A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

As long as they were willing and enthusiastic, they served to chase the numbness, for however long the tryst lasted, at least. Which was perhaps why he never went long without a tryst.

His mind backtracked and it suddenly dawned on him that he hadn’t slaked his lusts on a woman in a fortnight. That explained his over-active libido in her presence. A matter he should correct. Perhaps then he would cease to wonder what Rosalie would feel like beneath him.

He shifted his feet and the action pulled at something tender in his side. He winced at the ache, a hand moving to his ribs.

Her gaze shot from his face to his hand. “Are you injured?”

“ ’Tis nothing.” He forced his hand down to his side.

Frowning, she reached out as though to touch him. He stepped back a pace, dodging her hand, and the sudden move had him wincing again.

“You are hurt,” she insisted. “Shall I ring for a physician?”

“ ’Tis nothing.”

She eyed him skeptically, half turning with the clear intention to hunt down a servant on his behalf.

He sighed. “I visited Jackson’s Saloon today.”

Her blank stare conveyed that this meant nothing to her.

“Gentlemen visit there when they wish to box.”

“Box?” she echoed. “As in pugilism?”

He nodded.

“You mean you let someone strike you with his fists?”

He squared back his shoulders. “I manage a few blows of my own.”

“That’s savage and—and idiotic.”

He stiffened, quite certain no one had ever called him that before. Scoundrel, yes. Rake, yes. His father had a few choice words for him, but never idiotic. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

“Inviting bodily injury can be called nothing else. Why on earth would you desire such a thing? Would you care to stick your hand in this door?” She waved a hand toward his chamber door. “I can slam it on you several times.”

He looked heavenward before leveling his gaze on her again. “There would be no sport in that, now would there?”

With a growl of disgust, she reached for him again. “Let me see.”

“What? No!” He sidestepped her hands. “It’s not that bad.”

“How do you know you haven’t broken a rib?”

He snatched hold of her wrists, trapping them between their bodies. Bodies, he realized, that were suddenly much too close. His nostrils flared, catching the scent of her. Clean, sweet female. No cloying perfumes. She watched him mildly, clearly unaffected at their proximity, immune, unaware of how close he was to shedding restraint and doing what he did best when he had a woman this close to him.

“I know,” he managed to get out between his clenched teeth, “because I’ve suffered a broken rib before. ’Tis nothing.”

Her eyes flitted over his face before lowering to where his fingers locked around her wrists, easily spanning them. He flexed his grip. Her bones felt so slight and small, as though the barest pressure could snap them. He quickly released her, adding distance between them once again.

“I think you’ve said all there is to be said,” he declared after an awkward silence.

She rubbed her wrists as though trying to rid herself of the memory of his touch, and the gesture pricked at his pride. “That’s it. You’re dismissing me, then?”

“You’ve made your point. I shall never presume to accept a marriage proposal on your behalf again.”

“Indeed.” Nodding jerkily, she pressed her lips into a defiant line and marched into her room, shutting the door not too gently behind her. If his aunt and cousin were asleep, then they no longer were.

He began to turn for his room, but then stopped. His cock still felt uncomfortably hard in his breeches. There would be no sleep for him. With a curse, he turned and strode back down the stairs, intent on rectifying the matter.

Perhaps, then, the next time he found himself alone with his stepsister he wouldn’t fantasize about burying his nose in all that soft-looking hair as he sank into her body.

“Rosalie! Are you asleep?”

The query came loud, for all that it was whispered through her door.

“If I was, then I am no longer,” she groused, sitting up from where she had flung herself across the bed not so long ago, still troubled over her encounter with Dec.

What was wrong with the man, that he sought out physical pain? A sensible man would avoid such abuse. There was nothing sensible about him. She did not understand him. Not at all. Nor did she understand the undeniable pull she felt toward him. True, he was offering her a roof over her head . . . a Season, a dowry, but he was not a kind man for all of that. He was hard. Rude and curt and high-handed. And yet when she was near him, she wanted to stand closer. Those big hands on her wrists . . .

She wanted to feel them again. There and elsewhere . . .

The door opened. Aurelia hurried across the room, an abundance of white fabric in her arms.

“What have you there?” She nodded at the profusion of white.

“A gown.” Her friend dropped it on the bed, and it was then that Rosalie was given the full impact of Aurelia’s attire.

She was not garbed in her nightgown . . . although a nightgown might have been more modest than the black ensemble she wore. The dark fabric complimented her olive-hued skin much better than the pastels she usually wore. It was scandalously low-cut and lacked the fullness of a skirt, as was current fashion. It was very Grecian in style, and form-hugging. Which for Aurelia, with her ample bosom and curves, was almost criminal. Typically, her clothes made her look plump, but in this gown, the truth of her narrow waist and lush, womanly curves was on full display.

“What are you wearing?”

“A gown. Do you like it?” She smoothed a hand over her rounded hip. “This one is for you. Hopefully it fits.” Aurelia pointed at the lump of white fabric on the bed.

Rosalie reached for the garment and held it up between her fingertips to see that it, too, was in the same style. The fabric very fine and diaphanous. “Where did you get these? They’re scandalous.”

“I did it.”

Rosalie stared at her uncomprehendingly. “What?”

She continued. “I went to Sodom. This afternoon. I called on the proprietress, Mrs. Bancroft, all by myself.”

Rosalie lurched up on the bed on her knees. “You did what?”

Aurelia nodded, her brown curls looking almost as black as her dress. “She met with me in her private office. Oh, Rosalie, she was ever so sophisticated. She promised us discretion.”

“You are serious?”

Aurelia frowned. “Were you not? Earlier today. I did not mistake your meaning, did I?”

Rosalie shook her head. “No . . . I am . . . I am ready for . . .”

What precisely? Was she ready for Sodom?

“Oh, excellent! I do not know if I could have gone it alone.” Aurelia exhaled and then snatched Rosalie’s dress back from her. “Come. I’ll help you into your gown. My maid, Cecily, will fetch us a hack around back. And look. Mrs. Bancroft gave us these. To protect our identities on this adventure.”

Aurelia nodded to the two dominos she had dropped on the bed. Rosalie lifted the masks. One was black and the other red.

“I think I should wear the red . . . offer some contrast with my black gown. And the same purpose should serve for you with the black. Don’t you think?”

Rosalie lifted the midnight-dark mask to her face, fingering the satin that stretched over the stiffer brocade.