A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (4 page)

Aunt Peregrine shrugged her thin shoulders. “Very well, then, a doting brother.”

“Nor am I her brother,” he said tightly, his jaw aching with sudden tension.

“It might help if you behave as though you can abide the girl,” Aurelia pointed out.

He forced his jaw to relax. “Of course I can abide her.” It was her mother he despised. He simply wanted no contact with either one of them, but he wouldn't dwell on that. This was the situation he found himself in and he would suffer it. “You have carte blanche to do what you must to see her wed as soon as possible.”

Then he would have his life back.

“Carte blanche?” Aurelia tsked. “Two little words you should think about carefully before saying them to Mama.”

Aunt Peregrine's eyes fairly glazed. Will kept his mother on a fairly strict allowance, claiming it necessary. Dec knew his uncle had left them with little other than the entailed properties. Will had mentioned on more than one occasion that he would have to wed an heiress sooner rather than later. Aurelia's dowry was woefully insubstantial, doubtlessly explaining why she remained on the shelf. That and her sharp tongue.

“Ladies.” He rose. “I think everything is well in hand. I've an errand.” He was meeting with his solicitor today over another matter, but now it was just as well, considering he would have to make arrangements for a dowry for Rosalie.

“I trust you will reintroduce us to Rosalie before you scurry off,” his aunt said. “It's been years since we last clapped eyes on the girl.”

“You're family, Aunt. You don't need me here to become better acquainted.”

She started to protest, but he said his farewells and made a hasty retreat.

 

Chapter 5

R
osalie woke slowly, stretching languidly. She felt delicious . . . the bedding was positively the most luxurious thing to ever touch her skin. She had been too weary the night before to even dig through her valise for her nightgown. She had merely stripped down to her shift and climbed into the vast bed.

She must have slept late. Sunlight poured into the room through the parted damask drapes. She blinked up at the canopy overhead as she replayed the events of the night before.

She had seen Dec. He had been cold and harsh and uncompromising.

And even more beautiful than memory served.

She sighed and dropped her hands to her stomach. It was such a disappointment to see that he had grown into such a beast. Clearly, he loathed his connection to her. He was probably embarrassed. She was without rank or standing in Society. She didn't possess money or even clothes that qualified her to rub elbows with him.

His words echoed through her head.
Stay out of each other's way
. Indeed. She would quite gladly stay out of his way.

“Well, you're not so hopeless. Not hopeless at all. I see we have much to work with despite that shocking hair.”

Rosalie squeaked at the sound of the voice and yanked the counterpane to her chest, popping upright in bed.

Her gaze landed on a well-­dressed lady holding an absurdly fat cat in her arms. The stranger approached the bed, scrutinizing her carefully as she stroked the animal in her arms.

“Who are you?” Rosalie demanded, her fingers tightening around the bedding, quite certain good manners weren't necessary when one was confronted in a state of dishabille in her bedchamber.

“You don't remember me? I'm Lady Merlton. Declan's aunt. He sent for me.”

Staring at Lady Merlton, she vaguely recalled her now. Mostly Rosalie recalled that her mother had not liked her. Lady Merlton was far too pretty. Even now with her ashy blond hair and past the first blush of youth, she was an attractive woman. And Mama didn't like pretty ladies. It drew too much attention away from herself.

Lady Merlton's words slowly registered, sinking into her spinning thoughts. “He sent for you? The duke?
Declan?
”

“Yes. It seems we're to find you a match this Season.” She cocked her head, continuing to evaluate Rosalie. “Not such an impossible task, I think. Especially not with the dowry that Declan has placed upon your head. And oh my, your shoulders and arms are quite lovely . . . we shall have to show those to full advantage.”

Everything inside her seized. “I'm to . . .
marry
? Who?”

“Well, that remains to be seen, dear girl.”

So they had not at least presumed to choose a husband for her? Small blessing.

Lady Merlton dropped down on the bed beside her. The cat rolled out of her arms and made itself comfortable, pawing and scratching at the counterpane before circling several times and dropping onto the bed with a plaintive meow.

Lady Merlton's face lit with animation. “You shall be the toast of the Season.” Her keen eyes scanned her, still assessing, evaluating as though Rosalie were some fatted calf to deliver to market. “Fortunately the pastels so expected among the debutantes will look quite lovely on you. Don't you agree, Aurelia?”

It was only then that Rosalie noticed there was a second woman in the room. She lurked near the door, watching in silence, her arms crossed. An air of wariness clung to her, as though she did not fully trust Rosalie. Which was strange. Why should she view her suspiciously?

The young woman—Aurelia—was elegantly dressed, in the pastels Lady Merlton had just mentioned. Only they did not look quite flattering on her. She was dark-­haired and olive-­complexioned. Perhaps there was the bit of the Mediterranean in her ancestry. The pale green she wore made her look rather sickly.

“Indeed, Mama.”

Mama?
So this was Dec's cousin. She searched her memory, vaguely recalling a dark-­haired girl a little older than herself with her nose perpetually buried in a book.

Aurelia stopped at the foot of the bed. One corner of her mouth curled upward. Almost as though she were smirking. “She will be a diamond of the
ton
.”

Something snapped inside Rosalie. A fine thread she had not even known existed simply broke loose from within her. She hopped up from the bed and marched toward the chair where she had laid out her clothes from the day before. She struggled into them, pulling them on over her shift, indifferent to her audience. Her fingers worked furiously up the row of tiny buttons lining the front of her dress.

“Rosalie?” Her name hung on the air, an unspoken question attached to it.

Her gaze snapped up to meet Declan's aunt directly. “Yes, my lady?”

“Are you going somewhere? Shall we ring for a maid to help you—­”

“I've been dressing myself for quite some time, thank you very much.” Her gaze flicked to Dec's cousin. Her expression had altered. She did not quite smirk anymore. Instead, she looked . . . intrigued as she studied her.

Lady Merlton's lips thinned into a line of displeasure. She looked to her daughter as though seeking assistance. “That is a matter that should be rectified, my dear. We must have Declan assign a maid—­”

“Is your nephew at home?” Rosalie asked, cutting her off. Rather rudely, she supposed, but there was no help for it. Matters were dire as far as she was concerned and must be attended to at once.

Lady Merlton blinked. “He was on his way out. We just left him moments ago in the—­”

Her voice died as Rosalie swung on her bare heels and began marching toward the door of her bedchamber, heedless of her bare feet and untended hair. She was past caring what kind of impression she made on her stepbrother.

She grabbed the door latch, freezing at the strangled shriek behind her.

Startled, Rosalie tossed a look over her shoulder.

Lady Merlton stretched out a hand as though she meant to grab hold of her. “You cannot mean to step out of this room looking like
that
?”

“Mama, it's not as though she's stepping out of doors,” Aurelia offered dryly.

Lady Merlton shot her daughter a quelling look. “The staff shall see—­they shall know.” Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “And heavens knows how they gossip with the staff of other households! It would not serve to have her gossiped about before she even makes her first appearance in Society.”

Rosalie shook her head. It wasn't to be borne. This discussion about her—­about her life, her very
fate
!—­she had not been consulted on any of it.

Lady Merlton waved a hand wildly in her direction. “You c-­cannot go about thusly,” she sputtered.

Rosalie didn't even bother looking down at herself. She knew she looked a fright in her travel-­worn garments that had not been the height of fashion even when they were new and her hair a tangled nest. She simply did not care. She could not stand by as Dec—­
argh!
—­the Duke of Banbury decided her fate as though it were his right. He was not her father. He wasn't even her brother.

The sound of laughter suddenly drew her attention to Lady Merlton's daughter. She had dropped to sit on the edge of the bed. The cat took objection to sharing the bed with her and swiped a paw at the girl.

Still laughing, she slapped back at the cat, the gesture automatic, as if it were normal byplay between them.

She held her side as if her laughter actually hurt. “Oh, oh!” Aurelia gasped. “This is going to be brilliant.” She pointed to the door Rosalie was on the verge of escaping through. “If he's still here, you'll likely find my cousin down the hall. Take a right at the turn. His private study is near the top of the stairs. Hurry if you wish to catch him.”

“Aurelia!” Lady Merlton scolded. “You're not helping.”

Shaking her head at the odd girl, Rosalie charged from the room and down the corridor, following her directions.

She didn't bother knocking. She was too angry. Emotion ruled her. She'd never been quite this infuriated. Well, her mother managed to annoy her, but then, her mother was never around to face the brunt of her ire. Perhaps for the first time she would vent her spleen on the subject of her wrath.

Wretched man! He'd said nothing of marrying her off last evening. Plan her future, would he? Marriage! Un-­bloody likely.

She barged into his study to very nearly collide with him. His hands settled on her shoulders, steadying her. She stepped back quickly, severing the contact, relief coursing through her that he had not yet departed.

“Miss Hughes,” he greeted evenly. “Forget to knock?”

“I needed to speak with you,” she said breathlessly.

His gaze scanned her, skipping down to her bare feet and back to her face, eyeing the mess of her hair. “It appears you forgot more than how to knock.” He arched a dark eyebrow at her, and that supercilious gesture only provoked her further.

“I have forgotten nothing,” she snapped, propping one hand on her hip and fighting back her nervousness. Perhaps she should have composed herself before this confrontation. He looked unflappable. Tall and beautiful and . . .

Perfect
.

She moistened her lips and reminded herself that no one was perfect. “It seems
you
, however, have forgotten something, Your Grace.”

“Indeed?” The eyebrow winged even higher.

“Indeed,” she echoed, mimicking his haughty tone, and that chased away the mild amusement lurking in his eyes. Now he just looked annoyed. His square jaw locked tight. Good, she thought with some satisfaction. Because that is precisely how she felt. Let him be annoyed. “
You
have forgotten yourself. At least when it comes to your role in relation to me. You're not my guardian, but it seems you have taken it upon yourself to act as such.”

He crossed his arms. “I take it you heard the news.”

“That I'm to be married.” She nodded once. Hard. “Not that I was consulted, but that's the news I woke to this morning.”

“And you're not happy about this?” He snorted. “Well, that's foolish.”

She released a breath in a hiss. “How's that?”

“I'm offering you a Season, a future free from the unreliability of your mother. Unless you prefer to live with uncertainty, one step from the gutter. Begging for favors from ­people you hold only loose connections to.”

Meaning him. He was right. The truth stung.

They studied each other for a moment. Her initial anger began to fade as she considered that what he was offering her was so much more than anything she had hoped for. So much more than many women ever received. A Season as a debutante. The thrill of parties and balls. Excitement, adventure.
Suitors
. The possibility of finding someone. A chance at love. To put a life of loneliness behind her.

“I see,” she finally said, lacing her fingers together in front of her and now feeling a little foolish for barging in here after all.

He angled his head. “Do you now?”

She did. “I suppose I owe you my gratitude.”

He let loose a bark of laughter. “Doesn't sound too heartfelt.”

Heat scored her cheeks. “My apologies,” she mumbled, flexing her toes in the carpet. “You're very generous. You don't have to do this.”

He smiled thinly. “I'll tell you what I told your mother the last time I saw her. My generosity has its limits. Don't squander this opportunity.”

She nodded once. “Understood. Now understand this. I'm not my mother.”

He looked her up and down and his smile turned faintly smirking, as if amused. As if he didn't believe that. Indeed, he didn't believe that at all.

“Noted. Now. If you'll excuse me. I'm late for an appointment.” He stepped past her and exited the room, leaving her alone and staring after him.

 

Chapter 6

T
he modiste arrived promptly the next morning after breakfast with four assistants in tow. Rosalie felt her eyes widen as they entered her chamber carrying fabrics and boxes that soon outnumbered the number of articles she had ever possessed. Ever. In her entire life ever.

“Oh, very nice, very nice!” The modiste, Mrs. Ashby, clapped approvingly as she surveyed Rosalie's body. “We have much to work with here.”

Rosalie smiled uncertainly as she eyed the modiste and four assistants. It was difficult to process that they were working class. They were all attired better than she was in elegant dresses and perfectly coiffed hair.

“Did I not say so?” Lady Peregrine nodded eagerly, her turbaned head bobbing.

And still the boxes and baskets continued to arrive, more maids arriving now to help carry them into the room.

Rosalie leaned down to where Aurelia sat on the chaise, tormenting Lady Snuggles with a scrap of ribbon. The cat appeared in no mood to play, but that did not stop Aurelia from repeatedly flipping the blue ribbon at the growling animal.

“Would it not have been easier to go to their shop?” Rosalie whispered. “Rather than forcing them to come here?”

Smiling, Aurelia shook her head. “Mama does
not
visit Mrs. Ashby's shop. Madame Ashby brings the shop to her. To any other highborn lady, for that matter.” Aurelia's lips twisted wryly. “It's always so.” Her voice dipped low to add, “No matter that Will's pockets don't run deep enough for such lavish treatment, one must keep appearances. She can't have any of her friends see
her
calling on the dressmaker.”

Rosalie nodded as though she understood the habits of the aristocracy.

Evidently having enough of Aurelia, the fat tabby lurched at her, swatting her several times with a paw before plopping down to the floor and waddling away.

“Aurelia!” Lady Peregrine snapped. “Leave Lady Snuggles alone!”

Aurelia shrugged and dropped the ribbon and sighed, looking bored.

Mrs. Ashby was a large woman, elegantly dressed, with plump, swollen hands that moved and fluttered like overfed pigeons as she directed her staff with sharp commands.

Rosalie sank down on the chaise, taking Lady Snuggles's spot. “So . . . much . . . much,” she murmured as three of the assistants departed to fetch yet more.

“Oh, this shall be no small undertaking,” Aurelia remarked. “You require a full wardrobe. Brace yourself for day-­long misery.”

“This is going to cost a fortune,” she grumbled, feeling guilty. She did not like the idea of spending Dec's money so recklessly. And all of this in addition to her dowry? It was far too much. When she thought back to her years at Harwich, and the many girls there who had so little—­Mrs. Heathstone herself wore the same frocks year after year after year—­it made her chest pinch with discomfort.

She turned and caught Aurelia looking at her oddly. “What?”

“You're quite the anomaly.”

She frowned. “Why does that sound like an insult?”

“I meant no offense. Any other female would gladly step into your shoes at this moment with no thought whatsoever to the expense. They would greedily take all that my cousin is giving without the slightest hesitation. Goodness knows Mama would accept such generosity if Will would allow it. My brother is too proud to take anything from Declan, and trust me, he has offered. Clearly you are more like my brother, for here you sit. Looking uncomfortable and faintly pale about the gills.”

Rosalie watched with ever-­widening eyes as yards of glittering fabrics continued to pile upon the bed for Lady Peregrine's examination. Dec's aunt dove into the bolts of fabric with a feral glint to her eyes, sorting through them with expert care, already deep in conversation with the modiste over the various types of gowns Rosalie would need. Morning dresses. Walking dresses. Day dresses. Traveling dresses. Ball gowns. Nightgowns. Riding habits. Corsets. Stockings. Petticoats. Chemises . . .

It made her dizzy. “This is quite out of my depth.”

“You are the daughter of a duchess,” Aurelia reminded her.

A duchess who never had much use for her. Rosalie had been away at school for the last ten years, living a modest existence without even the smallest dose of extravagance. The greatest luxury she ever had at Harwich was, occasionally, mint jam with her toast.

The last of the shop girls returned then. Her arms full of ermine-­trimmed cloaks of every conceivable shade.

“Close your mouth,” Aurelia gently suggested.

Blinking, she shut her mouth with a snap, but not before she silently vowed to send a trunk of clothing to Harwich at her first opportunity.

The morning passed in a blur. She was pinched and prodded and pinned. She stood still for their ministrations until her feet ached. Several gowns were pulled over her head, measurements noted, and then two assistants went to work with needle and thread so that she would have something to wear when they left today. It would be several days before the bulk of her wardrobe was ready.

“Mama.” Aurelia fell back on the chaise, clutching her stomach. “We're hungry. Can we not take a respite for lunch?”

Lady Peregrine looked up from the swatches that she held up for comparison against Rosalie's face. “We've much to do and a short amount of time. Really, Aurelia, think of Rosalie and don't be so selfish.”

“I am thinking of Rosalie, Mama. She looks on the verge of expiring, too!”

Lady Peregrine shot her an exasperated look before fixing her attention once again on two swatches of blue that looked very much alike in Rosalie's opinion. “Which one for the Colton ball?”

Aurelia flopped back on the chaise with a moan. “Mama, they are identical. We're tired and famished.”

“Very well, you little monster.” Lady Peregrine flung a scrap of silk at her with a decided lack of heat. A smile played about her lips. “I'll ring for some refreshments.”

“No need.” Aurelia popped back up, suddenly revived. “Rosalie and I will go. I want to make certain Cook gives us plenty of those little lemon biscuits with the raspberry icing.” When her mother looked ready to object, she added, “And those sandwiches you love, Mama. Enough for all. I'm certain that Mrs. Ashby and her staff could use some fortification, too.”

The modiste's head jerked around from where she was surveying an assistant's work on one of Rosalie's day dresses. “That would be lovely. I am feeling rather peckish,” Mrs. Ashby agreed. The assistants nodded avidly.

“Oh, very well,” Lady Peregrine relented.

Aurelia grabbed Rosalie's hand and tugged her down from where she stood on a small dais.

“Tell Cook to prepare enough for everyone. But really, must you both—­”

The door closing behind them muffled Lady Peregrine's final words.

“There now. You're free. Go. You can thank me later. I'll fetch enough food that Mrs. Ashby and her assistants shall be occupied for a good hour.”

“Go?” Rosalie shook her head. “Where?”

“Use your imagination. It's a large house.” She batted her hands at Rosalie before turning for the stairs that led to the kitchens.

Rosalie stood there for a moment, weighing her options. Her room was in use. The library seemed a rather obvious place, as Lady Peregrine had already noted her fondness for books. She would know to look for her there.

Deciding a little fresh air might do her some good, she slipped out the back of the house into the small garden. The sun fought through the clouds, and she lifted her face to its feeble rays. She was accustomed to colder weather in Yorkshire. This felt as good as the warmest day she was ever treated to there.

She descended the steps and strode across the brick courtyard, past the bench and out onto the lawn. Bending, she removed her slippers and enjoyed the cool grass beneath her toes. Leaving them behind, she walked deeper into the garden, turning between two thick hedges of heather, stopping when she came to a large oak. She sank down before the base of it, the bark at her back. Stretching her legs out in front of her, she wiggled her exposed toes in the air, inching her skirts up to her knees.

Arching her neck, she looked up at the thick canopy of leaves, rustling softly in the wind. This almost felt normal. Out here she could almost forget what waited for her in that enormous house just beyond the courtyard. A luxurious life that suddenly felt too big. Frightening in its strangeness.

“You still have a fondness for the outdoors, I see.”

Her gaze dropped and she straightened, pushing her skirts back down to her ankles as she focused on Banbury standing before her.

“Your Grace.” She pulled back her head to look up at him, following the lean lines of his frame. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my house.” He waved a hand. “My garden.”

She flushed and started to rise. “Yes, of course. Of course, it is.”

“No, remain as you are. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“You didn't disturb me.” She watched with some alarm as he lowered himself to the grass and stretched out his long legs. He kept several feet between them.

His boot flat on the ground, he bent one knee and propped an arm casually upon it. “I understand the dressmaker is here.”

She nodded with a wincing smile.

“And yet you are out here?”

She nodded yet again.

He gazed at her curiously before looking down and plucking a blade of grass between his fingers. “Most girls would love an afternoon spent with a dressmaker, planning a grand new wardrobe.”

She held her tongue, uncertain what to say that did not make her appear ungrateful.

“You're not most girls.” Not a question, but a statement. And one she did not know how to respond to. Indeed, he likely thought her mute.

He angled his head, his expression growing rather perplexed. “You were once a garrulous creature.”

She finally found her voice. “You remember me so well, then?”

It was his turn to stare at her in silence, as though she had caught him off guard with the question.

“Do you remember,” she began, clearing her throat and smiling slightly, “the time when I did not want to get wet so you carried me across the pond?”

She stared at him hopefully, waiting for his answer. She recalled that day often over the years. They had laughed so uproariously when he lost his balance and they splashed together into the pond.

He studied her slowly, looking her over, missing nothing. Not even the bare toes peeping out from her hem. He must think her terribly provincial, whilst he was so sophisticated in his rich dark jacket and silk cravat.

“No. I don't.”

Her foolish heart sank.

Then he looked away again, flicking that bit of grass out into the yard with a sharp move. “Although I confess more memories have resurfaced since your arrival here.”

So he truly hadn't thought of her over the years. Not as she had thought of him. Only now did his mind search back.

She nodded wordlessly. It was a sobering thought and stung more than it should. Clearly he had served a bigger part of her childhood than she had for him. A necessary realization, however. It put things in proper perspective.

H
e lied.

He remembered that day they fell in the pond with utter clarity. Aside from the hilarity of that afternoon, he remembered because when they returned home, dripping wet, it had been to the surprise of his father and Melisande's arrival.

It was that visit when everything had changed. When his father had ceased to look at him fondly, proudly, as fathers looked at their sons.

It was the end of one life and the beginning of another.

“I remember you liked climbing trees,” he announced, compelled to give her something. She looked so crestfallen when he claimed that he didn't remember that afternoon.

Her gaze snapped to his face, a smile tugging on her lips. “You do?”

He lifted one shoulder in a begrudging shrug, resenting that her smile should somehow satisfy him. “Only you could never quite manage to get down on your own.”

She laughed then, and strangely enough, the sound curled warmly around his heart. “I don't know why I continued to try. I remember always thinking: I can climb this tree. This one will be different! Only once up there I could never successfully get down.”

He chuckled, nodding. “It was rather comical.”

“Your father never seemed to be amused. My antics drove him mad with worry. He said I would break my neck someday.”

Dec fell silent. Yes, he remembered that, too. His father had cared for her. More than her own mother had. He'd called her strawberry-­top. Ultimately, his father had cared for her more than even his own son. Not too difficult, he supposed. Not when his sire grew to despise him.

She studied him warily, evidently aware the subject of his father was an unwelcome one. She would remember that night, after all. She had been there, watching from the top of the stairs, her child's eyes wide with incomprehension as his father cursed him, struck him, and cast him from his house.

“Good thing my father was only around some of the time then,” he managed to say in an even voice. “He was not fully aware of how deeply your penchant for getting stuck in trees ran.”

“I suppose the
good
thing was you.” Her eyes softened, mirth returning to her mouth as she gazed at him, clearly relaxed and at ease in this moment. “Being around so often to get me down.”

His chest tightened uncomfortably. He looked from her, to the garden, and then back to her again. He could not recall being alone with a woman in such a companionable way as this when they were not both naked. And she was a woman now. No giggling little girl.

His gaze skimmed her slight form, considering her from the top of her head to the small feet peeking out from her hem. Her toes looked delicate, her ankles as shapely as any woman's he had ever tasted. His gaze shifted back to her face and noted that her cheeks were flushed. She had not missed his inspection. His thorough study of her. He'd looked his fill. And he liked what he saw.