A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (11 page)

 

Chapter 13

L
ord Peter Horley was the son of an impoverished Cornish viscount and French émigré. He was also Melisande's current lover. All of which Rosalie inferred throughout the course of dinner that evening. It was in the intimate language between them, their knowing glances and lingering touches. It was in the many references to their shared trips. Everything from their recent travels to Bath to shopping expeditions on Bond Street. Horley was well entrenched in her mother's life, Rosalie gathered with some bitterness. Melisande had room enough for him in her world. Just no room for her.

Over glasses of claret, Melisande toasted her return home like it was something she was truly happy about. As far as homecomings went—­not that Rosalie had many to reference—­it was a dismal and uncomfortable evening.

Home
. It felt strange to consider Melisande's modest town house across Town from where she had stayed with Dec and Aurelia and Aunt Peregrine as home. She supposed she didn't possess a home at all. And yet this place was her mother's home, and she should think of it thusly. She had more claim to it than Dec's town house at any rate.

However, accepting this place as her home . . .
feeling
at home here, was difficult to do as she sat at the dining table, watching her mother and Horley drink deeply from their cups and eating with a gusto that bordered on gluttony.

“Spain,” Melissande declared as she cut into her pheasant. “We should winter in Spain, Peter.”

Horley nodded, wiping a dribble of claret from his chin with the back of his sleeve. “Indeed. Hate these bloody winters here. Feel the wretched cold and wet in my bones. My bloody teeth ache from it.” He lifted his cup again, watching Rosalie over the rim as he drank. He'd watched her all night.

She stabbed at the peas on her plate, pretending that he did not unnerve her and wondering how much longer until she could excuse herself without appearing rude.

“Perhaps you could join us, Rosie? Eh? Would you like that?” He tore a hunk of bread and swiped it around his plate, gathering up all the juices from the pheasant.

He'd already nicknamed her. As if they were close . . . intimate. As if he had the right. She tried not to curl her lip, determined that he not see his effect on her.

They were close in age. He was perhaps four or five years her senior. Approximately the same age as Dec if she were to hazard a guess.
Dec
. The thought of him brought a pang to her chest.

The age difference between Horley and Melisande obviously didn't concern either one of them. It did somewhat surprise Rosalie upon meeting him, although it shouldn't have. She knew her mother's reputation. She'd probably run out of options in men her own age or older. She had to look to the up-­and-­coming generation. She knew her mother would never consider remarriage. She'd not risk losing her title.

As the evening wore on, the pair became overly free with their hands, constantly touching each other. Horley seemed to especially enjoy stroking her mother's bare shoulder—­all the while watching Rosalie, his eyebrow lifted almost defiantly. As though he knew it made her uncomfortable.

She loathed him already.

Melisande snapped her fingers for the servant to fetch more claret. “I think not, Peter. It's doubtful her future husband will be willing to depart with her so soon.”

Horley smiled widely. She supposed some women would find him attractive with his big-­toothed smile and fair, pomaded hair that gleamed as though it was wet. “No. I imagine not.” His eyes slid over her again, and she shivered. “Her husband will want to keep her close for some time.” He brought his cup to his lips again and drank deeply, his eyes never leaving her.

Her mother looked up and watched him, following his gaze to Rosalie and then back to him again. Her forehead knitted. “Now, Rosalie,” she said in an almost overly loud voice. Horley looked at Melisande, thankfully distracted from her. “I want you well-­rested for tomorrow. We shall be going to the opera.”

Horley grinned an oily smile. “You'll be on proper display there.”

“And we're guests of Lady Willcox. She conveniently shares a box with her cousin, the Marquis of Hildebrand's, so that is quite a coup.”

Horley wagged his eyebrows. “The old goat is senile, but randy. Should be easy enough to lead him by the nose.”

Rosalie looked back and forth between the two of them, understanding at once their plans. They wanted her to wed someone malleable . . . and they expected to benefit from the match. She reached for her drink and took a long sip as if she needed fortification. From these two, she no doubt did.

Strickland was looking better and better. She bit her lip, wondering if she should make an overture toward him. She recalled his temper that day when she rejected him, and knew that opportunity had passed. Even if she could stomach being married to him.

“Peter, don't be crass.” Melisande smiled without any real heat. “You'll frighten the girl. My daughter is still an untried miss. Are you not, Rosalie?”

Her mother held her gaze for some moments, and Rosalie realized her mother was awaiting a response. She actually wanted her to answer to her level of experience. Horley looked avidly intrigued as well.

Rot the both of them!
Rather than satisfy her question with a response, Rosalie set her napkin on the table, stopping just short of flinging it. “If you'll excuse me. It's been a long day.”

Melisande fluttered her fingers in the direction of the doors. “Off with you, then. I'll see you in the afternoon and we'll evaluate your wardrobe. You must look your best.”

She rose from the table and departed the dining room, making her way up the short staircase. Once in her chamber, she rotated in a small circle. Her clothing had already been put away—­her mother present to inspect every garment and exclaim over the lavish wardrobe with admiration and a fair amount of jealousy. Her only criticism had been the modest cut of many of the gowns. She insisted they would have to make some alterations.
If you want to catch a husband, you need to show the merchandise to full advantage.
Of course her mother would view her as mere goods. She would serve as wares to Melisande, to be exchanged for benefit. It was a bitter pill and one that did not go down easily.

She pushed the thought away and turned her attention to her surroundings. Her bedchamber was half the size of the room she had occupied at Dec's home. Instead of a mammoth fireplace, a single coal grate sat in the corner. She blinked back the sting of tears and hugged herself as she sank down on the edge of her bed. She couldn't escape
all
her thoughts.

She missed Aurelia. And Aunt Peregrine. And yes. She missed Dec.

She had leapt upon the opportunity to leave because she was afraid. Afraid of her attraction to him. Afraid that she might not be able to hide it. Afraid that she might give herself away—­that he would guess that it had been her at Sodom's. Perhaps her biggest fear of all was that she might start to love him a little bit . . . that she already did. Which would make her one grand fool, considering he would never love her back.

But now here. With her mother. With Horley's leering face. She had never felt so alone.

High-­pitched laughter drifted from belowstairs, and she knew her mother was far gone in her cups. She recalled that wild laughter from her childhood. The few times she had stayed with her mother following her stepfather's death, Melisande had laughed like that. There had been countless dinners and parties, and always her mother drank. And laughed. Some mornings, Rosalie would rise to find her mother with several of her friends, asleep in some room in the house. The dining room. The drawing room. It was as though they had simply dropped where they stood. The reek of wine clung about the room and their persons. And other smells, too. Rosalie would stare her fill until one of the household staff found her gawking and ushered her away.

Now, she undressed herself without ringing for the maid. Slipping into her night rail, she paused and inhaled the fine lawn of her sleeve. It smelled of Dec's house. That indefinable scent was there. She settled beneath the covers with a deep breath. Staring blindly into the shadows, she willed herself to sleep. Every once in a while a burst of laughter would flow over the air. Usually it belonged to her mother, but sometimes it was Horley, and she would envision his too pretty face with its toothy smile. The man made her uneasy. He reminded her of a shifty-­eyed dog that used to lurk around Harwich. Cook always fed him scraps. The mottled-­brown mutt always watched the girls, even approached them in the hopes of more food. One day he bit Rachel. He had turned from sniffing dog to snarling beast in a blink. Indeed, Horley reminded her of that dog.

Sitting up, she stared at the door on the other side of the room. Across the long shadows of the chamber. She itched to lock the door. Only there was no lock.

She stood and skirted around the heavy trunk she'd brought from Dec's home. The bureau hadn't been large enough for all her belongings and was brim full with shoes and other items Aunt Peregrine had insisted she needed to complete her wardrobe. Even empty, however, the trunk was heavy. She grunted as she used all her force and shoved it across the rug until it was flush with the door.

Satisfied, she exhaled a great gust of breath and stood back. There. That should at least alert her if someone attempted to enter her bedchamber. Someone like Horley.

Not that she was certain he would, but the need to take precautions was a compulsion she couldn't ignore. Settling back in the bed, she reminded herself that she was better off than she had been a month ago—­stuck at school with no prospects and a mother who would not acknowledge her. She had prospects now. She had a dowry. She even had her mother.

Closing her eyes, she pretended that was enough.

S
he woke to a darkened room. The smoldering coals in the grate had faded to a dim red glow, and she blinked against the near black, wondering with consternation what had woken her. She held herself still, listening to the hum of silence, and then she heard it again.

A faint creaking click.

She turned her head slowly in the direction of the sound, squinting at the hazy outline of the door. Even in the dark, she recognized the sound of the door latch. Someone was trying to enter her bedchamber.

She flung back the counterpane and padded quickly across the room on her bare feet, stretching out her hands so she would touch the trunk first and not run into it. Well-­worn wood and a sharp metal hinge met her palms. She curled her fingers into a tight grip just as the latch started to rattle with more force.

Her heart jumped to her throat and she dug in her heels, bearing her weight into the trunk, determined to create as much of a barricade as possible.

Her pulse hammered against her throat. She adjusted her grip, her palms suddenly slick with perspiration.

Her stomach twisted sickly. She doubted her mother would be at her door in the middle of the night. Not after likely consuming that full bottle of claret. She wouldn't crack an eyelid until well after midday. She couldn't imagine any of the household staff would be bothering her either. They were likely comfortable in their beds, exhausted from a long day of catering to the whims of Melisande and Horley.

That left only one possibility. Suddenly the latch ceased to rattle. A hush fell like a blanket over the room. There was no sound save for the harsh fall of her breath.

She didn't relax her grip on the trunk. She held her pose, her shoulders straining, muscles burning. She swallowed, trying to steady her breath. Her gaze peered into the gloom, narrowing on the latch. It didn't turn. Her breath quieted. The rush of blood in her ears was louder now. Still, she couldn't budge. She wouldn't. Not yet.

Her ears strained for the faintest sound. She almost thought she could hear someone else's breath. Just on the other side of the door.

“Rosalie.” Her name drifted through the door, whisper-­small, taunting in a singsong voice. “Rosie . . . Rosie.”

A shudder racked her at the hated nickname. No one called her that. No one except him.

She bit her lip, her knuckles aching where they clutched the door.

“Open . . . open, Rosie.”

The coppery tang of blood trickled over her lip and she unclenched her teeth. Terror licked down her spine. It was a combination of the dark, of that frightening voice, of knowing who it was and that he relished his torment of her.

She moistened her lips. Clearly, he knew she was awake and nearby. Just on the other side of the door. She could hear that in his whispered voice.

If this was to be her lot for the duration of her stay here, then she would have many sleepless nights. Cold resolve filled her and she steeled her spine. She needed to let him know he would not bully her. She was not weak.

Swallowing, she flattened a hand against the surface of the door and found her voice. “Go away.” Thankfully, the words rang out with confidence.

His slow chuckle floated through the door. “Good night, sweet Rosie. See you on the morrow.”

Silence. She waited, unwilling to leave the door just yet.

She bowed her head. Her breath fell slow and raspy. As long as she stayed here, she'd never feel safe. This only deeper cemented in her mind that she could not remain in this house, under this roof. Every moment was a risk. And yet she had nowhere else to go.

She darted to the bed and yanked the counterpane off with two hard tugs. Dragging it after her, she returned to the door and curled up in front of the trunk, wrapping herself in the counterpane. Even if she fell asleep, she would feel if someone tried to force their way into the room. She would wake.

With the trunk at her back, she stared straight ahead, seeing nothing and yet seeing everything.

She needed a husband. Posthaste. It was the only way out of this house. Preferably a husband her mother could not manipulate and one whom she herself could stomach. Would that be too much to ask?