A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

“That is not possible, Miss . . .”

“Hughes,” she supplied. “Rosalie Hughes.” At the butler’s blank stare, she elaborated. “The duke’s stepsister.”

Her announcement was met with a moment of stunned silence. Deciding not to give him too long to consider this revelation—and why the duke’s stepsister had been relatively absent for the last ten years—she brushed past him and moved toward what she hoped was the drawing room. Her memory could not recall.

She walked up the stairs, her gloved hand skimming the ornate stone balustrade as though she knew where she was going. “I’ll wait in the drawing room,” she called over her shoulder as she reached the second floor. Hoping she chose the correct room, she pushed open the double doors to the first room on her right. She breathed in relief. Her guess was accurate.

The butler followed her inside, hovering close but saying nothing even though he looked mightily tempted. It was a masculine room, full of rich colors and dark wood furniture. A fire crackled in the massive hearth, drawing her forward, her boots sinking deep into the plush Aubusson rug. Rosalie sank down on a blue oversized settee on the far side of the room that was angled toward the fireplace. She dropped her valise at her feet and held out her hands, greedy for the warmth.

She stared solemnly at the butler, hoping to convey an air of . . . belonging. “I’ll wait His Grace’s audience in here.” Somehow, miraculously, her words rang with confidence.

His shoulders slumped slightly and she knew, in that moment, he had capitulated.

“Very well. Can I fetch you any refreshments as you wait, Miss Hughes?”

Her stomach rumbled at the offer. She had not eaten since their last stop several hours ago. “Yes, that would be lovely.” She was grateful her voice did not quiver with her eagerness.

With a nod, he departed, slow to take his gaze off her, slow to turn and present her with his very ramrod back. As though he could not quite reconcile a female of her humble appearance in the duke’s vaunted drawing room. She could understand that. She could scarcely reconcile it herself.

As soon as the door clicked behind him, she relaxed and fell back on the settee. It felt as though she had just succeeded in some grand deception.

She winced and tried to remind herself that she had every right to call on the Duke of Banbury. Especially considering the unavailability of her own mother. What else was she to do? She was a gentlewoman. A lady. She nodded to herself as Mrs. Heathstone’s arguments played silently in her mind.

Her stepbrother would not turn her away. True, he had not responded to Mrs. Heathstone’s letter, but Mrs. Heathstone insisted he would do his duty. Rosalie hoped she was correct.

She bit into her bottom lip, gnawing it until she forced herself to stop. She didn’t need a bloodied lip when she came face-to-face with Declan. She blinked hard and long, reprimanding herself. He was no longer Declan to her. She must not think of him so informally. He was a duke now and as far removed from her as the moon. A man full grown. She must forget the boy she remembered with such fondness. Oh, very well. With such adoration. Natural, she supposed. So often relegated to the country together, he had accepted her. Five years her senior, he had not minded when she traipsed after him. He even rescued her from a tree a time or two. She was always climbing trees. And always managing to get herself stuck. Come, Carrots, he would beckon her with waving hands and wide, encouraging eyes. Come down. I’ll catch you.

A maid entered the room pushing a cart. She smiled at Rosalie shyly and bobbed a tiny curtsy.

“Thank you. I’ll serve myself.”

“Yes, miss.”

With another bob of her head, she left Rosalie alone.

She fell upon the tray, making short work of the tea and delicious frosted cakes and tiny sandwiches. She ate everything and then regretted it, eyeing the crumbs. She would appear a graceless sloth when they come to claim the cart.

She collapsed back on the settee with little refinement, one hand rubbing her full belly, the other idly stroking the elegant brocade pillow beside her. She blew out a repleted sigh and glanced around the well-appointed room. An enormous painting depicting Persephone’s abduction hung along a wall, taking nearly the entire space. It was riveting. Bold and dramatic. The dark Hades clasped the fair Persephone about the waist, one large hand splayed just below the swell of a breast that threatened to spill from her white tunic as he pulled her into the murky cavern of hell lined with demons and skeletons. Rosalie swallowed, her stare fixing on Hades’s feral expression, clearly intent on possession. Something curled in her belly at the idea of a man wanting, needing a woman that much.

The clock on the mantel ticked in the silence of the room. Only the occasional pop from the fire interrupted the still. She yawned widely into her hand. The journey had taken its toll. She had not left Harwich in ten years. No visits anywhere. She was unaccustomed to the rigors of travel.

Her head lolled against the back of the sofa, grateful that she was turned partially from the door, not in full sight of anyone upon first entering the room. She’d hear them before they spotted her. It would give her time to compose herself.

The warmth of the fire licked over her and her limbs grew boneless. This was the most comfortable she had felt since leaving Yorkshire.

Her eyes drifted shut. Just for a moment she would rest them. She snuggled drowsily into the sofa. No doubt the duke would arrive soon. She’d hear his approach. Better yet, she’d hear the approach of the maid when she returned to reclaim the cart.

For just a moment she would rest her eyes.





Chapter 2


Declan, the eighth Duke of Banbury, entered his home, accompanied by his usual companions: William, his cousin, the Earl of Merlton; and Maximus, Viscount Camden. He’d known them since Eton. His cousin, Will, of course, even longer. Veritable scoundrels, the both of them. Especially Max, who lacked the burden of family to frown over his exploits.

But then Dec was a scoundrel himself.

Of course, they weren’t unaccompanied this night. There were women. There were always women. One for each of them. Lovely, buxom armfuls attired in gowns that revealed more than they covered.

A footman bolted awake from where he slept in a chair along the wall. “Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, hastily running a hand down his rumpled waistcoat and wiping the drool from his chin.

Declan waved him off. “To bed with you, Link.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman bowed, a grateful smile playing about his lips as he disappeared from the foyer.

Declan assumed his old butler was lost in a deep sleep somewhere in the bowels of the house. Pendle had served Declan’s father faithfully since before Declan’s birth. Although the servant had never said anything, Declan sensed he had not approved of the way his father treated him. He’d seen warmth glowing in Pendle’s rheumy eyes the day he took occupancy of the house, shortly after his father’s death.

Pendle’s hearing was not quite what it used to be, the only reason Declan could credit for him not rousing at the sound of their return. That and the fact that his friends were busy using their mouths in a manner that did not involve speech.

He led the group into the drawing room, his arm wrapped loosely around his companion for the evening.

The fire still flickered and danced in the hearth. The room was warm and cozy, inviting them in.

“Gor, is this place all yours?” Janie or Janet or some such name asked, her head tilted back to take in the high-domed ceiling. She snuggled against his side, all round curves and pliant flesh. Her Gypsy dark eyes settled back on him, appraising him with fresh admiration. It seemed he had grown in her estimation since stepping into his home.