A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

“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.

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.