A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

“A word from you and she would have stayed.” Aurelia stabbed a finger at him accusingly.

He shrugged. “This is for the best. I am certain of it. She is with her mother. Better that than residing here with me and—”

Aurelia shook her head. “Oh, you’re not certain of one bloody thing.”

“Aurelia,” Aunt Peregrine cried in outrage. “Language!”

She ignored her mother and continued, “You cannot see what’s directly before your eyes.”

“What does that mean?”

She looked at him so earnestly. Like she wanted to say something but was fighting it.

“What?” he pressed.

“It means,” she began, “that perhaps you should consider wedding Rosalie. There!” She flung her arms wide. “I said it.”

Dec and his aunt stared at his cousin as though she had sprouted a second head.

“Aunt,” he said after some moments. “I fear it is not I whom you should fret over. Clearly your own daughter is the mad one.”

“Clearly,” she echoed in agreement, and then added gently, “Aurelia, Rosalie is Declan’s stepsister. That’s highly unseemly.”

“But not illegal. They’re no blood kin to each other.”

He sliced a hand through the air. “The point is moot! Even if I wished to marry, which I do not, I could not imagine a more unsuitable match for myself.”

“Suitable? Suitable?” Aurelia looked close to apoplexy. “Do you hear yourself? You’re such a dolt!” That said, she stormed from the room without a glance back.

Aunt Peregrine hugged her evil-eyed cat close, kissing the top of its head as she looked at Dec with blatant disappointment. “Suppose I’ll go oversee the packing of my luggage. No need to stay here any longer.”

He nodded absently. “Thank you for coming when I needed you.”

“Of course, Declan-dearest.” She patted his arm as she passed him, leaving cat hairs on his sleeve.

He beat at his sleeve, scowling and wondering when his life had become such chaos. Weeks ago it had been calm. Peaceful. Dull.

He’d have that again. Standing there, he let that sink in. A return to dull existence. To when he no longer felt things. When no one affected him.

His aunt and cousin were leaving.

This paled beside his second realization. He moved toward the window and stared out at the quiet street, only one fact ricocheting around his mind with the speed of cannon fire.

Rosalie was gone.





Chapter 13


Lord Peter Horley was the son of an impoverished Cornish viscount and French émigré. He was also Melisande’s current lover. All of which Rosalie inferred throughout the course of dinner that evening. It was in the intimate language between them, their knowing glances and lingering touches. It was in the many references to their shared trips. Everything from their recent travels to Bath to shopping expeditions on Bond Street. Horley was well entrenched in her mother’s life, Rosalie gathered with some bitterness. Melisande had room enough for him in her world. Just no room for her.

Over glasses of claret, Melisande toasted her return home like it was something she was truly happy about. As far as homecomings went—not that Rosalie had many to reference—it was a dismal and uncomfortable evening.

Home. It felt strange to consider Melisande’s modest town house across Town from where she had stayed with Dec and Aurelia and Aunt Peregrine as home. She supposed she didn’t possess a home at all. And yet this place was her mother’s home, and she should think of it thusly. She had more claim to it than Dec’s town house at any rate.

However, accepting this place as her home . . . feeling at home here, was difficult to do as she sat at the dining table, watching her mother and Horley drink deeply from their cups and eating with a gusto that bordered on gluttony.

“Spain,” Melissande declared as she cut into her pheasant. “We should winter in Spain, Peter.”

Horley nodded, wiping a dribble of claret from his chin with the back of his sleeve. “Indeed. Hate these bloody winters here. Feel the wretched cold and wet in my bones. My bloody teeth ache from it.” He lifted his cup again, watching Rosalie over the rim as he drank. He’d watched her all night.

She stabbed at the peas on her plate, pretending that he did not unnerve her and wondering how much longer until she could excuse herself without appearing rude.

“Perhaps you could join us, Rosie? Eh? Would you like that?” He tore a hunk of bread and swiped it around his plate, gathering up all the juices from the pheasant.

He’d already nicknamed her. As if they were close . . . intimate. As if he had the right. She tried not to curl her lip, determined that he not see his effect on her.

They were close in age. He was perhaps four or five years her senior. Approximately the same age as Dec if she were to hazard a guess. Dec. The thought of him brought a pang to her chest.

The age difference between Horley and Melisande obviously didn’t concern either one of them. It did somewhat surprise Rosalie upon meeting him, although it shouldn’t have. She knew her mother’s reputation. She’d probably run out of options in men her own age or older. She had to look to the up-and-coming generation. She knew her mother would never consider remarriage. She’d not risk losing her title.

As the evening wore on, the pair became overly free with their hands, constantly touching each other. Horley seemed to especially enjoy stroking her mother’s bare shoulder—all the while watching Rosalie, his eyebrow lifted almost defiantly. As though he knew it made her uncomfortable.

She loathed him already.

Melisande snapped her fingers for the servant to fetch more claret. “I think not, Peter. It’s doubtful her future husband will be willing to depart with her so soon.”

Horley smiled widely. She supposed some women would find him attractive with his big-toothed smile and fair, pomaded hair that gleamed as though it was wet. “No. I imagine not.” His eyes slid over her again, and she shivered. “Her husband will want to keep her close for some time.” He brought his cup to his lips again and drank deeply, his eyes never leaving her.

Her mother looked up and watched him, following his gaze to Rosalie and then back to him again. Her forehead knitted. “Now, Rosalie,” she said in an almost overly loud voice. Horley looked at Melisande, thankfully distracted from her. “I want you well-rested for tomorrow. We shall be going to the opera.”

Horley grinned an oily smile. “You’ll be on proper display there.”

“And we’re guests of Lady Willcox. She conveniently shares a box with her cousin, the Marquis of Hildebrand’s, so that is quite a coup.”

Horley wagged his eyebrows. “The old goat is senile, but randy. Should be easy enough to lead him by the nose.”

Rosalie looked back and forth between the two of them, understanding at once their plans. They wanted her to wed someone malleable . . . and they expected to benefit from the match. She reached for her drink and took a long sip as if she needed fortification. From these two, she no doubt did.

Strickland was looking better and better. She bit her lip, wondering if she should make an overture toward him. She recalled his temper that day when she rejected him, and knew that opportunity had passed. Even if she could stomach being married to him.

“Peter, don’t be crass.” Melisande smiled without any real heat. “You’ll frighten the girl. My daughter is still an untried miss. Are you not, Rosalie?”