A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (12 page)

Snuggling into the blanket, she wrapped her arms around her still shaking knees, seeking comfort even if it only came from herself. She needed to take care of herself. No one else would. It was with some grimness that she realized it had always been this way. She came into this world alone. And she was still alone. No one to rely on but herself.

Dec's visage rose in her mind, and she squeezed her eyes tight against the darkness as if that would somehow rid her of his image. Dark was dark, and he was still there.

She couldn't help wondering what he would think of her dire situation. As though he would care that her mother's special friend was making himself a nuisance. As though he would do something to help.
Stupid
. He'd never wanted her underfoot to begin with. He'd done far more than necessary already. She still had her dowry. Why did she think he might care about her miserable fate? He hadn't uttered an objection when her mother collected her.

He might have stepped in and stopped her from being accosted when she'd been disguised at Sodom, but that was a far cry from actually caring about what happened to her—­
Rosalie
, his unwanted stepsister.

No. No one could help her but herself.

With that determined thought, she rested her head back against the trunk and settled in to wait for morning.

 

Chapter 14

A
fter three nights of dozing in and out of sleep in front of her bedchamber door, Rosalie was an exhausted wreck. Horley had made no attempt to return, but she was unwilling to lower her guard and go back to her bed. She continued her vigil, wrapped up in the counterpane in front of the trunk each night, telling herself that it wouldn't be forever.

In addition to these restless nights, her evenings were a whirlwind. She was led about Town by her mother and Horley. He never strayed far, of course.

She'd met the Marquis of Hildebrand at the opera, and he was just as senile as Horley claimed. And as lecherous. He actually invited her to sit upon his lap, leering at her newly altered neckline. Melisande merely smiled in encouragement. As though he had invited Rosalie to tea and not to a seat on his lap. And then Melisande invited
him
to tea. And dinner. Rosalie quickly realized that her mother accepted invitations, almost exclusively, to events she knew the marquis would be attending.

Rosalie was having none of it. Her mother could throw them together all she liked, but she would not marry Hildebrand. Instead of allowing the old man to paw at her, she spent the evenings making herself amenable to other gentlemen who were present whom her mother did not recommend. Odds were, any of them would be an improvement. At least they wouldn't bow to her mother's whims. If they would, Melisande wouldn't scowl when she spotted Rosalie in their company. That soon became Rosalie's criteria. If her mother glared when she spoke to a particular gentleman, Rosalie made a point to continue conversing with him.

It did not take long for her mother to catch on to her game. “You're simply trying to vex me, Rosalie,” she complained the evening they spent at a dinner party hosted by Lady Stanley, the marquis's goddaughter. Though her mother wished that she favor the marquis's attentions, Rosalie had instead taken an interest in Lady Stanley's nephew, a barrister from Bedfordshire. “Truly, Rosalie, a barrister?” Melisande demanded. “What could you be thinking?”

“I was thinking that he was very kind and an excellent conversationalist.” And he did not make her skin crawl with a mere look. He was very circumspect, his gaze politely trained on her face and not her décolletage as he addressed her.

“Conversationalist? You have friends for that. Or you will. You need not rely on your husband for conversation. With any luck, he'll expect very little from you after he gets an heir or two off you. Then you can take a lover. With discretion, of course.”

Such a future sounded bleak to her. She lifted her chin. “I'm thinking I shall have whatever husband I
choose
to have.”

Melisande shook her head. “I don't know what's gotten into you. You never used to be such a rotten, willful girl. That school ruined you.”

Horley had watched her through the entire exchange, his gaze narrowing as though he wasn't thinking particularly kind thoughts of her. As if her behavior somehow affected him. Rosalie would have preferred to talk to her mother alone, especially when the conversation turned to her taking a lover. Horley's expression had turned positively lascivious at that. Pointless wishing. He was always underfoot. No conversation was private.

She had hoped he might leave at some point, return to a home of his own. But his living with her mother appeared a permanent arrangement. Such flouting of convention was scandalous, but her mother claimed he was her protégé—­a painter the like of Rembrandt—­though Rosalie snooped about and did not find so much as a paintbrush in the house.

Her snooping did, however, lead her to Mrs. Potter. The garrulous housekeeper provided a wealth of information. Apparently, Horley had been with her mother for a year now. Mrs. Potter had never seen him pick up so much as a pencil to doodle on paper, so this claim that he was an artist? Complete fiction. He didn't possess two shillings to rub together. Money lenders often came in search for him. Following Melisande's orders, the staff always claimed ignorance of his whereabouts.

“Indeed, we're under strict instructions. Anyone comes looking for Lord Horley, we haven't seen him,” Mrs. Potter explained one morning as she puttered about the kitchen, helping Cook prepare Melisande's afternoon meal—­the first of the day. She set a plate full of biscuits in front of Rosalie, motioning for her to eat. “Got his claws in deep to your mama, that one.”

The tight-­lipped cook harrumphed as she cut into a fresh loaf of bread. Rosalie bit into the still warm biscuit with a satisfied moan. A dog slept before the crackling hearth, appearing content on a threadbare rug. The kitchen was the one place Rosalie felt safe. Horley would never think to set foot within its humble walls. Perhaps she should sneak in here at night. She could curl up with Cook's dog and sleep safely. Mrs. Potter poured fresh tea into her cup.

Rosalie took a sip, sighing in contentment as she eyed the kitchen fire.

“There you are now. Eat,” Mrs. Potter chided. “You could use some meat on your bones. Might help with your color . . . you're too pale. Are you not resting enough? Perhaps you need a nap this afternoon, miss.”

Apparently, her fatigue was noticeable. She couldn't hide the shadows beneath her eyes. A fact all the more problematic when Aurelia surprised her with a visit.

“Heavens, you look dreadful,” she exclaimed when Rosalie joined her in the drawing room.

Rosalie laughed dryly. “Hello to you, too, Aurelia.”

“Come now. You know I love you. Only a friend would be so honest with you.” She took Rosalie's hands in hers and pulled her down next to her on the settee, her forehead knitted with concern. “Are you so very unhappy here?”

The sudden reminder that she actually possessed a friend—­a very dear friend who cared about her—­made emotion surge to Rosalie's chest. She hadn't had anyone she could call a friend since Rachel, her schoolmate at Harwich. ”Oh, Aurelia.” She flung her arms around her.

“There there.” She patted her back. “I'm here now.”

Rosalie hugged her for several moments longer, taking solace in her friend, in the warmth of another person who actually cared for her. She had felt so very alone the last several nights and knew she would be alone again in the nights ahead. And perhaps beyond that. Even after she made a match for herself. She fought down the lump that rose in her throat.

“It was good of you to come.” She pulled back finally, still holding Aurelia's hand. She didn't want to let go. She wanted that small contact, at least.

“Of course. Now tell me what you have been up to. From the look of these shadows—­” She gently brushed a fingertip beneath Rosalie's eye. “—­I would say your mother has been keeping you up nights. I heard you were at the opera earlier this week. And at Lady Stanton's. Rumor has it you've been spending time with the Marquis of Hildebrand.” Aurelia wrinkled her nose. “Tell me your mother isn't considering him for you. He's ancient, not to mention revolting.”

Rosalie shrugged, not answering to the matter of Hildebrand. “I haven't been sleeping well.”

“Well, if my mother was shoving me at Lord Hildebrand, I wouldn't be sleeping well either.”

Rosalie tried to smile and failed. Tears threatened and she blinked them back, hating that she should feel so emotional.

“What? What is it?” Aurelia's gaze flitted over her face. “You have me worried now. Please tell me what is wrong.”

“Oh, Aurelia, if it were only my mother shoving me at Lord Hildebrand, I shouldn't feel half so wretched.” She gulped back tears then and told her friend everything. Her sleepless nights guarding her bedroom door, and her need to accept the next offer that came her way to simply get out from beneath her mother and Horley.

“That is intolerable, Rosalie,” Aurelia said. “You cannot stay here a moment longer. We will go to Dec—­”

“No,” she bit out with a shake of her head. “He wants nothing to do with me. Or my mother.” He'd let her go with nary a blink. “I will not drag him into this.”

Aurelia shook her head, her brown eyes deep and anxious. “It's a little late for that, isn't it? And you cannot think to remain here—­”

“I can manage. Horley simply enjoys his cat and mouse game with me. He is no threat. My mother, and thereby me . . . we're all he has. He's penniless. He won't abuse me. He merely wishes to torment me for his own amusement.”

“And that is why you guard your door at night? Because you think he is no threat?” Aurelia pressed.

“I'm cautious.”

“And how long can you continue to do that?” Aurelia angled her head, her expression both earnest and sympathetic.

“As long as necessary.”

“Hm.” She fell back on the sofa, clearly unconvinced. “Perhaps you need to call upon me at home. We can put you up in my chamber and you can sneak in a little nap.” She touched Rosalie's cheek. “Look at you. You need a good rest, sweet girl.”

Rosalie pulled her friend's hand from her cheek. “Thank you for letting me unburden myself, but you needn't worry. It is good of you to come. You make me stronger. Just the sight of you . . . knowing I have your friendship.”

“You daft girl. I've been starved for a proper friend for an age. It's just been Mama and the girls she thinks I ought to be friends with.” Aurelia rolled her eyes. “All little beasts, with their simpering smiles and thinly veiled insults.” She lifted her voice an octave.
“Oh, Aurelia. I wish I could wear that but such a style would overpower my slight frame.”

Rosalie laughed. “I'm certain they are no match for you.”

“You know what we should do?” Aurelia bolted upright on the settee, and then dropped her voice to a hush. “We should return to Sodom.”

Rosalie shook her head. “I was an absolute wreck the last time. It was far too, too—­”

“Scandalous? Debauched?” Aurelia nodded, smiling widely. “Yes. Indeed.”

She shook her head. “No. What if I bumped into Dec again—­”

“Then you can kiss him again.”

“Aurelia!” Despite her outburst, her heart tripped at the suggestion.

“You know you want to.”

Rosalie couldn't deny this, so she held silent.

After a few moments, Aurelia sighed, taking her silence for denial. “Very well. I suppose once was risk enough.” She glanced away, looking a little dejected. A little sad. Rosalie well knew how she felt. Trapped in a life that seemed to be moving without any guidance from her.

For whatever Sodom was, however depraved it had been, Dec had been there. He had wanted her. And it hadn't felt sordid or depraved. It had felt special. She had felt special. Like someone was seeing her perhaps for the first time in her life. Ironic, considering she'd been wearing a mask and wig, but there it was. That kiss had felt . . . it felt like
everything
. It had consumed her. It haunted her still. When she sat awake at night, propped against her bedchamber door, his lips, his mouth on hers, tracked through her mind again and again.

She had trembled when he touched her. And for one moment, she'd thought his hand trembled, too.

Perhaps she could have that again. Just as Aurelia suggested. If only for one more night. She'd had that kiss—­lived it. She wanted to have it again. She wanted to
live
more.

As much as she knew it was wrong, she missed Dec. Seeing Aurelia only drove that home, made her think of him, ache for him. She felt her loneliness even more acutely.

That night at Sodom . . . she hadn't felt quite so lonely. In Dec's arms, with his mouth and hands on her, she had felt alive and free. Free to choose. Free to feel. She wanted that again. Even if it could go nowhere. Even if it changed nothing.

She wanted more.

 

Chapter 15

T
he parchment crinkled in Dec's pocket where he had stuffed it earlier. Not a half hour ago the missive had arrived, intruding on his solitary dinner. His appetite had fled at once and he'd pushed back from the table.

Not that he had much of an appetite lately. He'd taken his meals alone the last ­couple of nights, shrouded in the silence of an empty house. Strange how he suddenly noticed that emptiness, that silence. He'd never been especially conscious of it before. He had never minded, but now he felt the absence of his aunt and cousin and Rosalie keenly. Ah, hell, Rosalie. He felt her absence most of all.

He had come to expect the soft sound of her voice, her laughter . . . glimpses of her throughout her house, sitting in his garden, her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her gown. He still saw her even though she wasn't here. Her image was imprinted on his mind. Even her scent seemed to trail him, that faint scent. Nowhere else more than at the door to his room, so close to her old room. Honeysuckle, he thought. How did she come to smell of honeysuckle in the midst of London?

He'd let her go with Melisande, telling himself it was for the best. It was right. They were mother and daughter. Rosalie belonged with her.

He'd always viewed Rosalie as an extension of Melisande. Never as her own self. Never her own person. She was part of the woman who had destroyed his youth and robbed him of his father and left him a shell. Melisande had taken so much from him that he could never get back, and he had simply viewed Rosalie as cut from the same cloth.

Until he saw them side by side in his drawing room.

It dawned on him then how entirely different they were. Rosalie was nothing like her mother. She wasn't Melisande. The evidence had always been there, but not until that moment had he faced it.

As much as he told himself letting her go was right, he felt guilty. He worried. Even though he told himself he needn't. Rosalie still had the advantage of her dowry. She would not be with her mother for long. She'd have her pick of suitors. Her future was bright. He'd seen to that.

So why did that rationale not make him feel better? Not that it mattered how he felt. It was done. She'd been eager to leave, and he had no cause to keep her. He was nothing more than a stepbrother who had not even been in her life for years.

He looked down at the parchment again, flexing his fingers around the edges. The missive could not have arrived at a better time. The distraction was much welcome. The single sentence, neatly scrawled on a blank sheet of parchment, took his thoughts to a kiss that had affected him more than the seductions of any expertly experienced female. There had been something about her. Her utter lack of guile and artifice. His body responded at the memory, recalling her soft mouth, so warm and responsive to him . . . and the little sound she made when he had lifted her against him.

Meet me at Sodom tonight.

It wasn't signed, but he knew. The possibility of seeing her again made his skin tighten and mouth dry. He hadn't returned to Sodom since the night he kissed the masked girl. Nor had he touched another female. He simply wasn't in the mood. In the past, any willing woman would suffice. A night's pleasure, a few hours losing himself, and the numbness faded. For a short while. Until the next time. But
any
woman wasn't what he wanted anymore, and the realization troubled him more than he wanted to admit. None of them appealed in the slightest.

The only other woman to even tempt him had been Rosalie, and since she was out of the question—­and wisely out of reach—­this opportunity was one he would not pass.

He changed his jacket quickly and departed.

S
odom was crowded tonight. He spied Max at one of the tables. This time wearing clothes. A woman sat on his lap, her arm draped around him, fingers playing in his hair, but he seemed more interested in his cards. In fact, he looked almost annoyed, stretching away from her delving fingers.

Mrs. Bancroft greeted him with a warm smile. “Your Grace, how good to see you. We've missed you.” Dressed modestly in a canary yellow gown with black beads at the hem and cuffs that reached her neck, the proprietress was an anomaly among the rest of the women present, which only added to her allure. Men in the room followed her movement across the room with hungry eyes. She was as unattainable as the queen. She was untouchable and every man wanted to conquer her. Every man but him. He was here for one reason.

“Mrs. Bancroft.” He bowed over her hand. Despite her charm, there was only one woman he wanted to see tonight. He opened his mouth to inquire if she had seen her.

As though she read his mind, she volunteered, “This way. She is waiting for you.”

His blood quickened. She led him to the second floor at a sedate pace that drove him mad. If he knew which room she was taking him to, he might have actually rushed past her in his eagerness.

He inhaled, chiding himself to not behave as a green lad. His hands opened and curled at his sides as he fought for his composure. He wasn't even certain she wanted more than another kiss from him. That, quite clearly, had been all she was willing to sample the last time. It would be torment, but he would take it. He would take whatever she wanted to give.

Mrs. Bancroft stopped before the door. “I think you can manage this from here.”

Alone, he actually hesitated, his hand on the latch. He took a moment, gathering his composure so that he didn't come at her like some randy goat.

He opened the door then and she was there. His eyes adjusted to the dimness of the chamber. She popped up from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting, her hands falling to her sides. Her midnight-­dark hair slid like a waterfall around her shoulders.

She was wearing a darker gown, but in the shadowed chamber, he couldn't identify the precise color. The bodice was sleeveless, leaving her shoulders bare save the veil of her hair. It was another form-­fitting dress, and he wondered if she had borrowed it again from Mrs. Bancroft. He felt only relief that she wore it for him. That she had come back to Sodom for him and not to experiment with another man.

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Even in the murky gloom, even through the eyeholes of her domino, her gaze seared him. The way she looked at him was devouring and intimate.

“You came back,” he murmured.

“I wanted to see you again.” Her low, husky voice was like a physical stroke on his skin. She rubbed her palms against the sides of her gown, and he could only think of that hand rubbing down his chest in that same manner.

He glanced around the room and his lip curled. It was well-­appointed but he couldn't help think about how many ­people had used this room before them. As glad as he was that she wanted to see him again, he regretted it was here, in this place. The idea rose, surprising him. Sodom had always been good enough for him before, but for some reason he wanted more for her. He wanted her in his bed. At his home.

The idea was novel to him. Perhaps it was time to take a mistress. Random women flitting in and out of his life, his bed, had been good enough before, but if he could find one woman to satisfy him for a spell, that wouldn't be so bad. There was something appealing to the notion. Except the only one he could imagine in that role stood before him.

Rosalie's face was there, a flash across his mind before he thrust it away. She could not even be considered.

“What's your name?” He knew no names were required here. It was understood at Sodom, but he could not continue without knowing what to call her.

Her tentative smile slipped, and he knew he had crossed a line. He pushed off from the door and advanced on her. “Come. I must call you something.”

She shook her head, her mouth pressed shut, and she looked around the chamber as if suddenly reconsidering.

He stopped before her and cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs resting on the stiff brocade of her domino. He loathed it. He wanted to rip it off, but he knew such an action would send her bolting from his arms faster.

“No names,” she whispered in that low, guttural scratch.

“But you know mine.”

“You've no need to protect your identity.” Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “If who I am is so important to you, then we should put a stop to this—­”

His mouth silenced her, muffling the words he refused to even entertain. There was no ending this. No stopping.

He needed it. Her. An ease to the ache that plagued him. That he'd been unable to appease in weeks. He tasted her with lips and tongue. She was ready for him, opening her mouth and meeting his tongue with less hesitancy than the last time. There was no awkwardness. She'd made up her mind before she came here. He felt that at once.

Her hands crept around his neck and he deepened the kiss, growling when she slid her fingers into his hair and pressed her slim body against his.

She moaned into his mouth. “I missed—­”

Her lips froze, as though startled by her own words.

He pulled back to look down at her. “Missed what? Me?” He smiled slowly.

She dipped her head, and he knew she was embarrassed. He could guess her thoughts then—­that a single kiss with a stranger shouldn't warrant her missing him, and she was correct. If a woman had announced she
missed
him before, he would have walked as fast as possible in the opposite direction. Yet hearing the words from her made something swell inside his chest.

He smiled and brushed a tendril of hair that fell across the hated domino hiding half of her face from him. Her eyes were dark pools, like the night sea. Again he wished to tear the offensive fabric from her face so that he could see her eyes. Her face. Bloody hell, he wished for enough light so he could see all of her and rid himself of the mystery. Was this even her hair or a wig?

She blinked slowly. “N-­No. I . . .”

“But you came back. You sent me that note.”

“You must think me terribly forward.”

“A girl who gave me her first kiss?” He cocked his head, watching the movement of her lips. “That's a far cry from what I think.”

He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of that mouth. Her breath escaped in a sharp hitch. Another one of her little sounds he well remembered. “You can say you've missed me. Because I've missed—­” He kissed the next corner. “—­this mouth. The little sounds that escape it.”

He dragged his thumb across her bottom lip, his other arm pulling her closer, one hand gliding down her back. He spread his fingers wide. He could feel her through the thin fabric of her dress. The small bumps along her spine. The twin indentations directly above where her cheeks started to swell. “Have you kissed anyone else since that night?” he asked without deliberation. He had to know. He couldn't stand the thought that she had come back here and taken with another man. That some man might have kissed her. Or done more than kiss.

“Have you?” she was quick to rebut.

He laughed lightly, knowing he deserved that. He had no right to inquire. He had no claim on her. “No. I haven't.”

Her eyes widened. Apparently she didn't expect that answer from him. Her gaze roved over his face. “You haven't kissed anyone . . . since me?”

“You don't believe me?”

“I merely find it hard to believe. You're . . . Banbury.”

“And what do you know of me?” He angled his head, something sharpening inside him. A sense, an awareness, that maybe she knew him. “Wait. Do you . . .
know
me?” His heart beat a little faster at the possibility. Did he know her? Had they met before?

The idea that their paths had crossed . . . that they might cross again, outside the walls of Sodom . . .

She shook her head fiercely. “Merely by reputation. We do not move in the same circles.

“That is unfortunate.”

She angled her head and he felt her curious stare even if he couldn't clearly see her eyes in the shadow of her domino. “Why? Out there. In the real world.” She motioned in the general direction of the door. “We could never have this.”

“Perhaps we should make a standing appointment, then.” He brought his hand lower, cupping her derrière with one hand and drawing her fully against him. Partly so she could feel his desire, his cock hard against her belly. Mostly so he could just have her softness cushioning the part of him that throbbed to sink inside her.

“Here? At Sodom again?” Her words floated on a little gasp. Her chin lifted slightly, indicating the chamber.

“It doesn't need to be here.” He would prefer it
not
be here.

She bit her bottom lip, mulling over his words. “I don't know that I can do that. This . . . was hard enough to arrange. It's tricky leaving the house.”

He frowned, not liking that this might be all they had. Deciding he needed to make this night count, he brought an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, bringing her mouth up to his and kissing her as he carried her across the room.

She moaned against his lips, her hands flying to his shoulders as though frightened he would drop her.

“Don't worry. I've got you.”

He lowered her down on the bed, wedging himself between her thighs. Her skirts fell back, exposing her legs, deliciously stocking-­clad legs with lacy black garters that he wanted to remove slowly. With his teeth.

He sat back, gazing at every inch of her displayed like some decadent feast for him. Those eyes of hers were dark and unreadable in her mask, peering up at him. Her lips were swollen from kissing, parted in a small O of wonder.

He ran his palms up her calves, over the curve of her knees, along her thighs, stopping just at her garters. Her breathing grew louder, raspy.

He took her hand, guiding her to him. He pressed her palm directly over his breeches, against his cock, groaning at the sensation of her hand, hesitant at first, and then bolder, molding to the shape of him. Her fingers flexed and traced him. He shuddered. Unable to help himself, he showed her what to do, grinding the base of her palm against him in rhythmic strokes.