’s and pick up fresh copies of The New Ruthven Rules for Young Ladies,” Clary announced. She, Ophelia, and Sophia had worked together on a new edition, and he knew the three were on tenterhooks waiting to see the first printing.
He’d hoped Sophia would attend the first performance of his play, but she’d stubbornly insisted on clinging to etiquette and not attending the theater for her last few months of mourning.
“Very well.” Kit sighed and led his wife, Clary, and Juliet toward the back of the house.
Rather than split into two hansom cabs, they secured a four-wheeled growler for the journey to Somerset Row. Between the three ladies’ gowns, they still had to squeeze in tight to fit. Yet no matter how many times he whispered in Phee’s ear, urging her to sit on his lap—to save on space, of course—she glanced at Juliet and Clarissa and firmly shook her head. Bloody propriety.
Kit was shocked to see a light on at the Ruthven office when the cab deposited them on the pavement outside.
“Who would be here at this hour?” Clary asked as she peeked out the carriage window.
“Mr. Adamson,” Phee announced. “He assured me he’d wait for us.”
Kit wasn’t sure why his wife and Adamson were in such close communication, but it didn’t surprise him that the overeager young upstart would willingly burn the midnight oil.
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Clary added. “Ophelia says he’s brawny.”
“Does she indeed?” Kit cast his wife an inquisitive gaze.
“I believe I said bulky.” She curled a hand around Kit’s upper arm, shaping her palm over his bicep. “Nothing to compare to your bulk, husband.”
Kit twisted his mouth in a grin and considered how much he ached to entwine his bulk with her luscious curves.
After two taps on the front-door glass, Adamson strode forward to admit them. A day in the office hadn’t diminished a jot of the energy that seemed to vibrate off the man.
He nodded sharply at Kit, offered Phee and her sister a half-smile, and raised both eyebrows at the sight of Clarissa, who scrutinized his brawn as if he was a bug under a microscope’s lens.
“Mr. Adamson,” Phee started the introductions before Kit could do the deed. “May I introduce my sister, Miss Juliet Marsden, and Miss Clarissa Ruthven, co-owner of Ruthven’s?” Phee placed a reassuring hand on Clary’s back as Kit’s sister stepped forward to offer Adamson her hand.
He scowled a moment, then relented, taking Clary’s hand for only a moment.
“Can I see the rest?” Clary asked, apparently finished with her assessment of the dark-haired managing editor. Phee led the girls on a tour of the office.
“She’s a child.” Adamson seemed completely ruffled by the fact. “A child who owns a publishing house.”
“Clarissa is sixteen years old. Technically, her legal ownership begins when she comes of age.” Kit felt a tickle of laughter rumbling in his chest. “But yes, Gabriel, my little sister will one day be your boss.”
“Unbelievable” was all the man could manage.
Female laughter rang out from the direction of Adamson’s office. The man pivoted on his heel and started toward the sound at a rapid clip.
“What in God’s name?” Adamson swiped at a white ribbon Clarissa was using to tie back the plain green curtains at the room’s single window. It was the same ribbon she’d been wearing in her upswept curls all evening.
“I was just trying to add a bit of beauty to the room.” Clary didn’t seem perturbed by Adamson’s hunched shoulders or fierce glower. “It’s a very dour space.”
“This is a place of industry. An office to conduct business.” He was waving his brawny arms as he seethed. His polished accent slipped into a sharper London cadence. “Beauty ’as no place ’ere, Miss Ruthven.”
Clary held her ground. Kit and Phee joined arms and watched the stalemate like gawking bystanders. Juliet seemed thoroughly amused. Adamson towered over Clary’s petite frame, but she appeared determined not to be the one to relent.
Finally, Adamson sighed through gritted teeth, gripped the edges of his coat, and stepped away from her. She cast Phee, Kit, and Juliet a triumphant grin.
Kit lifted the stack of books to be delivered to Sophia, and urged his wife and the girls toward the front door. On the threshold, Clarissa turned back and called to Adamson. “I sincerely hope you’ll change your mind, Mr. Adamson. A life without beauty, even as simple as a ribbon to pull back a curtain and expose a lovely view, isn’t much of a life at all.”
“Come on, Clary.” The last thing Kit wanted was another skirmish between the two.
Minutes later, as they settled onto the train for the return journey to Briar Heath, Clary reclined next to Juliet and stared out the window, mumbling to herself.
“What’s that, dear?” Phee inquired.
“Gabriel Adamson,” she said. “He’s very pretty, but I think he’s the saddest man I’ve ever met.”
Sad was the last word Kit would have chosen to describe the insufferably arrogant man. But when Phee scooted her body next to his and rested her head on his shoulder, he forgot Adamson and the disturbing worry of his youngest sister noticing any man at all. He let himself settle against his wife’s warm, jasmine-scented body.
This, he thought as he placed a kiss against her hair, was right where he belonged.
When an infamous rake who has vowed to never marry becomes entranced by a thoroughly proper woman who has a secret that would shock society, sparks fly, hair will be mussed, and passion will overwhelm!
A STUDY IN SCOUNDRELS
by Christy Carlyle
Available April 2017
Pre-order now!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fueled by Pacific Northwest coffee and inspired by multiple viewings of every British costume drama she can get her hands on, USA Today bestselling author CHRISTY CARLYLE writes sensual historical romance set in the Victorian era. She loves heroes who struggle against all odds and heroines who are ahead of their time. A former teacher with a degree in history, she finds there’s nothing better than being able to combine her love of the past with a die-hard belief in happy endings.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
ALSO BY CHRISTY CARLYLE
The Accidental Heirs Series
One Dangerous Desire
One Tempting Proposal
One Scandalous Kiss
Coming Soon
A Study in Scoundrels
Give in to your Impulses . . .
Continue reading for excerpts from
our newest Avon Impulse books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
ALONG CAME LOVE
by Tracey Livesay
WHEN A MARQUESS LOVES A WOMAN
THE SEASON’S ORIGINAL SERIES
by Vivienne Lorret
An Excerpt from
ALONG CAME LOVE
By Tracey Livesay
When free-spirited India Shaw finds herself in trouble, she must rely on the one man she never planned to see again—her baby’s father.
Michael Black’s cellphone vibrated against his chest and he pulled it from his inner pocket. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number with “San Francisco, CA” beneath it, but no other identifying information.
His brows converged in the middle of his forehead. It was probably a wrong number. And yet his finger hovered and then pressed the gree
n button.
“Hello?”
“Mike.”
He straightened. Her voice stroked his hedonistic hotspots. The tingle caused by every whispered declaration, every lingering caress, hit him all at once.
“Indi.”
“Long time, no hear.”
Her forced gaiety jarred him loose from her vocal web and allowed his brain to function. Why had she left? Where had she been? What did she want? Why was she calling?
“I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to and I understand, considering how I ended things and I—”
He remembered this about her, the stream of talking on an endless loop. His favorite remedy? A cock-stirring, toe curling kiss.
“Indi, spit it out.”
A thick silence, and then—
“Can you post bail for me? I’ve been arrested for burglary.”
Well that happened.
The door to the precinct closed behind Indi. Exhaustion weighed her down, leaving her head throbbing and her sight unfocused. She shivered, her cable knit sweater offering inadequate insulation from the chill.
If she had a bucket list, she could confidently check off this experience: get yourself arrested in an unfamiliar city. It hadn’t been anything like Orange is the New Black—Thank God!—but she had met some interesting women while she’d been booked and processed. Turns out, her unstable living situations and various relocations equipped her with the unique skill set needed to survive the city’s holding cell.
But she didn’t do bucket lists. They were created for people who scurried through life afraid to take chances, regretting their caution when faced with their mortality. Indi’s life was a bucket list. Hence, her current predicament.
“Where’s Ryan?”
The brusque voice wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed. She stilled and her breath went on strike.
Those words. That tone. This situation. It wasn’t how she’d pictured their reunion.
Rules for a Rogue Page 27