A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin

by Sophie Jordan

  She stared up at him with her eyes wide through the eyeholes of her domino. “You are angry.” It was part statement, part question.

  He knew he had no right to snap at her. There were no promises or expectations between them. Those things didn’t exist at Sodom. So she was to be married. Half the women who frequented this establishment were already married. He’d never cared about that before. Why did he care now?

  Even as he asked himself this he knew. Because she was the second female to stir something in him. The second one that he could not possess. First Rosalie and now her.

  She rose from the bed. “You can’t possibly understand. What would a man in your position know about being helpless and vulnerable, subject to the whim of others?”

  Everything. He understood helplessness and vulnerability. In a way he would never admit. His throat tightened but he refused to give voice to the sudden dark thoughts swirling through him.

  He followed her, stalking really, feeling dangerous in mood. “You’re here, are you not?” He looked her up and down in her gown that invited a man’s touch. The shape of her breasts through the fabric was clearly outlined. He could discern the pebbled tips of her nipples, and the distraction, the urge to taste them again, only angered him. “Women who come here know what they want. That’s why they’re here. They’re in control. They’re not vulnerable. This isn’t the place vulnerable or helpless females frequent. Someone should have made that clear to you.”

  She made a sound that was part snort, part growl. “Oh, you’re insufferable. Clearly it was a mistake to reveal anything of my true self—­”

  He laughed roughly. “You want to reveal something of yourself?” He stepped closer, and she took a step back. His hands curled into fists at his sides. The temptation was there, to rip the mask from her face. “Let’s begin with your name. Your face. Your bloody hair!”

  She drew a hissing breath. “This has gone far enough.” She turned and reached for a cloak draped on the corner of the bed that he had not noticed before. She flung it around her shoulders, her movements jerky. “You know I cannot—­”

  “Go home. Marry. Show him what you’ve learned from me. He should count himself very fortunate indeed.” She froze at his deliberately cruel words. Her back still to him, he moved behind her, pressing his body against hers, letting her feel his hardness against the small of her back. “But know that when you’re with him, you’ll be thinking of me.”

  A shudder racked her body. He stroked a hand down her false hair. He picked up the mass of it, brought it over her shoulder and grazed his mouth over the tender skin of her neck. She made that sound again. That delicious hitch of her breath. He bit down softly where her shoulder and neck met, let his teeth scrape the skin he knew was so very sensitive. She jerked a little, making a soft, strangling sound low in her throat.

  She lurched away from the press of his body and bolted for the door, fumbling for the latch.

  He watched her go, his hand dropping to his side as she slipped from the room without a backward glance.

  She made her way to Mrs. Bancroft’s private rooms where she quickly shed the scandalous plum-­colored gown she had borrowed from the proprietress. Once again in her own modest clothing, she kept the domino just to be safe, repositioning it on her face and covering herself head-­to-­toe with her cloak. She wrote a hasty note of thanks to Mrs. Bancroft, knowing she would never be back. Tonight had to be the last time. Satisfied, she headed back down the stairs, still shaking, still longing.

  She moved blindly, seeing nothing of her surroundings. The need to flee pumped through her blood with urgency. If she didn’t leave now, she’d lose everything. She’d lose herself.

  She had only thought of her desire to see him again. Nothing else had mattered. She had not considered how much worse, how much harder, it would be to walk away this time.

  The doorman fetched a hack for her and saw her safely inside. She managed to hold on until she was safely ensconced in the hack and on her way back to her mother’s house. She smoothed a shaking hand over the skirts of her familiar sensible gown before bringing both of her hands up to her face. With a ragged exhale, she released a choked sob into her curled fingers.

  Coming to Sodom had been a selfish, desperate act. She had sent the missive to Dec because she felt drowning and helpless beneath her mother’s roof. Lonely and aching . . .

  She wanted to escape her existence even if for just a little while. And she couldn’t stop thinking about Dec. She missed him. She couldn’t stop remembering his kiss and thinking how she would never have that again.

  It had been rash. She’d very nearly given everything to him tonight. And not just her virtue—­although that very nearly happened. She had actually toyed with the idea of removing her domino and tossing her wig aside that moment at the end when he had come up behind her.

  When had she become so foolish? A girl who thought that the stepbrother who never wanted anything to do with her might actually want her? Her. Rosalie. She lifted her face from her hands. A tear rolled down her cheek and she dashed it away with clumsy fingers.

  The house was silent when she crept around to the servants’ entrance. She rapped twice at the door and Mrs. Potter appeared as promised, opening the door for her. The housekeeper hadn’t asked for details when Rosalie requested her help, simply agreed with a smile and a wink.

  With a nod of thanks, Rosalie slipped inside and fled to her chamber, pushing the trunk back into place against the door. A precaution that might not be necessary anymore, but one she wouldn’t neglect, nevertheless.

  She’d taken enough risks for the night. She was quite finished with living on the edge, reaching for things that weren’t to be. She needed to get out of this house. And she needed to forget about Dec.

  She wasn’t certain which would be harder to do.

  Chapter 17

  The 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.”

  He 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.”

  Come 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.”