A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

She looked with singular focus at Aurelia, trying to convey what she was thinking, feeling, in one look—what she dared not declare in front of Lady Peregrine.

Aurelia’s eyes widened and her lips parted in a surprised little O.

Rosalie nodded once. Swift and emphatic, sending her friend a silent message.

She wanted more. And she was willing to take a risk to get it.





Chapter 9


The house was silent when Dec returned later that night. He’d stayed away all day, through dinner and after, having no desire to return home to a house full of women chattering on about wedding plans.

His tread fell silently over the runner, his movements slightly stiff. He’d taken a beating today at Jackson’s and his knuckles were tender along with the side of his torso, but he didn’t regret it. It had helped. For a time at least. It always did—always helped chase the numbness that seemed to encase him every day of his life. He felt in those moments. Even if it was painful. Pounding his fists into another man’s flesh and taking another’s blows into his body always made him feel alive.

He was almost to his bedchamber door when the door to the chamber two down from his was flung open. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you all day, Your Grace.”

He turned, watching in bewilderment as Rosalie advanced on him, her arms folded across her chest like some sort of militant headmistress.

“You’ve been waiting for me?” He arched a dark eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

Her topaz eyes flashed gold fire. “How dare you accept a marriage proposal on my behalf?”

She stopped before him and he looked down at her, his bewilderment no less abated. As if realizing how close she stood—and how much larger and taller he was, she stepped hastily back one pace.

He leaned against his door, crossing his arms in much the same manner as her pose. “Was marriage not the idea? I thought we were in agreement on that. Why else would I have bestowed a dowry on your head? Sent for my aunt to usher you through the Season.”

“Marriage, fine. Yes. I understood that was the goal, but that does not give you the right to choose who I will or will not marry. You are not my father. I make that decision. Me.” She pressed a hand to her chest, drawing his attention to the slight swell of her breasts beneath the modest nightgown.

He slowly lifted his gaze back to her face. “And I take it you do not approve of Strickland?”

“He is not my choice, no,” she bit out. “A fact that you might have discovered if you had only but asked me.”

“Fine,” he bit out. “Far be it from me to force you to wed anyone against your will. This is not the dark ages.”

She blinked. “Y-You will not attempt to coerce—”

“As you said, I’m not your father.”

She nodded, eyeing him uncertainly. Did she think him such a monster that he would force her to the altar against her will?

He unclenched his jaw to add, “No, not your father—merely the man whose pockets you prevail upon whilst you go about on your merry quest to find a husband to your specifications. Tell me, have you any notion how long it will take you to find this paragon of manhood good enough to tempt your lofty personage to the altar?”

She pulled back, clearly affronted. The color rode high in her cheeks and her eyes sparked. “You mock me?”

He feigned an innocent look. “Never.”

“I was not aware there was a time limit. Perhaps you should alert me how long I have, Your Grace?”

She spat his title like it was an epithet. She was maddening.

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Had she always been so insufferable? “I simply hope you do not intend to drag this out into next Season.” He motioned around him. “This is a bachelor residence. Precisely how I like it and hope to soon reclaim it.”

“Indeed.” That nose went up a notch and the motion sent her hair tumbling back over her shoulders. He eyed the fiery banner falling over her shoulder, undulating in waves to the middle of her back. His hands curled at his sides, itching to touch, to feel the mass, to see if it felt as soft as it looked. A sudden image of him wrapping a fist around it and tugging her head back for—

He shook his head once, hard, knocking the thought out of his head.

She kept talking, looking so indignant, that impertinent mouth of hers moving like she was the aggrieved party and not he. “My apologies for being such an imposition . . . perhaps my mother will return—”

He huffed a breath. “Do not rely upon your mother.” The very suggestion sent a flash of annoyance through him. “I think you would have learned that lesson by now.”

“But I’m to rely on you?” she rejoined, her expression skeptical.

“Your odds are better relying upon me, yes. Your headmistress knew that. That’s why she left you here.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, her lips parted slightly. Her breath, he noticed, seemed to fall a little faster. As if this entire encounter agitated her . . . affected her. Was it just that he had angered her by accepting Strickland’s offer? Or was it more than that? He seriously doubted the same manner of inappropriate thoughts tripping through his head even crossed her mind.

She clearly lacked the experience to entertain such lascivious ideas. She probably wouldn’t even know what to do with that impertinent mouth of hers. His gaze fixed on the plump bottom lip. Her top lip was equally appealing . . . dipping deeply at the center, sharply delineating her lips. He was tempted to lean forward and lick that mouth, trace their fascinating shape with his tongue.

The sudden impulse made his cock stir and strain against his breeches. He shifted where he stood, willing his arousal down. Bloody hell. This was inopportune. Especially with her looking at him as though he was something to be scraped off the bottom of her boot. Perhaps he should have stopped off at Sodom and eased himself in some willing female. He was overdue a visit there.

He slid his gaze down the long length of corridor before returning his eyes to her. They were alone, but anyone could hear them and emerge. He really should end this conversation. Restraint wasn’t his strong suit. Especially concerning females. His body was having a hard time acknowledging his mind’s instructions that this one was off-limits.

She moistened her lips, her eyes gleaming brightly with bitter emotion. “Sad testament to my life, is it not? That you are the only one I can rely on.” Instead of looking sad or pitiable, she actually appeared furious over the circumstances of her life. He drank in the sight of her—unbound hair, cheeks afire, eyes bright with emotion, and, the thought slipped in, unbidden, treacherous, unpardonable . . .

Was this how she would look beneath him, moving and arching as he buried himself deep?

He sucked in a breath. The sudden thought startled him. Felt more jarring than a fist to his ribs—and he knew precisely how that felt. He’d taken several such blows today.

“We all have our burdens to bear,” he replied, his hand moving to the latch on his door, suddenly anxious to flee her and the image that was now branded on his brain.

He did not like her. Any more than she liked him. He did not want her here, in his life.

And he most especially did not want her.

Very well. That last part was a lie. He wanted her. But no more than any other sweet-smelling female of passing good looks.

He enjoyed women. All manner of women. He liked them short. Tall. Brunettes. Fair-haired. His gaze skimmed her hair again. Carrot-haired.