A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

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.

He grinned then. Couldn’t help himself. They danced for several moments. Strickland was right. She danced very well. It was more like she floated, skimming the floor, the only thing keeping her anchored was his hands.

“You might not want to appear so averse when someone calls me your sister.”

His smile slipped. “You’re not my sister.”

Her gaze clashed with his. “And must you appear so vehement on that point? You’re acting as my guardian and ushering me through the Season. You might not want your distaste to appear so obvious.”

He stared down at her but said nothing. To be fair, he was not sure how he felt about her other than that he wanted her gone from his life. All his thoughts of her were tied too closely with his ill opinion of her mother. It was a tangled knot and he didn’t see any way to separate the strands.

The music came to an end and she dropped his hand, stepping back hastily. “I think that served to adequately give me your endorsement. In case the dowry was not sufficient enough. My thanks, Your Grace.” At those stiff words, she gave a hasty curtsy before weaving her way through the crowd, disappearing in the crush of bodies.

He slowly turned, glancing over his shoulder several times as if he would catch a glimpse of her.

“There now. Ready to go?” Max asked.

He nodded absently, trying to shake her from his thoughts and how she was nothing like he had imagined. Nothing like her cloying mother. Rosalie appeared almost as eager to be rid of him as he was of her.

“Yes. I’m finished here.”





Chapter 8


Rosalie flopped back on the bed with a heavy sigh. Her feet ached from another night of dancing. It had been much the same for close to a week now with no reprieve. Tonight was especially unpleasant, as she’d danced with a portly baronet with very little grace who trod all over her slippers.

She kicked off both slippers and rubbed her aching, stocking-clad toes. “Can we not have one night where we are not rushing off to some ball or party?” Releasing her foot, she speared her fingers through her hair, tugging the thick mass back from her head.

“You mean you’re weary of it already?” Aurelia clucked. “Oh, dear. You are in trouble, then, for there is no foreseeable end to it. At least not this Season.”

Rosalie propped herself up on her elbows and scowled down at her friend, reclining at the bottom of the bed. “You needn’t sound so satisfied. You don’t appear to be enjoying yourself either.”

Aurelia grinned and shrugged. “I’m accustomed to it. You are not.” She shook her head. She’d already unpinned her head, and the dark, rich waves tumbled around her shoulders. “I simply didn’t think you would be quite so . . .”

“What?”

“Well . . . quite so much like me, honestly.”

Rosalie cocked her head and started to pull the pins from her own hair, not bothering to wait for her maid. “And why does me being like you not sound like a compliment?”

Aurelia made a face. “There’s a reason I’m still unwed.”