Rules for a Rogue Read online

  Count on Milly to offer sensible advice.

  “You’re right.” Phee nodded with fresh resolve. “I should use Kit’s visit to put bygones aside and look to the future.” The words sounded magnificent. Now it was simply a matter of living up to them.

  Milly slanted her an amused grin. “I meant the opportunity to be certain.”

  When Phee returned a quizzical look, Milly slid closer and asked quietly, “Why have you yet to give Dunstan an answer?”

  Phee swallowed against a sudden knot in her throat and fiddled with the buttons of her high-necked gown. “Promising one’s life to another is a difficult decision.” She forced her hands into her lap, then noticed an ink stain on her middle finger and rubbed at it nervously.

  Despite her open disdain for Dunstan, Milly rarely attempted to sway Phee’s choice.

  “Agreed, but would you wrestle so if Mr. Ruthven proposed?”

  “Yes, of course.” Dunstan might be unappealing, but Kit was unreliable. She needed stability. A house that didn’t leak would be a fine start.

  Milly stood and ran her finger along the blade of a potted palm. “Do you remember George Biddlethwaite?”

  Grateful for the change of topic, Phee nodded eagerly. “The soldier. A friend of your brother’s, wasn’t he?” She recalled a lanky man with thick brown hair and kind eyes who’d been absent from the village for years.

  “He never proposed.” Milly turned back. “But when we kissed, I knew he was the only man I’d ever considered marrying.”

  “You favored him?” Phee couldn’t recall Milly mentioning Biddlethwaite with any particular interest. Or any other man, for that matter. “Why didn’t he propose?”

  “A tale for another time.” Milly settled on the bench again. Pink stained her cheeks to match the shade of her gown. “I only urge you to be sure of your feelings for Mr. Ruthven before making a decision you cannot alter.”

  A momentary silence followed Milly’s gently spoken plea.

  “If you’re advising me to kiss Kit, I count it the single worst piece of advice you’ve ever given.” Phee managed a nervous laugh, but her breath hitched at the thought. Her skin heated as if she’d stood too long in the sun.

  “I admit to knowing little about matters of the heart.” Milly abandoned their shared bench and approached a petite writing desk in the corner of the conservatory. After lifting a copy of Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines for Young Ladies from the blotter, she hugged the volume to her chest. “But I wonder what Miss Gilroy would advise.” She emphasized her jest with a wink.

  Beyond her editor and Mr. Wellbeck, Lady Millicent was only other person who knew Miss Gilroy’s true identity.

  “She would advise me to choose wisely.” Prudence. Practical decisions. Miss Gilroy’s recommendations were clear, but if writing a book of advice had taught Phee anything, it was that offering guidance to others was much easier than avoiding pitfalls herself.

  “Ah, wisdom,” Milly mused. “My father used to say the only path to wisdom is to learn from our blunders.”

  Phee couldn’t afford another blunder like allowing Kit Ruthven to shatter her heart. She wished she knew what counsel her own father would have given.

  “You never told me about your visit to London.” Milly’s voice lifted to a cheery lilt with the change of topic. “I trust your publisher had encouraging news.”

  “Not entirely.” Phew pinched the skin between her brows. A visit to the London offices of Ruthven Publishing loomed in the coming week. She didn’t relish the prospect, though knowing Kit would be busy in Briar Heath gave her a bit of ease. “I must return to London.”

  “Your book is certainly drawing attention. Have you seen the letters published in the Ladies’ Journal? Quite a stirring debate.”

  “I’m not going to kiss him.” Phew vaguely heard mention of a newspaper and controversy regarding her book, but all her thoughts remained stuck on Kit. “I will find the strength to be unaffected the next time I see him.”

  “Wonderful.” After depositing Guidelines on her desk, Milly approached, hooked her arm through Phee’s, and led her back toward the drawing room. “You’ll soon have a chance to put your resolve to the test.”

  “Will I?”

  “Mmm, I’m afraid so. Mama has invited him for luncheon.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Asking Ophelia if she still cared for him had been unfair. Barking at the solicitor because he could provide no details about the recent financial transactions of Ruthven Publishing had been rude. But agreeing to attend the countess’s autumn fete committee had been Kit’s worst decision of all. And that was saying something, considering that he’d behaved like a complete dunderhead for most of the morning.

  Now he was paying penance and experiencing a new emotion. One he’d never imagined feeling. Empathy. For his father.

  Had the man truly endured day after day of fussy luncheons and society chitchat? No wonder he’d been in a perpetually foul mood.

  Village leaders seemed to recall his father as an expert on reason and decency. Kit wondered what the very proper citizens of Briar Heath would think of the Gaiety Girl photo hidden in his father’s desk.

  He craned his neck for a glimpse of Ophelia. Despite sunlight pouring through tall windows and gems glittering at the necks, wrists, and fingers of Lady Pembry and her daughter, he considered Phee the only bright spot in the room.

  Unfortunately, she’d claimed a chair at the other end of the table.

  She spared him a single glance. Not a pleased-to-see-you look by any stretch but not an outright glare. Just a single tepid gaze, long enough for Kit to notice how the morning light brightened the blue of her eyes. Then she quickly turned away and tucked into her soup.

  “What will you do now?” the vicar’s wife asked in a treacle-sweet voice. The woman meant well, but she possessed an oddly fixed smile. Not to mention a knack for posing a question at the precise moment he’d taken a mouthful of vichyssoise. “Your father was such a clever man. He always knew just what to do.”

  “You will judge at the fete, won’t you, Mr. Ruthven?” Lady Pembry cut in. She had a tendency to direct a fingery wave toward whomever she spoke, just in case they were too foolish to realize how conversations worked. “Your father could be relied upon to do so. Every year.” She nodded solemnly, her lace collar snagging on the diamond choker at her throat.

  “Will you take on Ruthven Publishing yourself and leave your other pursuits behind?” Vicar Bickham’s grimace left no doubt as to his views on theater and Kit’s departure from Briar Heath to become a playwright. The man had always been a gloomy, judgmental counterpoint to his wife’s blithe personality.

  Tugging at the tight noose of his necktie, Kit gritted his teeth before replying to the barrage of questions.

  “There are many decisions to be made, Mrs. Bickham.” He matched the lady’s beaming smile before turning to the countess. “I fear I’m no expert when it comes to judging tarts and pies, my lady.” Finally, he schooled his features into a serious mien for the vicar. “Selling my father’s business seems the best course, but this delightful luncheon is the last place to discuss business concerns.”

  A hush fell over the table. Guests held their spoons aloft, stopping their jaws midswallow. A gurgling sound emerged from Lady Pembry as her eyes bulged and a flush stained her face. The vicar’s eyebrows merged like bushy thunderclouds in the center of his forehead. Mrs. Raybourn sniffed scornfully while Mrs. Hollingsworth flailed herself with a lace handkerchief.

  Even Ophelia stared wide-eyed at Kit.

  “You cannot be serious, young man.” The vicar’s voice reeked of disdain and disappointment. Kit recognized the tone. It was the same his father had favored. “Ruthven devoted his life to the success of that enterprise. The Ruthven Rules has become a vital thread in the fabric of English life.”

  Kit quirked a grin. “I take it you were a devotee, Vicar.”

  “We all were.” Poor Mrs. Hollingsworth sounded as if she might burst
into tears.

  Gripping the edge of the table, Kit took a steadying breath and fought the urge to bolt. He was an actor, dammit, at least when he needed to be. Playing the role of country gentleman for a few weeks was not beyond his abilities. Especially when an opportunity at the success he craved waited on the other side.

  “We must arrange a meeting, Mr. Ruthven,” Lord Dunstan, who Kit remembered as a conceited blusterer, called out from his spot next to Ophelia.

  “Must we, Dunstan?” Kit was no more inclined to be bullied by the man now than he had been as a boy.

  “I’m intrigued by your desire to sell. My father invested in Ruthven Publishing when it was no more than a single printing press in a dank London office. No Dunstan would wish to see the business fall into a stranger’s hands.”

  The few bites of creamed soup soured in Kit’s gut. He wanted nothing as much as a quick sale and to be done with Ruthven Publishing forever, but the thought of Dunstan lording ownership of the business over him and his sisters for the rest of their days turned his stomach.

  “Your father would be so disappointed.” If not for the stunned quiet still lingering in the room, none might have heard the vicar’s wife’s lament.

  But Kit heard her. “I’ve no doubt you’re correct, Mrs. Bickham. Disappointing my father is the one endeavor at which I’ve always excelled.”

  “Shall we discuss the harvest festival?” Ophelia’s voice, soft and resonant, filled his body with a rush of warmth, soothing the irritation that had built from the moment he walked into Lady Pembry’s drawing room.

  “Yes, let us turn our conversation to the matter at hand.” Lady Millicent lifted her spoon and clinked it against a crystal goblet. “I hereby call the annual harvest festival planning committee to order.” She cast a scathing glance at Lord Dunstan. “All other matters shall be tabled and discussed at a more appropriate time.”

  Lady Millicent’s intervention initially seemed a kindness, but two hours later the servants had cleared plates away, and they’d exhausted every possible aspect of organizing a village fete, from bunting to schedules to revising the rules for judging every plant and crafted item. Kit would have gladly handed Dunstan the keys to Ruthven Publishing for a pittance just to make it stop.

  “Did you get all of that, Miss Marsden?” Lady Pembry waved at Phee, who nodded but kept her eyes down, still finishing off the notes she’d taken. Apparently she’d been designated as the gathering’s scribe.

  “Shall we adjourn?” Lady Millicent sounded as hopeful for an end to the discussion as Kit was.

  “Yes,” Dunstan replied, as if the question had been directed at him alone. “Having just returned from America, I have much to attend to at home.”

  “Then it’s decided.” Lady Millicent stood and clasped her hands together, slanting a glance at the baron. “Lord Dunstan is a busy man, so we will disperse.”

  After extracting himself from the countess’s too-dainty chair, Kit beelined toward the door. Then he saw Ophelia and changed direction. She’d rushed off after his foolish question in his father’s study. He didn’t expect an answer, but he still craved a truce between them.

  “How did I do?”

  “Wonderfully.” She yanked on one glove and cast him a skimming glance—somewhere in the region of his chin—before fumbling with the buttons at her wrist. “Assuming your goal was to shock or offend every person in the room.”

  “Come now. You must allow that I succeeded with Mrs. Bickham.” He stepped closer to speak quietly. Their proximity afforded him a whiff of Phee’s floral scent. “The lady smiled the whole afternoon.”

  His tease earned a sharp look, but at least it allowed him to gaze into her eyes.

  “Mrs. B. always smiles,” Phee insisted. “Don’t you remember? You used to call her Beaming Bickham. Or have you forgotten?”

  He hadn’t, but he’d almost forgotten how much he loved Phee’s auburn brows knitting together when he made her cross.

  “Why come if you didn’t intend to participate in the festival?”

  “Because I was invited.” And because he needed a reprieve from the memories haunting Ruthven Hall. After she’d left his father’s study, he hadn’t managed another useful thought all morning. “A visit to Lady Pembry seemed a bearable reintroduction to Briar Heath society.”

  “Well, if you can bear it, we do need assistance for the fete.” She’d finally buttoned one glove and set to work on the other, tugging aggressively at the fabric until it tightened against her slim fingers. “The event expands every year.”

  “Then I’ll help.”

  “You will?” Eyes wide, mouth agape, she seemed stunned to discover he possessed an ounce of generosity. Never mind that he’d regretted volunteering the moment the words were out. “Thank you.”

  But how could he regret the softening in her gaze or the breathy quality of her voice?

  “Miss Marsden.” Dunstan’s unpleasant bark cut in as he approached to hover near Ophelia. “I’ll escort you home.”

  “No, thank you, my lord.” She moved toward the Pembry’s entry hall. Lord Dunstan followed close behind.

  “You needn’t worry about inconveniencing me,” the man insisted. “Longacre is on my way.”

  Kit’s body tensed, fists balled at his sides. He hadn’t struck a man in years, merely thrown a few false punches on stage, but Dunstan had him itching to land a clean blow. For years of tormenting both of them, lauding his title and wealth over all the less fortunate in the village, the aristocrat’s comeuppance was long overdue.

  “Walking is my preferred mode of transport, and I’m quite used to solitude.” Phee pressed her lips together, a sure sign her decision was made, and nothing could dissuade her.

  “Madness. A lady should not walk the woods alone.” Clearly, the pompous lordling was too used to getting his way. “I’ll dismiss my carriage and accompany you on foot.”

  “Dunstan.” Kit took two long strides and wedged himself between the baron and Ophelia, blocking her from the man’s view. “You wished to discuss the future of Ruthven Publishing. I can spare you a moment now.”

  “Another time, Ruthven.” When Dunstan scowled, his moustache twitched above his lip like an angry caterpillar. “You’re interrupting.” Shorter than Kit, the baron straightened his back and stretched his neck as they stood face-to-face to compensate for the lack of inches between them.

  “And you ignored Miss Marsden’s refusal.”

  Ophelia scuttled toward the door. She paused only long enough to call over her shoulder, “I’ll leave you to your bickering, gentlemen.”

  The baron jerked forward to follow her, but Kit stuck out an arm, blocking the aristocrat’s way. “She does not require an escort. As she said. Repeatedly.”

  “Are you an expert on Miss Marsden’s needs, Ruthven? You’ve been away so long. I’m surprised you remember her at all.” The blue blood smirked, rolling back on his heels so that his chest protruded. Short he might be, but the years hadn’t shaved an inch off the man’s insufferable arrogance. “Why concern yourself with her now? Soon you’ll sell your father’s business and return to your bawdy theater.”

  Blood thrashed in Kit’s ears, his heart rattling so fiercely he felt his pulse jitter through his body. He hadn’t imagined himself capable of the self-control he summoned to resist attacking Dunstan in the middle of Lady Pembry’s hallway. Theater life had blunted the rage his old childhood nemesis drew to the surface with a few snide words. Kit wrote of anger, even played it out on stage, but most often he stuffed it away. Raw, visceral, vibrating anger reminded him of one man, and he had no desire to emulate his father.

  “Unless you’ve come home to get yourself a wife,” Dunstan taunted.

  At that moment, Kit felt certain he’d come to Briar Heath to give a certain blue blood a black eye and bloody nose.

  “In here, Dunstan.” Kit indicated the entrance to Lady Pembry’s nearby conservatory with the tip of his head. Light poured from glass panels, filtering t
hrough leaves and the blooms of hundreds of plants. It seemed an odd setting for a round of fisticuffs, but Kit’s blood was up, and he was ready to oblige, if that was the aristocrat’s desire.

  “Have you decided on a price for the whole concern?” Dunstan busied himself with straightening his cuffs, as if the answer did not concern him overmuch. “I understand there’s a London office, and your father owned several presses.”

  “What do you want with her?” Kit rasped the question, his throat burning as if he’d already shouted all the epithets his playwright’s mind was fashioning for the aristocrat.

  “Miss Marsden?” The frown between Dunstan’s brows indicated genuine confusion. The ridiculous man had no idea how close he was to being throttled. “She’s spirited, quite pleasing to look at, intelligent, and practical. She possesses sufficient decorum to teach it to others, so I assume she’d make a fine baroness.”

  “You want to marry her.” The realization didn’t stun Kit, though it chilled him to the bone. He’d had his chance with Phee and lost. How could he blame any man for wooing her? Still, he loathed the notion of a peacock like Dunstan calling her his own.

  “I asked. She has yet to give me her answer.” They were the first words out of Dunstan’s mouth that pleased Kit, and he worked hard to smother the grin twitching to break free.

  The blue blood glared at him, bracing his arms across his chest. “I have reason to believe she’ll accept.”

  “Why Ophelia?” Kit knew her worth, every quality that made her extraordinary, but Dunstan had been as cruel to her in childhood as he’d been to Kit. “There are other eligible young ladies in Briar Heath.” Kit pointed in the direction of the drawing room. “Like a countess’s unmarried daughter.”

  “Lady Millicent?” Dunstan sneered. “I seek a biddable wife, not a termagant. Lady Millicent has wealth enough to avoid marriage. The same cannot be said for Miss Marsden.”

  If the blue blood thought Phee was biddable, he didn’t know her at all.

  “Marry a woman because she has no other choice? Seems a hollow victory, Dunstan.”