A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin Page 5

  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.

  He 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.

  Suddenly, it seemed wise to put some distance between them. He’d given over her care to his aunt. There was no reason for this. For him to be out here talking with her, reminiscing like they were old friends. He did not have women who were friends. He had women he shagged. It only made sense that the more time he spent around her, the itch to get beneath her skirts would overtake him. That’s what he did. How he existed through life. She was clueless as to what manner of man he was.

  “Aunt Peregrine is probably looking for you.”

  She nodded hastily and rose to her feet, appearing almost anxious to be rid of him, too. He shoved off that sting to his ego. Perhaps she wasn’t as clueless as he assumed.

  At any rate, he moved then, not bothering to wait for her as she reclaimed her shoes. He left the garden with swift strides lest she come to expect such moments as this. Moments of them together where he would drop his guard and soften, forgetting who he was—­forg
etting who she was.

  He would be careful never to let that happen again.

  Chapter 7

  In a week’s time, Rosalie arrived at her first ball dressed in a gown she would never have imagined for herself. She had never worn anything so fine in her life. This fact only filled her with acute embarrassment. As though at any moment someone might look up, point at her and cry, Fraud! Imposter! Of course that didn’t occur.

  She was dressed no more elegantly than any of the other ladies in attendance. In fact, her gown was simpler than some. The modiste had insisted that her slight frame needed no embellishments. None of the lace and ribbons and bows that adorned so many of the Season’s other debutantes. Her blue gown fit snugly at the bodice before flaring out in a full skirt, the hem of which was intricately threaded with black embroidery and pearls. The tiny cap sleeves were no more than thin scraps of black lace. The small, transparent sleeves, ­coupled with the heart-­shaped neckline, made her feel decidedly exposed. She’d never revealed so much skin in her life, but Lady Peregrine insisted it was respectable.

  As she stepped into the ballroom, she was awash in sensation. The lights, the sounds, the colors of gowns swishing past.

  This was all she had dreamed. So why did it feel as though snakes writhed in her belly?

  “Let the games begin,” Aurelia murmured at her side.

  Lady Peregrine was quickly swallowed up by a bevy of chattering ladies—­but not before looking over the head of one lady and narrowing a pointed look on both Rosalie and Aurelia.

  Aurelia laughed lightly with a shake of her head. “We’ve been given our task. Let’s get to it then, shall we?”

  Rosalie turned blinking eyes on the girl. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Chin up. The wolves are already eyeing you.” Aurelia hid her mouth with her fan, leaning closer. “Mama has already seen to it that word of your dowry has spread throughout the ton, so you have blessed little to do. Simply smile and make yourself amenable.”

  Rosalie faced the ballroom again, unsure how she felt about this information. She saw that several ladies and gentlemen were indeed looking her way, eyeing her avidly. She couldn’t help thinking that the look in several of the gentlemen’s eyes was more than simply speculative . . . but rather measuring. Like she was a sow at market to be judged and considered.

  She lifted her chin as Aurelia advised and fought back a tide of nausea.

  “Come. Let’s brave the den. I hope your slippers are comfortable. I expect you shall dance more than any other lady in attendance tonight.”

  Rosalie glanced down at her slippers.

  Aurelia chuckled, leading the way. “Try not to look so wide-­eyed. It’s like waving a red flag for all these fine young bucks to come and devour you.”

  She nodded jerkily, ignoring the whispers that erupted in their wake. Snatches of words drifted to her ears. Banbury . . . rich as Croesus . . . biggest dowry of the Season . . . fifty thousand . . .

  She reminded herself that she had wanted this. Desperately. She had craved adventure. A chance to find love. The kind she read about in novels. The kind that the poets wrote of . . . she knew it was out there. Why else would the idea of it exist? She simply needed to be lucky enough—and persistent enough—to find it.

  “And here comes the first.”

  Rosalie looked up, her heart pounding in her chest as a man a good two decades older than herself approached. His chin disappeared amid the folds of his cravat.

  He bowed to Aurelia, wiping a hand over his balding head.

  “Lord Strickland,” Aurelia greeted. “How fine to see you again.”

  He nodded and mumbled something so low that Rosalie could scarcely hear him.

  “Yes, this is my cousin, Miss Rosalie Hughes.”

  Lord Strickland clicked his heels together and bowed smartly over Rosalie’s hand, pressing a sloppy kiss to the back of her glove. His lips moved like slugs crawling over the thin fabric.

  Upon rising, he motioned to the dance floor with another inaudible mumble. She glanced at Aurelia, who gave a nod of confirmation that he was indeed requesting a dance.

  “Yes, I should like to dance, my lord,” Rosalie murmured very correctly, and allowed herself to be escorted onto the dance floor. Even not very tall, she stood a good half foot taller than Lord Strickland. She had no trouble looking over his head, which gave her a decided advantage in observing those who watched her. She frowned. All gentlemen twice her age, much like Lord Strickland. Where were all the young, handsome men of her fantasies?

  In your fantasies.

  She sighed and wondered if perhaps she had been naive when thinking about the manner of suitor she would find. Her gaze connected with Aurelia across the ballroom. She, too, danced, caught up close in the embrace of a man as wide as he was tall. Aurelia wiggled her fingers in a halfhearted wave over the swell of his shoulder. Rosalie grimaced, realizing in that moment that the lot of a debutante was not the most desirable fate after all. That the dream of adventure and excitement . . . love. It was just that. A dream.

  “Must we be here?”

  Dec glared at Max. “Yes. We must. And I’ve already explained why.”

  Max leaned against the wall with a scowl. “I haven’t been to a ball since . . .” His eyes lifted as he considered. “Well. Since never.”

  “No one said you had to come.”

  His friend shrugged. “You said it wouldn’t take long.” He tugged at his cravat. “Can you make haste? The way some of these ladies are eyeing me is making me decidedly nervous.”

  Dec laughed. “The elusive Viscount Camden is in their midst. Dance with a few of them. You’ll be all over the scandal sheets tomorrow.”

  “Bloody hell,” Max growled. “I’ll resist the temptation.”

  “Breathe easy. My aunt requested I make an appearance, dance with the chit once, and then we can be off.”

  “Then be done with it.” Max gestured to the crowded room. “Before I’m set upon.”

  “If I can locate her, I shall.” Dec’s narrowed gaze swept the room, searching for Rosalie among the mad crush of brightly colored gowns. He should have inquired the color of dress.

  “There’s your cousin.” Max nodded toward Aurelia. “Termagent. She’s actually dancing with some poor sod.”

  Dec’s lips lifted in amusement. “She’s only nasty to you, you know. She can be quite civil to other ­people. Pleasant, even.”

  Max snorted. “A facade merely. I’ve known her since she was all of eight years old. The female is a barbed-­tongued little witch.”

  He chuckled and shook his head, but his laughter quickly faded as he spotted Rosalie on the dance floor. “There she is,” he murmured, assessing her in her finery. She looked right at home amid the glittering ton. Her hair was stunning. A fiery sunset that drew the eye.

  “Ah. She does polish up rather well, although I must confess I preferred how she appeared the other eve,” Max mused beside him.

  He shot his friend a quick glare. “How’s that?”

  “She was rather beddable looking . . . all soft and sleep-­tousled. Bodes well that a female can look appealing when so little effort has been made with her appearance.”

  “I suppose,” he allowed, wondering at the tight pull of his skin and the clench of his fists. He didn’t like his friend looking at Rosalie that way . . . or talking about her in such a way. She was not some chit at Sodom for them to appraise.

  “ ’Tis true. Look around you. A good amount of sparkling doves in attendance . . . but they all required hours to accomplish such a feat. It’s all illusion.”

  The orchestra slowed and he knew the song was coming to an end. He inhaled and squared his shoulders. “Best see this done.”

  Max clapped him on the shoulder. “Try not to look so miserable. You might send her cowering into one of the ferns.”

 
; Somehow he found that unlikely. She’d already shown a fair amount of courage barging into his office in a fit of temper last week. Her fury had diminished. He’d watched it fade from her eyes as she reached the conclusion that a dowry—­a season—­wouldn’t be so bad. She forgave his presumption. She was no fool. She recognized it was a boon.

  He arrived at her side just as the final notes came to a close. He recognized her partner as Lord Strickland. The man was older but not infirm or decrepit. Of good family, he had nothing sordid or illicit associated with his name. Unlike himself, Declan thought. Aunt Peregrine would deem Strickland the perfect candidate and entirely eligible.

  Lord Strickland’s small, squinty eyes landed on him. “Your Grace, so good to see you. I’ve just had the pleasure of dancing with your sister—­”

  “Stepsister,” he corrected, his gaze dropping to Rosalie. Color painted her cheeks at his quick declaration, making her freckles almost more pronounced, dark brown flecks in her usually porcelain complexion.

  “Yes, quite,” he uttered in that mumbling voice of his. “Well, she dances like an angel.”

  He nodded, his gaze riveted to Rosalie. She wouldn’t meet his stare, instead training her attention somewhere just beyond his shoulder. Her disregard of him was blatant . . . and not a little annoying.

  “Indeed, my lord. I shall have to see that for myself, then.”

  Her gaze snapped to his face as if shocked by his words, treating him to the full blast of her topaz eyes. If possible, those twin red flags on her cheeks burned brighter.

  “Oh, quite right. You must, you must,” Lord Strickland agreed effusively, stepping back with a wave.

  Dec squared off in front of her and reached for her gloved hand, so small and slender. His bigger hand swallowed it. Her fingertips curled over the edge of his hand, and the corners of his mouth tugged upward as he gripped her waist. He tugged her closer. She came forward grudgingly. “I would almost think you didn’t want to dance with me, Carrots.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped.