Page 4 of Rules for Ruin (The Crinoline Academy #1)

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Effie took her time coming out from behind the desk, all the while aware of Mr.Royce’s unholy gaze fixed upon her. He sat across the library in the glow of his burning cigarette, as dark and dangerous as Hades himself, lounging on his underworld throne.

He wasn’t a traditionally handsome man, by any accepted measure. But he was attractive by her reckoning. Clean-shaven, with dark hair cropped close at the neck; a tall, leanly muscled frame; and a face etched with experience. Rather too much experience for a man at his stage of life. He couldn’t be much above thirty years of age.

She supposed she should be afraid of him. He was, after all, a male, and one who had cornered her in a darkened room. The prospect of ruination loomed large for any young lady in a situation such as this. Reputations had been lost for far less.

But Effie wasn’t frightened. She was too angry with herself to allow room for any other emotion.

Know your surroundings. Know your opponent. Know yourself. They had been the three most important rules Effie had learned at Miss Corvus’s Academy. Rules to keep a young lady safe. To assure she was prepared for anything. That she was never out of her element, overmatched, or taken by surprise, left incapable of defending herself.

How could Effie have been so stupid to have fallen at the first hurdle? To have assumed the room was empty instead of conducting an adequate search? She should have checked and double-checked. She should have made certain.

But honestly, she reflected with a private huff of indignation, what kind of gentleman sat alone in a darkened room?

Apparently, the same sort of gentleman who implied she had come here to meet him.

“I think not,” she answered him coolly. She crossed in front of the desk to make her exit. The door to the library was but a few yards away.

Mr.Royce observed her progress from within his halo of smoke. “What about this fellow you were looking for? You’ve not given up on him already?”

Effie regretted having made the excuse. She’d have done better to say she was looking for some thing , not some one . Especially considering she’d been caught red-handed behind Compton’s desk.

But there was no turning back now.

“I didn’t say it was a him,” she retorted. “And no. I haven’t given up. I shall simply search for my friend elsewhere. If you will excuse me?”

“Running away?” he inquired blandly. “How disappointing.”

She stopped in front of the desk, nettled. She’d never run away from anything in her life. “If you must know, I dislike cigarette smoke.”

He took a deliberate puff of the offending object. “Is that so?”

“Smoking is a filthy habit.”

“It’s a democratic habit. Unlike pipes or cigars. Where I come from, women smoke cigarettes, too.”

Where he came from?

“Aren’t you English?” she asked, temporarily diverted.

“As much as you are,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. She might have known he’d be trouble. The interesting men always were. Indeed, that was precisely what made them so interesting. “Why were you sitting here in the dark?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“I find that hard to believe. We exchanged all of ten words together this evening, and that was hours ago, and not a very compelling conversation in any case. Why would you ever assume I’d come here?”

“Like recognizes like,” he said.

She glanced to the door again, wanting to leave. Curiosity kept her anchored where she stood. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

He took another slow puff of his cigarette, seeming to privately consider the situation. “Unless I’m mistaken,” he remarked to himself. “I suppose there’s always a first time.”

She exhaled an impatient breath. “I don’t have any idea what you’re muttering about, sir. I only came to look for someone. I have no reason to—”

“Is it one of those frivolous women’s wagers I’ve heard so much about?” he interrupted. “A lady friend has dared you to steal some bauble of Compton’s? His letter opener or his monogrammed seal?”

She glared at him, offended by the suggestion. “Do I look like a frivolous young lady?”

He examined her in the darkness. “It’s not Compton himself, is it?” He gave a short chuckle as he smoked. “Pity, that.”

Effie knew full well what he was insinuating, but most young ladies wouldn’t. She feigned ignorance. “I have no business with Lord Compton.” She paused, unable to resist adding, “And if I do, it’s no affair of yours.”

“Oh, but it is, Miss Flite.” Putting out his cigarette, he abruptly stood. In three strides he was in front of her, standing so close his legs pushed the enormous swell of her skirts back against her own.

She reflexively backed against the desk. He immediately closed the distance. Her crinoline bowed, sandwiched between them, its metal wires and fabric tape bent all out of shape.

He was a head taller than she was. Broad-shouldered and strong, smelling of tobacco and bergamot shaving soap. They stared into each other’s eyes in the moonlight. There was no hint of fear. No threat of violence. Only heat, and something very like recognition.

Effie’s fingers curled on the edge of the desktop behind her. It had nothing to do with physical anxiety. Even if he had meant her harm, she wasn’t without resource. A swift knee to the nether regions or a solid punch to the throat would have dispatched him in a moment. But she had no interest in causing a scene. Not if she could extricate herself by other means.

She demurely dropped her eyes, throwing in an anxious flutter of her lashes and a slight tremble of her lips for good measure. “You’re frightening me, Mr.Royce.”

“And yet you haven’t gone pale. Your breath is steady.” Lifting a hand, he brushed his knuckles very deliberately over the curve of her throat. “So is the beat of your heart.”

Effie felt his bold caress like a thunderbolt. Heat shot through her midsection, pooling in her belly with a hazardous simmer. Her gaze jolted back to his.

She was no stranger to the game of flirtation. During her time in Paris, many men had attempted to woo her with sweet words and kisses. But this was different. Mr.Royce was no courtly French gentleman. His touch wasn’t sweet. It was incendiary.

His knuckles lingered, a scorching brand at the pulse of her throat. “Though it’s not quite as steady now, is it?” he added smugly.

Effie kept her countenance through pure strength of will. Her heart might be thumping like the dickens, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the rest of her melt into a puddle of treacle.

Holding his gaze, she removed his hand from her throat with the same deliberation with which he’d put it there. She pressed her bare fingertips to the inside of his equally bare wrist. His pulse surged beneath her touch. “Refresh my memory, Mr.Royce,” she said. “What is it that they say about people in glass houses?”

He made no effort to extricate his large hand from her grasp. “Shall we compare racing pulses, Miss Flite?”

Effie detected a hint of mockery in his deep voice. It was as effective as a dash of cold water. She released him. “You forget yourself.”

“Do I?”

“Outrageously so. Is it your habit to insult ladies of brief acquaintance with your forwardness? Or am I to believe I’m a special case?”

He set his hands on the desktop on either side of her. “I’m not sure what you are yet, Miss Flite. But make no mistake, I mean to find out.”

“What I am, sir, is a gently bred young lady, here as Lord Compton’s guest.”

“A gently bred lady who enjoys picking the locks of her host’s desk? A lady who didn’t run screaming the moment I revealed myself?”

“Perhaps I shall scream now.”

“You won’t.”

“Perhaps,” she said levelly, “I shall knock you down.”

A slow, distinctly predatory smile curved his lips. He kept her caged against the desk, his eyes locked with hers. “There you are,” he said, with a husky scrape of triumph. “I see you now.”

Effie’s already pounding heart gave a disconcerting double thump. “And I see you,” she returned. “You’re obviously a good friend of the viscount’s. His best friend in the whole world, if your behavior is to judge.”

Mr.Royce uttered a derisive snort. “I’m no friend of Compton. But I do have a vested interest in his well-being. Any mischief threatened against him will force me to act.” His gaze held hers. “You don’t want me to act, my lady.”

Effie didn’t flinch. “I might say the same to you, sir.”

Amusement briefly edged his mouth. “I’m quaking in my boots.”

“You should be.” Setting her hand flat on his chest, she firmly pushed him back a step. She may as well have been pressing against a slab of solid marble. The muscles beneath his black silk waistcoat were that lean and hard. He nevertheless submitted to the pressure, removing his hands from the desk and backing up just enough to allow her to extricate herself. “Now then,” she said calmly, “if you would be so good as to allow me to go about my business?”

“By all means. We wouldn’t want anyone catching us alone together.”

“They won’t.” Effie gave her rumpled skirts a brisk shake. Her crinoline sprang back into place. “Indeed, I wager you and I shall never be alone in each other’s company again.”

Mr.Royce returned to his chair, sinking back into the shadows. Without his cigarette illuminating his face, Effie could no longer make out his features, only the sinister silhouette of him. “I’d take that bet,” he said.

It sounded very much like a threat.

Effie refused to acknowledge it. No one was going to intimidate her, this gentleman least of all. No matter that only moments ago he’d made her temperature soar. She crossed to the library door.

This time, he didn’t attempt to stop her leaving. But she felt his unsettling pale gaze on her as she exited the room—no longer remote or detached, but distinctly, unmistakably awake.

She had the uneasy feeling that she’d roused a sleeping wolf.