A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin Page 21

  Except she wasn’t so convinced.

  Would he want a bride who was broken? Broken in the way her mother had broken him? Could things ever be right between them?

  She made a bolt for it then, only to have Horley grab her around the waist. She screeched, legs kicking, arms beating at him—­anywhere she could reach.

  She could hear her mother reprimanding her to behave herself over her own cries. As though she were the disobedient child.

  “Peter, remove your cravat! Silence her with it. We don’t need to concern the servants.”

  Horley yanked off his cravat and stuffed it into her mouth. Then her mother was there, too, Melisande’s fingers working deftly at the back of her head, tying the cravat in an unyielding knot. “Come now, Rosalie! None of us are happy about this, but it’s just the way it has to be.”

  Horley managed to pin her arms at her sides, grunting in her ear.

  Panting, she glared up at his flushed face, at the smug smile. And she was quite certain that her mother might be unhappy with the situation, but he was not.

  Aurelia met Dec at the door when he returned home that afternoon. Will and Max accompanied him. He had invited them home with him following a match at the club. In the back of his mind he suspected he wanted their company to keep him distracted from his encounter with Rosalie.

  Somehow, absurdly, he now realized he had thought she would never have to know. That he could keep that bit of sordid history from her.

  Will frowned at his sister as she stood in the foyer wringing her hands, her brown eyes deep with worry. “Aurelia, what’s amiss?”

  “I have not seen Rosalie in hours. We took breakfast together, and then her mother paid her a visit and she went out. But that was hours ago. Do you know where she could be, Dec?”

  He processed her words, a sick feeling starting in his gut.

  At his mulling silence, she cast a quick glance at her brother and Max. Shaking her head as if their presence didn’t matter to her, she looked back at him and added, “We were supposed to go shopping this afternoon—­Declan, where are you going?”

  He was out the door, moving swiftly down the steps.

  “Declan!” she called, her footsteps rushing after him.

  He had a fairly good idea where Rosalie had gone. His stomach knotted to think of her back with her mother, in the same house, even for a moment, where she had felt compelled to barricade herself in her bedchamber every night.

  Bloody hell.

  He shouldn’t have let her walk out. He had seen the knowledge of what transpired between him and her mother in her eyes . . . it was more than he could abide. He had not realized how much her good opinion mattered to him until then. The chance that she would somehow look at him differently, that things between them would not be the same again, was something he couldn’t face, and so he’d let her walk away.

  And now his cowardice had put her at risk. She was his to protect, and he had failed her. He should have made her stay. He should have told her what she needed to hear. He should have shown her that the past didn’t matter anymore. Especially now. Now that he had her. Now that they had each other.

  “Declan.” Aurelia grabbed his sleeve and clung. “Where are you going?”

  “To her mother’s.”

  Aurelia frowned. “Why would she wish to go back there?”

  “We’ll take my carriage,” Will announced, motioning to Dec’s doorman to bring his carriage back around.

  “We?” Will arched an eyebrow.

  Aurelia nodded. “I’m going, too.”

  “Why are you going?” Max demanded.

  Aurelia propped one hand on her hip. “She’s my friend. Why are you going? Wait . . . what are you even doing here? Why are you always here?”

  He jerked his head in Dec’s direction. “He’s my friend.”

  “This is a family matter,” Aurelia informed him, lifting her chin, “and contrary to how much you’re always lurking around, you are not family, Lord Camden.”

  “Small blessings,” he muttered. “Not to have a brat sister—­”

  “Can you two sheath your claws for once?” Will snapped.

  Dec shook his head. He didn’t have time for their bickering. He spotted the carriage clattering his way and started moving toward it with long strides. Then he saw a heavyset woman in livery turning down the drive, puffing for breath.

  She held up her arm, waving at him. “Are you the Duke of Banbury?”

  He met her halfway, nodding. “Yes.”

  She stopped, pressing a hand to the generous swell of her stomach as if suffering a stitch. “They took ’er, Your Grace.”

  “Her? You mean Rosalie? Who took her? They who?” he demanded, even though he already knew. With a sinking sensation in his gut, he knew. He just didn’t know why. Revenge? Were they that stupid? He’d hunt them to the farthest corner of the earth. If they hurt even a hair on her head, there was nowhere he wouldn’t find them.

  The woman nodded. “I was in the kitchen, but I came out when I heard the commotion. They shoved her out the door into the carriage. I tried to help, but they had Tom, the footman, and he’s the size of a mountain—­”

  He shook his head. “I understand. Of course. Do you have any clue where they were taking her?”

  She swiped several graying hairs back from her sweating cheeks. “I heard Lord Horley tell the driver they were heading to Scotland.”

  “Scotland?”

  “Aye, Your Grace. He means to marry her.”

  “What?” He blinked.

  “Lord Horley means to marry Miss Rosalie.”

  Aurelia gasped beside him.

  He froze. Everything in him turning cold. “He can’t.” He could think no other words.

  He can’t. He can’t.

  Rosalie was his. He couldn’t lose her.

  He vaulted inside the waiting carriage, hardly even aware of Will and Max hopping inside with him or Will forbidding his sister from joining them. His only thought was catching up to Rosalie. His hands opened and closed at his sides on the seat.

  “Dec? Are you all right?”

  He looked up and met his cousin’s stare. “I have to get her back, Will.” He had to. Somehow, in only a short time, she had come to be everything to him and he couldn’t imagine a life without her.

  Chapter 24

  Stop looking out the window. There’s nowhere to go. Peter or the servants will overtake you if you try to run.”

  Rosalie let the curtain fall back into place on the window. Horley had left them in the carriage and gone to speak to the innkeeper—­no doubt weaving some fanciful tale about her. How else would he explain when she opened her mouth to shout for help?

  As though her mother could read her mind, Melisande said, “Now don’t go doing anything foolish. Peter is letting them know that you’re sick. Mad. And not to listen to a word you say.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “If you had just done as you were told none of this would be happening to you. You think I’m happy that you’re marrying Peter?”

  “Then let me go. I love Declan. And he wants to marry me. I have a chance for happiness. You’re my mother. Can’t you want that for me?”

  A flicker of something crossed Melisande’s face, and Rosalie thought she might be reaching her. But then the carriage door was suddenly yanked open.

  “Come. They have a room for us.”

  “Just one?” her mother asked as she offered him her hand and stepped down from the carriage.

  “It’s all he has, but it’s for the best. We can better keep an eye on her.” He held out his hand for Rosalie, but she climbed down without his help, holding her hands close to her sides.

  “Did you speak with the innkeeper?” Melisande asked.

  “Yes. No worry. He accepted my story
of your mad daughter. I could have fed him any story so long as I lined his palm with coin.”

  Splendid. If that was true, she wasn’t going to find much help from him.

  The inn was crowded and the innkeeper hardly paid them notice. Indeed no one did as Horley ushered them upstairs. Only one bed occupied the room, barely large enough to accommodate two bodies.

  Melisande motioned to the chaise near the window. “Perhaps the innkeeper can spare an extra blanket.”

  “Oh, I sleep there?” Horley queried.

  Her mother looked back and forth between Horley and Rosalie, appearing uncertain and uncomfortable. A first since this whole nightmare began. “Where else . . .” Her voice faded. The arch of Horley’s eyebrow suggested just where else he thought he could sleep. “You wish to begin your wedding night?” Melisande demanded in a tightly controlled voice. “With me in the room?”

  “You’re mother and daughter. Is it not right to share?”

  Rosalie pressed a hand to her stomach, afraid she was going to be sick.

  Her mother turned and started pulling the bedding back with angry, stiff motions. Only Rosalie saw that her hands shook, too. “I think you can wait until Scotland to do your ‘duty.’ ”

  Horley sighed. “I suppose.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll go see to our dinners.”

  As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Rosalie whirled on her mother. “Mama, please. You cannot want this for me . . . or for you.”

  Melisande faced her, eyes suspiciously bright with what looked like tears. “What do you know of what I want? I want to be rich again. I want to be young and beautiful. I want men to want me again with the same desperation that they did before. What I don’t want is an upstart daughter making me look a fool.” She pointed at Rosalie. “Now you’ll do as I say. You’ll forget about Declan just as I’ll forget that my own lover will share your bed.”

  “You speak as though I want this!”

  Her face scrunched up, making her look almost unattractive. “How did such a stupid creature ever come from me?” She tugged the pins free from her dark hair as she moved toward the mirror. “I keep hearing that word come out of your mouth. Want, want, want. I want more than a paltry widow’s settlement. I want a rich lover . . . a man who won’t tire of me in a fortnight.” She stopped in front of the mirror and speared her fingers in the dark mass of hair. “It’s time you learned that you don’t get the things you want in life. I don’t.” Her gaze lifted and collided with Rosalie’s in the mirror. “And you won’t either.”

  The dinner of roast hare was surprisingly good, but that didn’t encourage Rosalie to eat. Her stomach was knotted and queasy. Horley ate with relish, gulping down multiple glasses of wine between mouthfuls of food. Her mother picked at her food, focusing mostly on the wine as she stared back and forth between Rosalie and Horley with ill-­disguised animosity. She said very little, offering up only monosyllable replies to anything Horley said. He, on the other hand, grinned lasciviously over his wine cup, looking from Melisande to Rosalie.

  Forgetting her scarcely touched meal, Melisande rose and undressed herself, heedless that Horley and Rosalie watched her. Dressed in her nightgown, she slipped beneath the sheets of the bed.

  Horley looked at Rosalie. “What of you? You should get your rest, too. We have a long journey tomorrow.”

  Nodding, Rosalie moved to the empty side of the bed. Even with her mother in the room, she wasn’t sure she could sleep in such close proximity to Horley. Sinking down on the mattress, she unlaced her boots and set them carefully on the floor beside the bed.

  “You’re not changing?”

  She only had what her mother packed for the both of them, and although they were of like size, she did not relish rifling through her mother’s things to find something to wear. If her mother really cared, she would have pulled something out for her. Instead, Melisande was already snoring on her side of the bed, deep asleep with no thought to her daughter.

  “I am quite fine in this.” She settled down next to her mother without another glance at Horley.

  With her hand tucked beneath her cheek, she listened to Horley’s movements, his smacking lips and slurps. He made no move toward the bed, and gradually some of the tension eased from her shoulders.

  She held herself still, waiting for him to douse the light, knowing full well that she would not sleep. Even if she did not intend to slip from the room and escape, she would not sleep with Horley so close. She wasn’t that trusting.

  The sound from the inn belowstairs had quieted by the time he finally put out the light. She listened as he settled himself on the chaise. His breathing steadied to a soft snore after several minutes, but still she waited. The night lengthened, but she held herself still. At one point, someone’s tread thudded down the corridor, but silence soon reigned again.

  Rosalie carefully pushed the counterpane off her and stealthily slid her legs over the side. Bending, she slipped her boots on.

  Horley snorted and mumbled something. She froze, bent over in the dark, her hands on her laces. Satisfied he still slept, she finished tying off her boots and stood.

  She worked her way around the room, moving slowly, wincing at every creak of the floorboards. Her palms were sweating by the time she reached the door. A thin line of light glowed beneath it, alerting her of where to go in the dark. She stretched out a hand and groped air until she felt the door latch.

  The hinges let out a creak so loud as she opened the door, it sounded like thunder to her sensitive ears. Clenching her teeth, she shot a glance over her shoulder, her heart pounding so hard her chest ached. The flickering light from the sconces in the corridor sent a shaft of dim light into the room and she could see Horley sleeping on the chaise, snoring deeply, his features lax. Hopefully his wine consumption would keep him in a deep sleep for many hours to come.

  Although the sight of him, even deep asleep, sent panic fluttering through her. In some ways, her stealthy escape had been easier to execute in the cover of darkness.

  She dove out into the hallway, shutting the door behind her with shaking hands. The corridor stretched long and empty. She made it to the top of the stairs, half expecting to hear Horley crying out behind her.

  But he wasn’t there. There was no cry. No hard hand clamping down on her shoulder. She was free. She hastened down the steps and stepped out into the main room. There was no crowd as earlier. A ­couple of travel-­worn customers sat at one table, nursing tankards. They didn’t spare her a glance.

  A serving maid looked up. “Can I help you, miss?”

  This was her chance. She opened her mouth. And that’s when the portly innkeeper walked into the room. His eyes widened at the sight of her. “You!” He looked around as though he expected to see her mother or Horley near. Finding no sight of them, he tsked his tongue and wagged a finger at her. “Now you didn’t sneak out, did you? You’re going to worry your family. You need to go back to your room.”

  He came at her and she backed up several steps.

  She held up her hands in supplication. “Please. You don’t understand. They’ve abducted me. My name is Rosalie Hughes and they’re forcing me to Scotland with them.”

  He blew out a heavy breath, cocking his head to the side. “Not going to be difficult, are you, daft girl?”

  “Papa,” the maid, presumably his daughter, said. “What is amiss?”

  “No worry, Frannie. Just not right in ’er head, this one.” He tapped the side of her head. “Her family is upstairs. We just need to get her to them.”

  The words were all she needed to hear. They were enough. She bolted. They weren’t even interested in hearing her out. As far as the innkeeper knew, she was some daft, out-­of-­her-­head girl.

  She raced through the main room, past the startled-­looking men.

  “Grab her, Frannie!”

  Footsteps pounded acr
oss the floorboards. Adrenaline spiked through her veins, propelling her out the front door of the inn. The night air was chillier than when they had arrived, penetrating the sleeves of her gown and making her wish for a cloak.

  She dove across the yard and into the trees, and instantly it was like plunging into a deep netherworld. The soft sounds of the woods were all around her. Whispering wind. Creaking branches and rustling leaves. An animal scampered nearby as she barreled into the brush.

  She had no idea where she was going, only that she had to get away. Even if the girl, Frannie, couldn’t catch her, she was certain the innkeeper was waking Horley even now. Horley, who was determined and persistent and maybe just a little bit mad. He’d come this far. He’d convinced her mother this insane scheme was a good idea. He wasn’t going to simply give up. He was going to come after her.

  With that burning thought, Rosalie pushed ahead into the murky woods surrounding the inn. She didn’t even care that the trees seemed like ominous skeletons, dark and encroaching on every side. It was the stuff of nightmares, but being forced to marry Horley, facing life without Dec—­that was the real nightmare.

  She slowed her pace, trying to get her bearings. Her instinct had been to run. To escape. But now she realized she should have been mindful of her location in relation to the road. She would have to surface eventually and find help. She had no idea how dense these woods were. She didn’t want to become lost, her body discovered weeks from now by some hunter. She shivered at the notion.

  “Rosalie!”

  She jerked at the sound of her name, close. Too close. Her heart leapt to her throat.

  “You’re really vexing me, Rosie! It’s late and cold . . . and a branch just tore my jacket—­my favorite jacket!”

  With a gasp, she started running again. Unfortunately, leaves and twigs on the ground crunched as she ran. Stealth was impossible. She froze with a wince when a branch cracked beneath her foot and Horley shouted, “I can hear you! Stop this game. You’ve already worn my patience thin. Show yourself and I won’t thrash you to an inch of your life.”