A sparkling new series
about a rogue who must learn how to follow the
rules and a woman who wants to
break all of them.
RULES FOR A ROGUE
Romancing the Rules #1
Christy Carlyle
Releasing Nov 1st, 2016
Avon Impulse
From the USA Today bestselling
author of ONE DANGEROUS DESIRE comes a sparkling new series about a rogue who
must learn how to follow the rules and a woman who wants to break all of them,
perfect for fans of Maya Rodale and Lorraine Heath.
Kit Ruthven's Rules (for
Rogues)
#1 Love freely but guard your heart,
no matter how tempting the invader.
#2 Embrace temptation, indulge your
sensual impulses, and never apologize.
#3 Scorn rules and do as you please.
You are a rogue, after all.
Following
the rules never brought anything but misery for Christopher “Kit” Ruthven.
After rebelling against his controlling father and leaving the family’s Ruthven
Rules etiquette book empire behind, Kit has been breaking every one imaginable
for the past six years. He’s enjoyed London’s sensual pleasures and secured his
reputation as a Rogue, but he’s failed to achieve success. When he inherits his
father’s publishing business, Kit is forced back into the life he never wanted.
Worse, he must face Ophelia Marsden, the woman he jilted but never forgot.
After
losing her father and refusing a loveless marriage proposal, Ophelia has
learned to rely on herself. To maintain the family home and support her younger
brother, she tutors young girls in deportment and decorum. But her pupils would
be scandalized if they knew their imminently proper teacher was also the author
of a guidebook encouraging ladies to embrace their independence and overthrow
outdated notions of etiquette like the Ruthven Rules.
As Kit
rediscovers the life, and the woman, he left behind, Ophelia must choose
between the practicalities she never truly believed in, or the love she’s never
been able to extinguish.
Excerpt
Before Ophelia could
gather her sister and head back to the kitchen, a knock sounded at the front
door. Juliet clutched her notebook to her chest and bolted back into the
library.
Slipping Guidelines behind her back with one
hand, Ophelia grasped the doorknob with the other. She schooled her features
into a pleasant expression in case it was Mrs. Raybourn or, heaven forbid, Mr.
Raybourn, in need of more reassurance their girls weren’t on the high road to
ruin because of the book no one knew she’d written.
When she pulled the door
open, all the breath whooshed from her body.
Their visitor wasn’t any
member of the Raybourn family.
“Kit Ruthven.”
“You remember me, then?”
He grinned as he loomed on the threshold, his shoulders nearly as wide as the
frame. Eyes bright and intense, he took her in from head to toe, and then let
his gaze settle on her mouth. When he finally looked into her eyes, the
cocksure tilt of his grin had softened. She read a wariness in his gaze that
matched her own.
She’d spent years trying
to forget those dark, deep-set eyes.
“I remember you.” Her
book slipped, skidding across her backside and clattering to the floor as her
throat tightened on sentiments she’d been waiting years to express. None of
them would come. Not a single word. Instead, in outright rebellion, her whole
body did its best to melt into a boneless puddle. Gritting her teeth, Phee
fought the urge to swoon or, worse, rush into his long, muscled arms.
“I’m relieved to hear
it.” He had the audacity to kick his grin into a smile, a rakish slash that cut
deep divots into his clean-shaven cheeks. Then he took a step through her door.
“I worried that—”
“No.” She lifted a hand
to stop him. Looking at the man was difficult enough. Hearing his voice—deeper
now but achingly familiar—was too much. If he came closer, she might give in to
some rogue impulse. And that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
Ophelia swallowed hard.
She needed a moment to gather her wits. To rebuild her walls.
“You dropped something.”
He moved toward her, so close his sleeve brushed hers.
She lowered her hand to
avoid touching him and jerked back when he bent to retrieve her book, watching
as he turned the volume to read its title.
“Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines for Young Ladies. How intriguing. Looks as
though Ruthven Publishing has some competition.”
Seeing him again was
worse than she’d imagined. And she had imagined this moment aplenty. Far too
many times. Not just on her infrequent jaunts to London but most days since
they’d parted. The man had lingered in her thoughts, despite every effort to
expel him.
Taking a shaky breath,
she braced herself and faced him.
He’d always been tall.
When they were children, she’d looked up to him. Literally. But he’d never used
his size to bully others. More often he’d born teasing about his physique. Ungainly, his father had called him, and
Kit repeated the word when referring to himself.
Now he offered no
apologetic hunch in his stance. He didn’t cross his arms to narrow his body.
More than embracing his size, he wielded his generous dimensions with a virile
grace that made Phee’s mouth water. He stood with his long legs planted wide,
shoulders thrown back. His chest was so broad that she itched to touch it.
Stop
being a ninny,
she chided herself. The most
essential observation was that he did not look like a man who’d pined for her.
Not a hint of guilt shadowed his gaze.
He thrust his hands
behind his back, and the buttons above his waistcoat strained against the
fabric on either side, as if the muscles beneath were too sizable to contain.
Phee’s gaze riveted to the spot, waiting to see which would win—the pearly
buttons or the dove gray fabric. When sense finally wound its way into her
boggled mind, she glanced up into gilded brown eyes. He was the winner, judging by the satisfied smirk cresting his
mouth.
Kit stood too near, close
enough for her to smell his scent. A familiar green, like fresh-cut grass, but
mingled now with an aromatic spice. Each breath held his spice scent heightened
by the warmth of his body. The heat of him radiated against her chest.
His eyes were too
intense, too hungry. He perused her brazenly, studying the hem of her outdated
gown before his gaze roved up her legs, paused at her waist, lingered on her
bosom, and caught for a moment on her lips. Finally, he met her eyes, and his
mouth flicked up in a shameless grin.
She looked anywhere but
at his eyes. On his neck, she noted the scar from a childhood adventure in the
blackberry briar. Then she got stuck admiring his hair. Apparently his
scandalous London lifestyle—if the rumors she’d heard were true—called for
allowing his jet black hair to grow long and ripple in careless waves. Strands
licked at his neck, curled up near his shoulders.
Time had been truly
unfair. The years hadn’t weathered Kit at all. If anything, his features were
sharper and more appealing. His Roman nose contrasted with the sensual fullness
of his lips and those high Ruthven cheekbones. And his eyes. Gold and amber and
chocolate hues chased each other around a pinwheel, all shadowed by enviably
thick ebony lashes. One theater reviewer had written of the “power of his
penetrating gaze.”
Ophelia only knew he’d
once been able to see straight to her heart.
Retreating from his
magnetic pull, she dipped her head and stared at his polished black boots, the
neatly tailored cuffs of his trousers. Black as pitch, his clothing reminded
her why he was here. He’d come to the village to bury his father. He was no
doubt as eager to return to London as she was to close her eyes and make the
too tempting sight of him disappear. But why had he come to her home?
“My condolences to you
and your sisters,” she offered, and almost added Mr. Ruthven. That’s what everyone in the village would call him
now, and they would expect him to live up to the name. Just as his father had.
“You didn’t attend the
funeral.”
“Would your father have
wished me to?” They both knew Kit’s father had never welcomed her presence in
his life. She didn’t bother mentioning that Ruthven’s rule book explicitly
instructed ladies to avoid funerals.
He shrugged. “I only know
what I wished.”
There it was. The heart
of all that had passed between them spelled out in six words. Kit had never
doubted what he wanted—freedom, fame as a playwright, financial success on his
own terms. Unfortunately, she’d never made it high enough on his list.
“Forgive me for missing
your father’s funeral. I promise to call on your sisters soon.” Ophelia slid
the door toward him, forcing him to retreat as she eased it closed. “Thank you
for your visit.”
Pushing his sizable
booted foot forward, he wedged it between the door and its frame. “I don’t
think we can count this as a visit until you invite me in.”
Fueled
by Pacific Northwest coffee and inspired by multiple viewings of every British
costume drama she can get her hands on, 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.
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Thank you for hosting RULES FOR A ROGUE today!
Crystal, Tasty Book Tours
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