A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

“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—forgetting 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.”