A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

Her mother held her gaze for some moments, and Rosalie realized her mother was awaiting a response. She actually wanted her to answer to her level of experience. Horley looked avidly intrigued as well.

Rot the both of them! Rather than satisfy her question with a response, Rosalie set her napkin on the table, stopping just short of flinging it. “If you’ll excuse me. It’s been a long day.”

Melisande fluttered her fingers in the direction of the doors. “Off with you, then. I’ll see you in the afternoon and we’ll evaluate your wardrobe. You must look your best.”

She rose from the table and departed the dining room, making her way up the short staircase. Once in her chamber, she rotated in a small circle. Her clothing had already been put away—her mother present to inspect every garment and exclaim over the lavish wardrobe with admiration and a fair amount of jealousy. Her only criticism had been the modest cut of many of the gowns. She insisted they would have to make some alterations. If you want to catch a husband, you need to show the merchandise to full advantage. Of course her mother would view her as mere goods. She would serve as wares to Melisande, to be exchanged for benefit. It was a bitter pill and one that did not go down easily.

She pushed the thought away and turned her attention to her surroundings. Her bedchamber was half the size of the room she had occupied at Dec’s home. Instead of a mammoth fireplace, a single coal grate sat in the corner. She blinked back the sting of tears and hugged herself as she sank down on the edge of her bed. She couldn’t escape all her thoughts.

She missed Aurelia. And Aunt Peregrine. And yes. She missed Dec.

She had leapt upon the opportunity to leave because she was afraid. Afraid of her attraction to him. Afraid that she might not be able to hide it. Afraid that she might give herself away—that he would guess that it had been her at Sodom’s. Perhaps her biggest fear of all was that she might start to love him a little bit . . . that she already did. Which would make her one grand fool, considering he would never love her back.

But now here. With her mother. With Horley’s leering face. She had never felt so alone.

High-pitched laughter drifted from belowstairs, and she knew her mother was far gone in her cups. She recalled that wild laughter from her childhood. The few times she had stayed with her mother following her stepfather’s death, Melisande had laughed like that. There had been countless dinners and parties, and always her mother drank. And laughed. Some mornings, Rosalie would rise to find her mother with several of her friends, asleep in some room in the house. The dining room. The drawing room. It was as though they had simply dropped where they stood. The reek of wine clung about the room and their persons. And other smells, too. Rosalie would stare her fill until one of the household staff found her gawking and ushered her away.

Now, she undressed herself without ringing for the maid. Slipping into her night rail, she paused and inhaled the fine lawn of her sleeve. It smelled of Dec’s house. That indefinable scent was there. She settled beneath the covers with a deep breath. Staring blindly into the shadows, she willed herself to sleep. Every once in a while a burst of laughter would flow over the air. Usually it belonged to her mother, but sometimes it was Horley, and she would envision his too pretty face with its toothy smile. The man made her uneasy. He reminded her of a shifty-eyed dog that used to lurk around Harwich. Cook always fed him scraps. The mottled-brown mutt always watched the girls, even approached them in the hopes of more food. One day he bit Rachel. He had turned from sniffing dog to snarling beast in a blink. Indeed, Horley reminded her of that dog.

Sitting up, she stared at the door on the other side of the room. Across the long shadows of the chamber. She itched to lock the door. Only there was no lock.

She stood and skirted around the heavy trunk she’d brought from Dec’s home. The bureau hadn’t been large enough for all her belongings and was brim full with shoes and other items Aunt Peregrine had insisted she needed to complete her wardrobe. Even empty, however, the trunk was heavy. She grunted as she used all her force and shoved it across the rug until it was flush with the door.

Satisfied, she exhaled a great gust of breath and stood back. There. That should at least alert her if someone attempted to enter her bedchamber. Someone like Horley.

Not that she was certain he would, but the need to take precautions was a compulsion she couldn’t ignore. Settling back in the bed, she reminded herself that she was better off than she had been a month ago—stuck at school with no prospects and a mother who would not acknowledge her. She had prospects now. She had a dowry. She even had her mother.

Closing her eyes, she pretended that was enough.

She woke to a darkened room. The smoldering coals in the grate had faded to a dim red glow, and she blinked against the near black, wondering with consternation what had woken her. She held herself still, listening to the hum of silence, and then she heard it again.

A faint creaking click.

She turned her head slowly in the direction of the sound, squinting at the hazy outline of the door. Even in the dark, she recognized the sound of the door latch. Someone was trying to enter her bedchamber.

She flung back the counterpane and padded quickly across the room on her bare feet, stretching out her hands so she would touch the trunk first and not run into it. Well-worn wood and a sharp metal hinge met her palms. She curled her fingers into a tight grip just as the latch started to rattle with more force.

Her heart jumped to her throat and she dug in her heels, bearing her weight into the trunk, determined to create as much of a barricade as possible.

Her pulse hammered against her throat. She adjusted her grip, her palms suddenly slick with perspiration.

Her stomach twisted sickly. She doubted her mother would be at her door in the middle of the night. Not after likely consuming that full bottle of claret. She wouldn’t crack an eyelid until well after midday. She couldn’t imagine any of the household staff would be bothering her either. They were likely comfortable in their beds, exhausted from a long day of catering to the whims of Melisande and Horley.

That left only one possibility. Suddenly the latch ceased to rattle. A hush fell like a blanket over the room. There was no sound save for the harsh fall of her breath.

She didn’t relax her grip on the trunk. She held her pose, her shoulders straining, muscles burning. She swallowed, trying to steady her breath. Her gaze peered into the gloom, narrowing on the latch. It didn’t turn. Her breath quieted. The rush of blood in her ears was louder now. Still, she couldn’t budge. She wouldn’t. Not yet.

Her ears strained for the faintest sound. She almost thought she could hear someone else’s breath. Just on the other side of the door.

“Rosalie.” Her name drifted through the door, whisper-small, taunting in a singsong voice. “Rosie . . . Rosie.”

A shudder racked her at the hated nickname. No one called her that. No one except him.

She bit her lip, her knuckles aching where they clutched the door.

“Open . . . open, Rosie.”

The coppery tang of blood trickled over her lip and she unclenched her teeth. Terror licked down her spine. It was a combination of the dark, of that frightening voice, of knowing who it was and that he relished his torment of her.

She moistened her lips. Clearly, he knew she was awake and nearby. Just on the other side of the door. She could hear that in his whispered voice.

If this was to be her lot for the duration of her stay here, then she would have many sleepless nights. Cold resolve filled her and she steeled her spine. She needed to let him know he would not bully her. She was not weak.