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  Her mother left then, although Rosalie scarcely noticed. She covered their joined hands with her free hand, looking at Dec. Only him. He could have said: Rosalie needs me. But he didn’t. He’d said they needed each other.

  With his free hand, he cupped her face, his thumb grazing her mouth. As though he read her mind, he whispered, “I need you. I never thought I needed anyone before but I do. I need you.”

  “I need you, too,” Rosalie returned.

  He smiled slowly, his white teeth blinding in his handsome face. “So we’re stuck with each other.”

  “I suppose so,” she murmured.

  He kissed her then, and it was the kiss of forever. The promise of all their tomorrows. When she looked up and glanced across the room, her mother was gone.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

  “I’ll stay awake for you.”

  “You don’t need to. Rest.” He pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth.

  When he left her, she removed her boots and climbed into the bed. Curling on her side, she fixed her gaze at a spot on the wall, smiling as she thought of Declan. He needed her. He loved her.

  They were her last thoughts as she drifted to sleep.

  Dec watched her sleep, long after the morning light filtered through the curtains. He knew he should rouse her so they could both be on their way. He knew Will and Max must be ready to return to Town. They’d stood at his side as he delivered his ultimatums to Melisande and Horley and then sent them on their way. Horley and Melisande deserved no less than a prison sentence for what they had done, but he didn’t want to drag Rosalie through that scandal and place a whiff of disgrace on her. He’d exacted a promise from Horley to return to Cornwall. If Peter Horley ever set foot in Town again, he would ruin him. He had the power to do it, but most important, he had the resolve.

  His stepmother would return to Town, gather her belongings, and depart for Spain. He and Rosalie deserved a fresh start without the cloud of Melisande hanging over them. If she ever set foot on English soil again, he would cut her off. She had nodded, uncommonly mute, understanding at once that her best opportunity for happiness lay in a life abroad because he would make her days a misery if she stayed.

  Even as dawn lightened the room, he didn’t have the heart to stir Rosalie yet. It had been a long night for her. Shadows marred the skin beneath her eyes, resembling faint bruises. He never wanted her to look tired or haggard again. He supposed that was love. Wanting to shield and protect. Caring more for someone else than even yourself.

  Rosalie slept with one hand tucked beneath her cheek on the pillow and the other palm down on his chest, and she looked so sweet, so fresh and untouched.

  He’d stripped off his clothes upon returning to the room last night and climbed into bed beside her. She had slept so soundly he actually had to move her so he could squeeze his bigger body in beside her. Even now she occupied over half the bed.

  Good thing his bed was enormous. However, he rather approved of her sprawled against him, her thigh tucked between his legs. He wanted to be able to feel her every moment like this when they shared a bed together. Every time he closed his eyes. Every time he opened them. He wanted to feel her against him.

  He had never thought to have this. Her. Had never thought to find another person that made life more . . .

  That made life more.

  She opened her eyes and smiled, deep and lethargic. She stretched both arms above her head with a groan. “I fell asleep. Why did you not wake me?”

  He came over her then, brushing the vibrant hair from her forehead. “You looked too content. So at peace. I didn’t want to ruin that.”

  She smiled and looped her arms around his neck. “You can’t ever ruin that. You’re the reason I can even look that way.”

  He lowered his head and kissed her. He meant for it to be a simple kiss, sweet and undemanding, but with her body under him . . .

  It had been too long.

  She was eager for him, too. Her palms ran over his body. She arched and wiggled under him, parting her thighs, welcoming him to her. His fingers sought her, touching her wet folds, easing a finger into her tight channel. She cried out.

  She was wet and ready, and he’d never been so glad in his life for the fact that he was undressed and she wore only a nightgown. He yanked it up and over her head and tossed it aside so they were both smooth, warm flesh gliding together. He entered her in one thrust, relishing her tightness.

  She clenched around him, milking his cock, demanding more, demanding it harder.

  It was fast, raw and fierce. He positioned her hips in just the right cant for his driving hips. His hand slid between them, his thumb finding and pushing on that sensitive spot at the apex of her cove. She cried out, flying apart beneath him. Ripples eddied through her, vibrating through him. She leaned up and pressed an open-­mouth kiss to his chest, her tongue flicking out to lick his nipple. He came apart then, poured himself into her, collapsing over her.

  He folded her into his arms and rolled to his side, taking her with him, their bodies slick from the coupling.

  “That,” he breathed, “shall be how we begin every day.”

  She sighed against his chest. “When we’re married, at least.”

  “About that.” He looked down at her, his fingers playing in her hair. “We’ve already begun the trip to Scotland. We could just . . . keep going.” It was an impulsive suggestion, made from the desperate hunger to have her with him every night, every morning from now. He didn’t want to wait months. He did not expect her to agree, of course. Every girl wanted her fairy-­tale wedding. He understood that.

  “Yes.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “If that means starting our life together sooner . . . waking in your arms every morning, having this every day, then yes.”

  He smiled slowly. “Carrots, you amaze me.”

  She snuggled against him, pressing her lips to his throat. “Now . . . we don’t have to leave right away, do we?”

  “Did you have something in mind?”

  She came up over him, kissing him again, her mouth playing about the corners of his lips. “I might have an idea or two . . .”

  Epilogue

  Six months later . . .

  The orchestra played as ­couples waltzed in a kaleidoscope of colors around the Duke and Duchess of Banbury’s ballroom. A ballroom that had not seen such use in over a dozen years. All of the ton was here tonight, emerging from their country homes for this most anticipated event. A ball honoring the duke and duchess’s nuptials that had taken place several months prior.

  “Remind me why we are doing this?” Rosalie asked close to her husband’s ear as he swept her around the room, his hand warm and familiar on her waist.

  “I promised Aunt Peregrine. It was the only way to appease her anger at our elopement and, er . . . extended honeymoon.”

  Rosalie giggled. They had gone nowhere grand—­no splendid sojourn to the Continent. She hadn’t needed that. She hadn’t wanted that.

  No, they had lingered in Scotland for a month before moving on to one of his properties in the Cotswolds. They had laughed and loved, spending longs hours walking the countryside, barefoot like children. They swam naked together in his private lake and made love under the sun. She could have been quite content to stay there forever, but with winter approaching and their aunt’s countless letters, they had to surface eventually.

  “Laugh all you like, you heartless minx. Aunt Peregrine missed out on a grand wedding. This was the least we could do for her.”

  Lady Peregrine beamed across the room, chatting with a group of ladies as her satisfied gaze followed them.

  “And,” Dec continued, brushing his lips against her cheek as he spoke, “I wanted to show off my bride to everyone.”

  She smiled up at him. “Most of these ­people have
seen me before.”

  His eyes gleamed down at her. “I assure you, these ­people have not seen you, the Duchess of Banbury, in love and well loved by that scoundrel rake, the Duke of Banbury.”

  She grinned coyly. “Scoundrel rake no more.”

  He cocked his head. “Untrue. I am still very much a scoundrel rake. Only I’m your scoundrel rake, wife.”

  He kissed her then, solidly on the lips, with no care that they were in a room full of ­people. “Careful,” Rosalie chided when he lifted his head. “You shall send your aunt into fits again.”

  “Not me.” He nodded his head in the direction of Aurelia. Rosalie followed his gaze and gasped as her friend tossed her glass of punch into Lord Camden’s face. “My cousin will do that well enough on her own.”

  “Oh, no,” she giggled, watching as Aurelia stormed off, leaving Lord Camden standing there, punch dripping from his face and his eyes spitting an unholy fire.

  “They’re going to kill each other one day,” Dec muttered.

  Rosalie tsked. “Perhaps I should go after her.”

  Dec placed a finger under her chin and turned her face back to his. He kissed her again until a familiar simmer started in her blood, murmuring against her mouth, “Just hurry back to me, Rosalie. I have plans for us that involve leaving this ball early tonight.”

  Rosalie sank against him. “I’ll meet you upstairs. Why don’t you save us some time and get undressed?”

  He gave her that smile that made her toes curl and belly flip. It was full of promise, hinting of pleasure to come. A pleasure she well knew, and yet it never ceased to amaze her and fill her with wonder. Every time was something new. Something beautiful in its own unique way. “I’ll be waiting.”

  With a small secret smile of her own, Rosalie stepped from the circle of his arms and turned into the crowd in search of her friend, her steps quick, eager, knowing that he would be waiting for her. Always.

  About the Author

  SOPHIE JORDAN grew up in the Texas hill country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s the New York Times, USA Today and internationally bestselling author of more than twenty novels. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (lattes preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with anything that has a happily ever after. You can visit her online at www.sophiejordan.net.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  By Sophie Jordan

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  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A GOOD DEBUTANTE'S GUIDE TO RUIN. Copyright © 2014 by Sharie Kohler. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition AUGUST 2014 ISBN: 9780062222510

  Print Edition ISBN: 978­0­06­222250­3

  FIRST EDITION

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