A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (5 page)

Suddenly, it seemed wise to put some distance between them. He'd given over her care to his aunt. There was no reason for this. For him to be out here talking with her, reminiscing like they were old friends. He did not have women who were friends. He had women he shagged. It only made sense that the more time he spent around her, the itch to get beneath her skirts would overtake him. That's what he did. How he existed through life. She was clueless as to what manner of man he was.

“Aunt Peregrine is probably looking for you.”

She nodded hastily and rose to her feet, appearing almost anxious to be rid of him, too. He shoved off that sting to his ego. Perhaps she wasn't as clueless as he assumed.

At any rate, he moved then, not bothering to wait for her as she reclaimed her shoes. He left the garden with swift strides lest she come to expect such moments as this. Moments of them together where he would drop his guard and soften, forgetting who he was—­forgetting who
she
was.

He would be careful never to let that happen again.

 

Chapter 7

I
n a week's time, Rosalie arrived at her first ball dressed in a gown she would never have imagined for herself. She had never worn anything so fine in her life. This fact only filled her with acute embarrassment. As though at any moment someone might look up, point at her and cry,
Fraud! Imposter!
Of course that didn't occur.

She was dressed no more elegantly than any of the other ladies in attendance. In fact, her gown was simpler than some. The modiste had insisted that her slight frame needed no embellishments. None of the lace and ribbons and bows that adorned so many of the Season's other debutantes. Her blue gown fit snugly at the bodice before flaring out in a full skirt, the hem of which was intricately threaded with black embroidery and pearls. The tiny cap sleeves were no more than thin scraps of black lace. The small, transparent sleeves, ­coupled with the heart-­shaped neckline, made her feel decidedly exposed. She'd never revealed so much skin in her life, but Lady Peregrine insisted it was respectable.

As she stepped into the ballroom, she was awash in sensation. The lights, the sounds, the colors of gowns swishing past.

This was all she had dreamed. So why did it feel as though snakes writhed in her belly?

“Let the games begin,” Aurelia murmured at her side.

Lady Peregrine was quickly swallowed up by a bevy of chattering ladies—­but not before looking over the head of one lady and narrowing a pointed look on both Rosalie and Aurelia.

Aurelia laughed lightly with a shake of her head. “We've been given our task. Let's get to it then, shall we?”

Rosalie turned blinking eyes on the girl. “I beg your pardon?”

“Chin up. The wolves are already eyeing you.” Aurelia hid her mouth with her fan, leaning closer. “Mama has already seen to it that word of your dowry has spread throughout the
ton
, so you have blessed little to do. Simply smile and make yourself amenable.”

Rosalie faced the ballroom again, unsure how she felt about this information. She saw that several ladies and gentlemen were indeed looking her way, eyeing her avidly. She couldn't help thinking that the look in several of the gentlemen's eyes was more than simply speculative . . . but rather measuring. Like she was a sow at market to be judged and considered.

She lifted her chin as Aurelia advised and fought back a tide of nausea.

“Come. Let's brave the den. I hope your slippers are comfortable. I expect you shall dance more than any other lady in attendance tonight.”

Rosalie glanced down at her slippers.

Aurelia chuckled, leading the way. “Try not to look so wide-­eyed. It's like waving a red flag for all these fine young bucks to come and devour you.”

She nodded jerkily, ignoring the whispers that erupted in their wake. Snatches of words drifted to her ears
. Banbury . . . rich as Croesus . . . biggest dowry of the Season . . . fifty thousand . . .

She reminded herself that she had wanted this. Desperately. She had craved adventure. A chance to find love. The kind she read about in novels. The kind that the poets wrote of . . . she knew it was out there. Why else would the idea of it exist? She simply needed to be lucky enough—and persistent enough—to find it.

“And here comes the first.”

Rosalie looked up, her heart pounding in her chest as a man a good two decades older than herself approached. His chin disappeared amid the folds of his cravat.

He bowed to Aurelia, wiping a hand over his balding head.

“Lord Strickland,” Aurelia greeted. “How fine to see you again.”

He nodded and mumbled something so low that Rosalie could scarcely hear him.

“Yes, this is my cousin, Miss Rosalie Hughes.”

Lord Strickland clicked his heels together and bowed smartly over Rosalie's hand, pressing a sloppy kiss to the back of her glove. His lips moved like slugs crawling over the thin fabric.

Upon rising, he motioned to the dance floor with another inaudible mumble. She glanced at Aurelia, who gave a nod of confirmation that he was indeed requesting a dance.

“Yes, I should like to dance, my lord,” Rosalie murmured very correctly, and allowed herself to be escorted onto the dance floor. Even not very tall, she stood a good half foot taller than Lord Strickland. She had no trouble looking over his head, which gave her a decided advantage in observing those who watched her. She frowned. All gentlemen twice her age, much like Lord Strickland. Where were all the young, handsome men of her fantasies?

In your fantasies.

She sighed and wondered if perhaps she had been naive when thinking about the manner of suitor she would find. Her gaze connected with Aurelia across the ballroom. She, too, danced, caught up close in the embrace of a man as wide as he was tall. Aurelia wiggled her fingers in a halfhearted wave over the swell of his shoulder. Rosalie grimaced, realizing in that moment that the lot of a debutante was not the most desirable fate after all. That the dream of adventure and excitement . . .
love.
It was just that. A dream.

“M
ust we be here?”

Dec glared at Max. “Yes. We must. And I've already explained why.”

Max leaned against the wall with a scowl. “I haven't been to a ball since . . .” His eyes lifted as he considered. “Well. Since never.”

“No one said you had to come.”

His friend shrugged. “You said it wouldn't take long.” He tugged at his cravat. “Can you make haste? The way some of these ladies are eyeing me is making me decidedly nervous.”

Dec laughed. “The elusive Viscount Camden is in their midst. Dance with a few of them. You'll be all over the scandal sheets tomorrow.”

“Bloody hell,” Max growled. “I'll resist the temptation.”

“Breathe easy. My aunt requested I make an appearance, dance with the chit once, and then we can be off.”

“Then be done with it.” Max gestured to the crowded room. “Before I'm set upon.”

“If I can locate her, I shall.” Dec's narrowed gaze swept the room, searching for Rosalie among the mad crush of brightly colored gowns. He should have inquired the color of dress.

“There's your cousin.” Max nodded toward Aurelia. “Termagent. She's actually dancing with some poor sod.”

Dec's lips lifted in amusement. “She's only nasty to you, you know. She can be quite civil to other ­people. Pleasant, even.”

Max snorted. “A facade merely. I've known her since she was all of eight years old. The female is a barbed-­tongued little witch.”

He chuckled and shook his head, but his laughter quickly faded as he spotted Rosalie on the dance floor. “There she is,” he murmured, assessing her in her finery. She looked right at home amid the glittering
ton.
Her hair was stunning. A fiery sunset that drew the eye.

“Ah. She does polish up rather well, although I must confess I preferred how she appeared the other eve,” Max mused beside him.

He shot his friend a quick glare. “How's that?”

“She was rather beddable looking . . . all soft and sleep-­tousled. Bodes well that a female can look appealing when so little effort has been made with her appearance.”

“I suppose,” he allowed, wondering at the tight pull of his skin and the clench of his fists. He didn't like his friend looking at Rosalie that way . . . or talking about her in such a way. She was not some chit at Sodom for them to appraise.

“ 'Tis true. Look around you. A good amount of sparkling doves in attendance . . . but they all required hours to accomplish such a feat. It's all illusion.”

The orchestra slowed and he knew the song was coming to an end. He inhaled and squared his shoulders. “Best see this done.”

Max clapped him on the shoulder. “Try not to look so miserable. You might send her cowering into one of the ferns.”

Somehow he found that unlikely. She'd already shown a fair amount of courage barging into his office in a fit of temper last week. Her fury had diminished. He'd watched it fade from her eyes as she reached the conclusion that a dowry—­a season—­wouldn't be so bad. She forgave his presumption. She was no fool. She recognized it was a boon.

He arrived at her side just as the final notes came to a close. He recognized her partner as Lord Strickland. The man was older but not infirm or decrepit. Of good family, he had nothing sordid or illicit associated with his name. Unlike himself, Declan thought. Aunt Peregrine would deem Strickland the perfect candidate and entirely eligible.

Lord Strickland's small, squinty eyes landed on him. “Your Grace, so good to see you. I've just had the pleasure of dancing with your sister—­”

“Stepsister,” he corrected, his gaze dropping to Rosalie. Color painted her cheeks at his quick declaration, making her freckles almost more pronounced, dark brown flecks in her usually porcelain complexion.

“Yes, quite,” he uttered in that mumbling voice of his. “Well, she dances like an angel.”

He nodded, his gaze riveted to Rosalie. She wouldn't meet his stare, instead training her attention somewhere just beyond his shoulder. Her disregard of him was blatant . . . and not a little annoying.

“Indeed, my lord. I shall have to see that for myself, then.”

Her gaze snapped to his face as if shocked by his words, treating him to the full blast of her topaz eyes. If possible, those twin red flags on her cheeks burned brighter.

“Oh, quite right. You must, you must,” Lord Strickland agreed effusively, stepping back with a wave.

Dec squared off in front of her and reached for her gloved hand, so small and slender. His bigger hand swallowed it. Her fingertips curled over the edge of his hand, and the corners of his mouth tugged upward as he gripped her waist. He tugged her closer. She came forward grudgingly. “I would almost think you didn't want to dance with me, Carrots.”

“Don't call me that,” she snapped.

He grinned then. Couldn't help himself. They danced for several moments. Strickland was right. She danced very well. It was more like she floated, skimming the floor, the only thing keeping her anchored was his hands.

“You might not want to appear so averse when someone calls me your sister.”

His smile slipped. “You're not my sister.”

Her gaze clashed with his. “And must you appear so vehement on that point? You're acting as my guardian and ushering me through the Season. You might not want your distaste to appear so obvious.”

He stared down at her but said nothing. To be fair, he was not sure how he felt about her other than that he wanted her gone from his life. All his thoughts of her were tied too closely with his ill opinion of her mother. It was a tangled knot and he didn't see any way to separate the strands.

The music came to an end and she dropped his hand, stepping back hastily. “I think that served to adequately give me your endorsement. In case the dowry was not sufficient enough. My thanks, Your Grace.” At those stiff words, she gave a hasty curtsy before weaving her way through the crowd, disappearing in the crush of bodies.

He slowly turned, glancing over his shoulder several times as if he would catch a glimpse of her.

“There now. Ready to go?” Max asked.

He nodded absently, trying to shake her from his thoughts and how she was nothing like he had imagined. Nothing like her cloying mother. Rosalie appeared almost as eager to be rid of him as he was of her.

“Yes. I'm finished here.”

 

Chapter 8

R
osalie flopped back on the bed with a heavy sigh. Her feet ached from another night of dancing. It had been much the same for close to a week now with no reprieve. Tonight was especially unpleasant, as she'd danced with a portly baronet with very little grace who trod all over her slippers.

She kicked off both slippers and rubbed her aching, stocking-­clad toes. “Can we not have one night where we are not rushing off to some ball or party?” Releasing her foot, she speared her fingers through her hair, tugging the thick mass back from her head.

“You mean you're weary of it already?” Aurelia clucked. “Oh, dear. You are in trouble, then, for there is no foreseeable end to it. At least not this Season.”

Rosalie propped herself up on her elbows and scowled down at her friend, reclining at the bottom of the bed. “You needn't sound so satisfied. You don't appear to be enjoying yourself either.”

Aurelia grinned and shrugged. “I'm accustomed to it. You are not.” She shook her head. She'd already unpinned her head, and the dark, rich waves tumbled around her shoulders. “I simply didn't think you would be quite so . . .”

“What?”

“Well . . . quite so much like me, honestly.”

Rosalie cocked her head and started to pull the pins from her own hair, not bothering to wait for her maid. “And why does me being like you not sound like a compliment?”

Aurelia made a face. “There's a reason I'm still unwed.”

“I thought you lost a year while you were in mourning and then another for half-­mourning—­”

“Yes, but I've had one Season. Last year. Mama was hoping for a match then.”

“So how are we alike? Tell me.” Rosalie pulled the last pin and shook her hair free with a soft moan of relief.

“I loathe the balls and parties. Perhaps not at first, but they soon became tedious. One is much like another. All the girls our age wax on and on of fashion and gossip. And the gentlemen . . .” She sighed, falling back on the settee edging Rosalie's bed to gaze forlornly up at the ceiling. “Have you met a single one to stir your blood?”

Rosalie stared at Aurelia for a moment, caught off guard from her candid speech. But that was only part of her hesitation. She was a little surprised to find that this elegant young lady, brought up with all the polish and advantages afforded one of high birth, wanted something else. Something more.

Aurelia glanced her way. “Come now. Be truthful.”

Rosalie gave a nod, agreeing. “No. No, I have not. Not that I've spent much time with anyone besides Lord Strickland in the last week.”

Aurelia grimaced. “Indeed. He did close in rather quickly on you, didn't he? You're simply too nice.”

“Should I be impolite?” Rosalie demanded helplessly. “I can't be caustic and sharp-­tongued like—­”

“Me?” Aurelia rolled to her side and pulled her knees to her chest, her pastel green skirts a pool around her as she faced Rosalie. The color did nothing for her friend's olive-­toned complexion. Sadly, it made her look mildly ill.

They fell into silence, each lost in their thoughts.

Aurelia bit her lip until she finally said with a heavy exhale, “I don't suppose I can continue to behave that way either. Mama is at her end with me. She's complained to my brother . . . he's threatening to send me to live with my elderly Aunt Daphne in Scotland. Once there, I might as well give up all hope of ever . . .”

Her voice faded and Rosalie prodded, “Ever what?”

“Of ever experiencing adventure, love . . . a kiss that doesn't make me want to wipe my mouth off afterward.”

Rosalie sat up anxiously. “Someone kissed you?”

“It happened last season. Archibald Lewis, the vicar's son, isn't that ironic? He snuck a kiss on me.” She wrinkled her nose. “It tasted of fish and soured milk. Wretched experience. But that's beside the point.” She fluttered a hand. Rosalie nodded, feeling a bit dizzy in her attempt to follow. “Wouldn't you want to know what a kiss felt like from someone who knew
how
to kiss? And isn't old enough to be our father? And doesn't look like the back end of a mule?

“Er, well. Yes.”

“Me, too.” Aurelia punched a fist into her palm. “It's simply not fair that my brother and Dec and that boor Camden can sow their oats to their hearts' content while we must wither on the vine, waiting to be plucked up by an eligible gentleman.”

Rosalie shook her head. “But what can we do about it?”

Aurelia gestured wildly. “Something. Anything!” Her arms flopped at her sides. “If I'm to be sent to rusticate with Aunt Daphne until I'm old and dead, then I should blasted well live a
little
first.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial pitch. “We should go to Sodom.”

“Sodom? As in Sodom and Gomorrah? From the Bible?” Rosalie frowned, not sure if this was some
tonnish
expression she had yet to learn.

“It's a private club host to all manner of illicit activity.”

Illicit activity? Her cheeks warmed even though she was not entirely certain what that meant.

Aurelia continued, “I've overheard Dec speak of it with Camden.” She sat up on the settee, apparently warming to the subject. “You must be a member. Or get an invitation from a member.” Her lips twisted wryly. “I'm sure no such invitation would be forthcoming from Dec.”

Rosalie snorted, imagining her stepbrother's face if Aurelia approached him with such a request. “No. I imagine not.”

“So we would have to secure memberships for ourselves. I've enough pin money set aside. I don't know the cost, but I'm sure we could manage some manner of temporary membership that—­”

“Aurelia,” Rosalie broke in. “Slow down a moment. You cannot be serious. Ladies of repute cannot attend such a—­”

“I'm certain they
do
!” Aurelia nodded doggedly. “Wearing dominos, with no threat of discovery, why ever not?”

Rosalie stared at her, trying to process what she was suggesting and come up with a reason why this was the worst idea in the history of terrible ideas. She only arrived at: “You are serious.”

Aurelia nodded. “I am quite serious.” She scooted closer on the great big bed, her brown eyes luminous. “Will you not join me?”

“I—­I—­”

“Do you not crave a taste of adventure before you marry the likes of Lord Strickland?”

“I'm not marrying Lord Strickland,” Rosalie was quick to object.

Aurelia sank back on the settee with an arch of her dark eyebrow, flopping her arm onto the bed where Rosalie's skirts pooled. She toyed with the pink fabric. “Indeed,” she said mildly. “You're not? You're certain of this?” A decided glint entered her brown eyes.

Rosalie sat up a little straighter, crossing her legs beneath her voluminous skirts. “I think I would know who I will and won't marry.”

Aurelia made a humming sound and crossed her arms over her chest. “I heard Strickland mention to Mama that he wished to call on Dec.”

Rosalie said nothing for several moments as she processed this. “I'm sure it has nothing to do with me—­”

Now Aurelia snorted. “It has
everything
to do with you. Did you think Mama and Dec were merely planning your social calendar for you? Oh, Rosalie,” she tsked, and shook her head. “They're planning your life . . . right down to the groom.”

Rosalie inhaled sharply through her nose. “You're mistaken.”

Aurelia gave her a pitying look that seemed to say,
We shall see
.

Rosalie shook her head, a sick feeling starting in her stomach as she watched her companion rise from the bed and smooth down her skirts. “If you say so. Meanwhile, if you change your mind . . . I'm sure I can get us inside Sodom.”

“Thank you, but I don't think so.”

Aurelia groaned. “Oh, very well. I shall die a dusty old spinster with only the memory of Archibald Lewis's kiss to comfort me.”

Rosalie fought down a grin. Aurelia was nothing if not entertaining. “Dusty and old are not words that come to mind in association with you. I doubt you'll behave old even when you are.”

“Very well.” Turning, she held up her hand and fluttered her fingers. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Rosalie murmured, rising to her feet as her maid entered the room, bypassing Aurelia.

She moved to stand before the mirror, gazing at her reflection as Sally moved behind her and began unhooking the tiny buttons on her gown.

“Good evening, miss,” the maid said. “Have a nice time tonight?”

“Yes, Sally, thank you.”

“You look lovely in this pink gown . . . so brilliant with your hair.”

“Thank you, Sally.”

“I'm sure all the gentlemen were tripping over themselves for you.”

Rosalie winced and ran a hand down the brocade of her bodice. “Indeed. With my dowry how could they not?”

Sally cast her gaze down and fell silent at this and Rosalie regretted her words, regretted making the poor girl feel uncomfortable. Of course she knew of her outrageous dowry. All of Britain knew by now. That didn't give her cause to make the poor girl uneasy. She wasn't any of the countless gentlemen attempting to woo her.

Lord Strickland's chinless face floated before her mind. It was bad enough that he mildly repulsed her, but to know that he didn't even really want
her,
that he wouldn't be giving her the barest notice if not for the obscene dowry Dec had placed upon her . . .

It was galling. And yet a fact she would have to accept, dismal as it was. Any man she married would be marrying her for that reason and that reason alone.

In that moment, she understood Aurelia's motives for wanting to break free and do something bold and reckless. Such an act would be purely selfish. It would be about pleasure and fun. It wouldn't be about the wealth she brought to her husband. It wouldn't be about marrying for position or title. It would be an adventure.

Rosalie could understand the desire for that. She understood.

But she could never risk it.

“A
h, Your Grace, good morning. I was just coming to call on you.”

Dec froze on the bottom step of his town house. His gaze collided with Lord Strickland as he descended from his carriage and stopped before him. He nodded warily. “Strickland. What brings you here?

“Your sister,” Lord Strickland began, removing his gloves and twisting them nervously.

Bloody hell. What had the chit done now?

He reluctantly waved in the general direction of his front door, not bothering to correct Strickland again. The man seemed determined to view Rosalie as his sister rather than stepsister. “Shall we discuss this inside?”

The man nodded swiftly and followed Dec inside. He waved off the butler who stepped forward to take Strickland's coat and offer refreshments. Hopefully, this would not take long and he could still keep his appointment at Jackson's Saloon.

He closed the door to his office and took position near the great hearth, waiting with a knot of dread in his chest, quite convinced he was about to hear some tirade regarding Rosalie. And what could he expect? Stuck in that school for so many years, she was not precisely trained in the nuances of Society.

He nodded grimly at Strickland as the man flipped back the tails of his jacket and sat rather stiffly on the edge of the chaise. He tugged on his collar and began in his mumbling voice, “This is quite . . . awkward. I've never done anything like this before—­”

“Strickland.” The earl's eyes shot to Dec's face. “Just spit it out.”

“Quite. Quite so.” He nodded doggedly and cleared his throat. “I would like to request the honor of your daughter—­er, I mean sister's hand in marriage.”

Dec stared.

Strickland flushed and continued, his words a nearly unintelligible ramble. “I realize I have only made her acquaintance, but I've found her to be very amenable. I think she is absolutely the sweetest creature on earth—­”

“Rosalie?” he bit out before he could consider his tone.

“Indeed. She is the kindest—­”

“Rosalie?”

The earl nodded, his chin lost somewhere in his neck. “I'm not the only one paying particular attention to her—­”

“You're not?” Other than the night he'd danced with her at the Coltons' ball, Dec had left her in his aunt's hands, ignoring his aunt's requests for him to join them again. He'd deemed it unnecessary, assuming Aunt Peregrine was quite capable of ushering the girl about Town. Apparently he had been correct. His aunt had proven herself
very
adept. Perhaps
too
much. The girl had already garnered a proposal.

He quickly squashed his annoyance with his aunt. She had accomplished for Rosalie what she had not yet accomplished with her own daughter. She was to be commended. He was free of her.

He realized that Strickland was still talking.
“ . . . so I wanted to be the first to declare myself.” His smile wobbled and he looked a little sheepish. “I imagine she will attract other offers, but—­”

“I accept.”

“Wh-­What?”

“Rosalie will be honored, I am certain.”

Strickland blinked. “Truly?”

Dec nodded, ignoring the small niggle of discomfort at the back of his throat. This was what he wanted. The fact that it happened sooner than expected was a boon he should not examine too closely. Strickland was a good man. He came from good family. He was reputed to be a gentleman. Certainly, Dec had never seen him at Sodom or any of the other less than reputable places he had frequented over the years. She could do much worse.
She could have ended up with someone like you
.

The thought came unbidden, and he shoved it aside. He'd never agree for her to marry a man of his ilk. It would be unconscionable. She might be Melisande's daughter, but he would do his duty by her and make certain she only joined with an honorable man.