A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (14 page)

 

Chapter 17

T
he swish of his bedchamber's drapes dimly registered as sudden light punched his eyelids. Dec groaned and reached for a pillow, quite certain that someone was on the verge of death. He'd played cards with Max late into the night and imbibed too freely of brandy. At the time, it seemed a good idea. Better than going home to an empty house where he would sleep in an empty bed.

A dull throb pounded at his temples. He cracked an eye to peer out at the person who dared to interrupt his sleep.

Aurelia stood beside his bed, hands propped on her hips.

He groaned. “Aren't you in the wrong house?” He hadn't seen her since she and Aunt Peregrine packed up their things and moved. “What time is it?”

“It's early. I couldn't sleep last night, and I vowed I would see you as soon as the day dawned.”

He sat up, shielding his eyes with a hand. “What's so bloody urgent? And would you mind closing the drapes again?”

“No. I need your attention.”

“You have it,” he growled.

“Have you seen or spoken to Rosalie?”

“Not since she left. No.” Not that her absence had stopped his thoughts from straying to her. Max had mentioned seeing her at the opera in the company of old Hildebrand. The man was a letch. Clearly Melisande wasn't looking out for Rosalie's best interests if she let him court her. Not that he expected her to. He might have been concerned for Rosalie if he didn't already know she was determined to marry a man of her choosing. She had made that abundantly clear to him.

“Well, you need to.”

He looked at her sharply. “Why? What's wrong?”

Aurelia waved her hands wildly. “I told her I would not come to you—­”

He sat up. “Too late for that. You're here. Out with it.”

She nodded once, her lips pressing into a firm, resolute line. “Your stepmother has a lover living with her.”

He made a snort. “Unsurprising. She's never been overly concerned with her reputation.” Melisande still had the weight of her title, fortunately. And while it wasn't seemly, he'd placed a large enough dowry on Rosalie's head that most suitors would look beyond her mother's indiscretions.

“It's not that . . .”

“What is it?”

“It's him. Melisande's lover. He makes Rosalie . . . uncomfortable.”

The hairs at his nape prickled. He fought to swallow against his suddenly constricted throat. “Has he harmed her?”

“No. Not since I spoke with her. He just makes her feel . . . anxious, I suppose.”

He well remembered what it felt like to be uncomfortable in your own home.
Hunted
. “Turn your back,” he snapped.

Aurelia blinked. “What—­”

“Unless you wish to see me without my clothes, turn your back.”

“Oh!” She whirled around and he flung the counterpane back from the bed and strode to his armoire on the other side of the chamber. He jerked on clothes with angry movements. “You may turn around,” he said, tucking his shirt into his breeches. “His name? I'll have it.”

“It's Horley. He's a viscount.”

“I've never heard of him.”

“A penniless viscount, apparently. Several years younger than your stepmother.”

His lips curled with distaste. She always did prefer them young. “You should have come to me at once with this.”

Aurelia nodded, looking miserable. “I know. She made me promise. And she sounded so certain that she could handle the situation, but she looked exhausted. She's not sleeping. He tried to enter her room one night, and now she's keeping vigil.”

He uttered a profanity that made Aurelia's eyes widen. It was as much directed at him as anyone else. He'd known. In his gut he had known that he shouldn't have let her go. He was as much to blame for this as Melisande. Rage filled him at how helpless she must feel. How alone.

Just then the words from last night drifted back to him:
What would a man in your position know about being helpless and vulnerable?

He knew, and he'd let that very thing happen to Rosalie when he could have prevented it.

Over a day had passed since she confessed her situation to Aurelia. Anything could have happened since then. “Damn it, Aurelia. You should have told me.”

She nodded, her eyes gleaming with moisture, and he realized she was on the verge of tears. In three strides he was across the room and folding his cousin into his arms. “I'm sorry. This is not your fault. I'm angry and taking it out on you. This is my fault for letting her go. You told me, and I thank you for that.”

She nodded, sniffing back the threat of tears. He moved away and slipped on his vest, not even bothering with the buttons. Grabbing his jacket from where he had discarded it last evening, he shrugged into the rumpled garment. “Go home. Fetch your things and Aunt Peregrine. Inform her that I will need her again.”

“What are you doing?”

He paused only a fraction of a moment at the door. “Bringing Rosalie home.”

H
e rapped on the door fiercely until an annoyed-looking butler opened it. Dec strode past him and into the foyer. “Miss Hughes,” he bit out. “Where is she?”

The butler shook his head. “Your pardon, sir? You cannot simply walk in here unannounced—­”

“I'll announce myself. I'm the Duke of Banbury.” He waved a little finger. “This house. Your wages. All are due to me.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that, they can be gone.”

The butler's eyes widened.

“Now where,” he continued, “is Miss Hughes?”

The butler pointed to the stairs. “I believe she is in the dining room with Her Grace.”

He didn't wait. He took the stairs two at a time, the butler following.

He marched on the large double doors, assuming it was the dining room. He was correct. His stepmother sat at the head of the table, Rosalie to her left and a man to her right. Presumably, Horley.

“Declan?” Melisande stood, dropping her napkin to her plate. “This is a surprise.” She motioned for an empty chair, a glimmer of unease in her eyes. “Would you care to join us?”

He didn't acknowledge her. His gaze zeroed in on Rosalie. She looked pale. Dark smudges marred the skin beneath her eyes. “Rosalie. Get your things.”

She blinked, angling her head uncertainly. “My things?”

“Or leave them. They can be sent over later.”

“Now just a moment, Declan. You can't charge in here and demand Rosalie leave with you—­”

He avoided looking at Melisande even as her voice continued at a shrill pitch. Instead he focused on Rosalie. “I never should have let you walk out. This place is poison.”

“See here now!” Horley surged to his feet. “You can't walk in here and say such—­”

Dec turned, took the three strides necessary to reach Horley, and struck him with one swift blow to the face. The satisfying smack of his knuckles into Horley's jaw made him feel slightly better.

“Peter!” Melisande screamed and lurched from her chair to where he dropped to the floor. She lifted Horley by the shoulders, cradled him in her lap as she glared at Dec. “You beast! What is wrong with you?”

“What's wrong is that your
special
friend here has been paying particularly close attention to Rosalie. And then he dared to open his mouth in my presence. He's lucky he's still in possession of his teeth.” He waved a hand at Horley where he moaned, clutching his jaw.

Melisande flicked her wild-­eyed gaze toward her daughter. “Did she tell you those lies? Peter would never even look twice at Rosalie!”

Rosalie stood now, her hands buried into her skirts. Her unblinking stare fixed on Dec.

“I'm sorry,” he said to her, then shook his head and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I should have stopped you. I should have told you that you could stay.”

She looked down with a shaky sigh that lifted her shoulders before meeting his gaze again. “I didn't ask to stay, either. I did not give you much chance to say anything on the matter.”

“Rosalie,” Melisande said sharply. “I'm your mother. You
will
stay here. Don't you dare think of leaving with him.”

Dec said nothing. He merely waited, looking at Rosalie. It was her choice. He held out his hand, offering it to her. “Come with me, Rosalie. Come home.”

C
ome home.

It was crazy, absurd, but the words resonated deep within her. Perhaps because she never really had a home of her own.

Home
. Dec's house. That town house in Mayfair had come to feel like home to her. Or perhaps it was simply that this place felt so much like a prison. Whatever the case, she couldn't refuse him. She didn't want to.

He was offering her an escape from Horley and her mother's miserable machinations. She'd agree to almost anything in order for that to happen. And yet as he stood there holding out his hand to her, she could only think of last night. For one moment she felt confused, thinking he had come for her. That this was a continuation from the previous evening. That somehow he had figured out the truth and had come for her . . . that he wanted her for himself.

Despite the reason she had so readily agreed to go with her mother in the first place—­because she was too afraid he might realize she was the girl from Sodom—­she couldn't refuse. Not this time. This time she had to stop herself from racing into his arms.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I'll go with you.”

“Rosalie!” Melisande cried.

“I'm leaving,” she asserted, staring at him as she uttered these words, not even glancing at Melisande.

“How can you do this? I'm your mother.”

Only when it's convenient for you
.

The thought entered her head, but she didn't give it voice. Instead, she took her cue from Dec and ignored her mother, circling the table toward him, giving Melisande and Horley wide berth.

She stopped beside Dec. He offered his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her through the house.

In the foyer, he addressed the butler. “Send all of Miss Hughes's belongings to this address.” He presented his card. The butler nodded as he took it.

Dec led her to the carriage out front and assisted her inside. Once seated across from her, he knocked on the ceiling. The carriage lurched forward.

She carefully angled her legs, avoiding his longer legs. “Thank you,” she murmured after several awkward moments.

He shook his head, not wanting her gratitude. Not feeling he deserved it. “I'm sorry—­”

“You already apologized and it's really not necessary.” She smoothed her hands over her skirts.

“You were my responsibility—­”

“But I'm not.” She plucked at her skirts. “We're not even kin. Melisande is my family. Just like she said. She's my mother. Why are you even doing this for me?”

He turned his attention from the window to stare at her. “I agreed to see you married. I settled a dowry on you and agreed to sponsor you through the Season. That's why. That's why you are my responsibility.”

She swallowed, nodding. She opened her mouth to thank him again but stopped herself. She had already thanked him. “I assume Aurelia came to you and told you.”

“Yes. Don't be vexed with her. She was worried about you.”

She nodded, understanding. Aurelia was a friend. The first she had since leaving Harwich. She couldn't be angry with her. “I owe her my thanks. I didn't want to come to you. I wouldn't have.”

His words came quickly. “Why not? Why didn't you? Something—­” He stopped hard and took a breath before continuing. “Something could have happened to you. Do you understand that?”

He meant Horley could have happened. If she had been weaker. Or simply more trusting. More naive.

“I was embarrassed. And maybe I was afraid that you wouldn't care.” It was embarrassing to even admit
that,
but she did. “I was afraid that you wouldn't want to help me.” She stared down at her hands. “That you wouldn't come.”

He sighed, and she wasn't sure what she heard in that sound. Resignation? Disappointment? In her or himself? “I care.”

Her gaze flew to his face at that.

“And I'll always come when you need me, Carrots.”

Did he mean that? It was more than any one person had ever promised her. She most especially had not expected it of him.

The intensity in his green gaze struck her hard, and anxiety skittered along her nerves. What if he knew the truth? What if he learned she was the same masked girl he had kissed? For the first time, she was tempted to tell him. And only to see if perhaps he would kiss her again. Her lips ached. The memory of his mouth was forever imprinted there.

The temptation to confess the truth to him lasted only a fraction of a moment. As soon as the thought entered her mind, it fled. He would not forget who she was and take her in his arms to pick up where they left off. He was honorable. Despite his unsavory reputation, he would never cross that line with a female under his protection. Rest assured, her virtue was safe under his watch.

And why did that fill her with such hollowness?

 

Chapter 18

S
he did not see Dec for the rest of the day. Shortly after returning home, Aunt Peregrine and Aurelia arrived, luggage and a growling Lady Snuggles in tow once again. They hugged her warmly and chattered happily, making her feel like she had, in truth, come home.

“Aurelia.” Rosalie pulled her aside while Aunt Peregrine went off in search of a treat for Lady Snuggles. Apparently the beast deserved a reward after her jaunt across Town yet again. “I—­”

“I'm sorry,” Aurelia blurted, grasping her hands. “I know I abused your trust by going to—­”

“Thank you,” she cut in, looking her friend squarely in the eyes. “You did me a favor I shan't ever forget.”

Aurelia smiled in relief and released her hands to hug her. “I'm so glad you came to be here. How terrible if you never came to be in our lives.”

Dinner was a leisurely affair. Rosalie dined with Aurelia and Aunt Peregrine. Dec was conspicuously absent. They discussed which social engagements they should schedule into their agenda. She chimed in, but her gaze continually strayed to his empty chair, wondering at his whereabouts. She didn't inquire despite her curiosity. It was better if he was scarce. His proximity made her too nervous by far.

She knew it was likely he wouldn't guess it had been her at Sodom. Not if he hadn't already done so. But she didn't trust that she wouldn't give herself away with a touch, a lingering glance. After being so intimate with him, she found it difficult to resume as though they were polite acquaintances.

After dinner, she enjoyed a warm bath before changing into her nightgown. The sky was just purpling into dusk, but she slipped into bed, exhausted, her muscles melting into the mattress. A pleased sigh shuddered from her lips. She was so relieved that she could sleep without fear. In peace that no one would enter her room uninvited.

She was asleep almost the instant she closed her eyes.

R
osalie woke to a darkened chamber. Her mind groped in the darkness for a moment, struggling to remember precisely where she was. She inhaled, but there was no scent of the lavender rushes that Mrs. Heathstone always framed the windows with. No sound of howling wind on the moors outside. Gradually, memory returned. Along with all that had happened. Where she was. What she had done and with whom. She was a long way from Yorkshire. It felt a lifetime since Mrs. Heathstone unceremoniously dumped her on her stepbrother's doorstep.

She wasn't certain the precise hour, but she knew it was not yet morning. She lay in bed for several moments longer, expecting to fall back to sleep. She had been tired enough to sleep well into tomorrow afternoon. Or so she thought.

After half an hour of staring into the dark, she pushed back the counterpane, donned her night rail and left her room, giving up on sleep. Nothing stirred as she made her way to the library. She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The remnants of a fire burned in the hearth, the crumble of incinerated wood cracking softly as it cast a dull glow throughout the room.

Well familiar with the library's layout by now, she made her way to the wall of shelves housing the novels. Squinting, she peered at the spines. She was debating rereading one of her favorite of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, or something called
The Black Tulip
that looked relatively new.

“Looking for a little late night reading? I thought you would be asleep by now.”

She spun around, clutching the book close to her chest. Dec stood in the doorway, jacketless, without his cravat, wearing only his shirt and breeches.

She sucked in a breath. She could well imagine his muscled chest. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. “I was asleep. I'm afraid I woke and can't seem to fall back to sleep again.”

Nodding, he walked fully into the room, his hessians whispering softly over the rug. “This is my favorite room in the house.” He moved to the hearth and lifted the guard away so he could add several more logs to the fire. She studied his movements, appreciating the hard lines of his body. Straightening, he waved to the plump sofa before the hearth. “I've spent many a night on that sofa. Reading a book, staring into the flames until I fell asleep. Perhaps you should try it?”

“I cannot sleep down here. What would the servants think if they discovered me? Your Aunt Peregrine? It would not be seemly.”

He stopped before her. One stride separated them. “I thought we agreed this is your home. Do you not feel comfortable here?”

“I do.” She nodded vigorously. “It's only that it is not
only
my home. It's yours, too. I cannot simply spend the night on the sofa.”

“So proper,” he mused, brushing the hair back off her shoulder.

Her breath caught. Everything inside her jumped and reacted to that small touch.

His eyes locked on her face. Several moments passed before he murmured, “Who would have ever thought? It's a marvel to me.”

“What is?”

“That you are your mother's daughter.”

Nothing he said could have turned her blood cold faster. It always seemed to go back to her mother. He hated her so much. She lowered her gaze, seemingly finding the pattern in the rug of utter fascination.

“So innocent,” he murmured, placing a finger beneath her chin and tipping her face up.

She thought of Sodom and what had transpired there. Heat swamped her face. Between
them
. She was not
wholly
innocent.

“I'm not . . .” She stopped, her voice fading. Was she actually arguing with him about her state of innocence?
Brilliant, Rosalie
.

His lips quirked. “Not so innocent? I think you are. Or did Strickland manage to steal a kiss.” He was mocking her now, and that only pricked her temper.

“No. Not Strickland,” she blurted.

His smile slipped, not missing the emphasis she placed on her words. “No? Someone else, then?” He stepped closer and closed his hands around her shoulders. Suddenly he wasn't smiling. “Did Horley—­”

“No!” She shook her head. “No! I'm merely trying to say that I'm not such the innocent. I'm not that little girl that tagged after you like some sad puppy all those years ago.”

“I never thought of you that way.”

“Indeed?” The idea that he had thought of her at all inordinately pleased her. More than it should have.

His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth then. It was disconcerting. Her breathing grew shallow, her chest tight and almost pained. He couldn't be considering kissing her. It was absurd. She was his charge. His stepsister. She might have looked at him with stars in her eyes for years, but he had never looked at her that way. If he even looked at her.

He certainly wouldn't be looking at her that way now.

She held herself still, achingly conscious of how close they stood. It was familiar and strange all at once. They weren't at Sodom. She wore no mask. He was gazing at her.
Her
. Rosalie. Just as she had fantasized.

He leaned his head down a fraction, and then stopped hard, his mouth hovering over hers. His eyes were so close she could see the dark ring around the green depths.

“Rosalie?” Her name was just a breath fanning against her lips.

“Yes?” Her voice was warbled and hoarse. She swallowed, attempting to regain sound.

“I'm going to kiss you.”

She inhaled. There was no mistaking his intention. Despite who they were to each other, he was going to kiss her. She nodded once, reeling at the declaration.

She felt elated and angered simultaneously. What about her? The other
her
! Obviously the girl from Sodom was forgotten. Obviously she meant nothing as he was ready to kiss someone else. It was madness, she knew, but she still felt betrayed. And also thrilled. Yes, it was illogical. She was jealous of herself.

All this considered, she didn't command him to stop. She didn't try to duck or push him away. His head dipped and his mouth slanted over hers with unexpected gentleness. His warm lips teased at hers, exerting only the slightest pressure.

Not at all what she was used to from him. He hadn't kissed her like that at Sodom. At least not beyond that first touch of his mouth. By the end his kisses had been raw and consuming. Fierce. His mouth had claimed and ravaged hers. She wanted that again. She ached for it.

And it was aggravating. She'd already had her first kiss from him. She wanted more. She wanted what she knew it could be. With a moan, she dropped the book she clutched and grabbed his head, spearing her fingers through the thick strands of his hair, tugging him down even as she stood on her tiptoes and arched against him. Anything to get closer. To have more.

She nipped at his bottom lip and then licked at the seam of his mouth just as he had taught her, seeking entrance. He groaned his approval, and she took advantage of his open mouth, thrusting her tongue inside, searching for his, needing to taste him.

His hands stole around to clutch her back, pulling her even closer. She could actually feel the thump of his heart in his hard chest.

He sucked on her tongue and she moaned, fingers tightening in his hair. He shuddered, his hands sliding down her shoulders to grasp her arms.

Suddenly, he wrenched her from him and held her at arm's length.

His gaze blistered her. “Rosalie,” he gasped.

Panting, she nodded and made another dive for his mouth, but he kept her at a distance, his hands firm on her arms. “You.”

She didn't understand. She strained toward him, but he held her at arm's length. Her body was alive and humming. She couldn't think at all. There was only feeling. She could scarcely register him.

“It's
you
.”

Something in his voice made her freeze and stop pulling against his hands. His gaze skimmed her. All of her. Missing nothing. From the top of her head to her bare feet peeping out from her hem. His gaze came to a stop on her hair, lingering over the loosened mass, and she realized with some dread that he was probably imagining it black.

She stepped back completely then, bumping the bookcase behind her. Her gaze darted over his shoulder, contemplating making a mad dash for escape.

His eyes burned a pale shade of green. “It is you. You were at Sodom.”

Denial seemed futile. It was not a question. He spoke with conviction.

A long tense moment stretched between them. Finally, she nodded. Just once. A hard jerk of her head. And there was some relief mixed in with the dread swirling through her. Finally, he knew. No more secrets.

His expression twisted, and she knew she had lost him then. Whatever softness there had been for her vanished. Whatever had motivated him to want to kiss Rosalie vanished. She saw something in his eyes. Her stomach churned sickly. Something hard and bitter that she had only seen when he looked at her mother.

“Is there more?” he demanded. “Anything else I should know? What other secrets do you harbor?”

“None. Nothing.”

He looked skeptical. “You've had no other rendezvous at Sodom? I needn't fear any other gentlemen recognizing you? Come, I need to know what ruin might at any time befall.”

“It was only you. Only those two times.”

He inhaled, his shoulders pulling back at the reminder of them together. She was sure that was it. She had tricked him into doing things with her that he would never have dared otherwise. It stung. He was angry. She knew he would be. And yet a small part of her was hoping he remembered their connection . . . and how good it had been between them.

He dragged both hands through his hair, sending the dark strands in every direction. “How did you even learn of such a place, much less gain an invitation?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it with a snap. She could not throw Aurelia to the wolves. She needn't be dragged into this.

He held up a hand, shaking his head. “Let me guess. It involves Aurelia.”

“This doesn't have anything to do with her.”

He angled his head, his gaze on her sharp, feral. “So this was all you.”

She gulped, wishing she could deflect his wrath, but she deserved every bit of it. She had deceived him.

“Very well,” he bit out. “It's clear that we need to continue on our present course and see you wed before it's too late and you bring ruin upon yourself.”

She nodded. “I—­I—­” She stopped and looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers until they were bloodless and numb.

There was nothing to say. No argument. She would not protest. She would not drag her feet. Dec knew of her masquerade. Just as she had feared. It was mortifying. She could scarcely look him in the eyes.

“Say something,” he demanded.

She moistened her lips and searched for her voice. “What do you want me to say?”

Everything was out in the open between them. She had said enough. Done enough.

The look in his eyes . . . it was too much.

He didn't want her. Now he knew it was her, the woman from Sodom he had practically begged for, and he didn't want her. She wasn't enough.

He was already talking about her marrying someone else even though she had stood before him with her heart in her eyes.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked again.

He stared at her so intently, his eyes jade-­dark, searching, reaching inside her, touching that part of her she had worked so hard to hide and protect. He saw it now. He saw
her
. “Why? Why did you do it?”

She shook her head and looked up at the ceiling, squeezing her eyes tightly. Her chest ached from the pain of it all. From him looking at her, hating her, not understanding. “I don't know,” she whispered.

It was easier than the truth. Easier than explaining that she had needed something more than the life he was arranging for her with such cold calculation. An empty future without excitement. Without passion.