A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

Swallowing, she flattened a hand against the surface of the door and found her voice. “Go away.” Thankfully, the words rang out with confidence.

His slow chuckle floated through the door. “Good night, sweet Rosie. See you on the morrow.”

Silence. She waited, unwilling to leave the door just yet.

She bowed her head. Her breath fell slow and raspy. As long as she stayed here, she’d never feel safe. This only deeper cemented in her mind that she could not remain in this house, under this roof. Every moment was a risk. And yet she had nowhere else to go.

She darted to the bed and yanked the counterpane off with two hard tugs. Dragging it after her, she returned to the door and curled up in front of the trunk, wrapping herself in the counterpane. Even if she fell asleep, she would feel if someone tried to force their way into the room. She would wake.

With the trunk at her back, she stared straight ahead, seeing nothing and yet seeing everything.

She needed a husband. Posthaste. It was the only way out of this house. Preferably a husband her mother could not manipulate and one whom she herself could stomach. Would that be too much to ask?

Snuggling into the blanket, she wrapped her arms around her still shaking knees, seeking comfort even if it only came from herself. She needed to take care of herself. No one else would. It was with some grimness that she realized it had always been this way. She came into this world alone. And she was still alone. No one to rely on but herself.

Dec’s visage rose in her mind, and she squeezed her eyes tight against the darkness as if that would somehow rid her of his image. Dark was dark, and he was still there.

She couldn’t help wondering what he would think of her dire situation. As though he would care that her mother’s special friend was making himself a nuisance. As though he would do something to help. Stupid. He’d never wanted her underfoot to begin with. He’d done far more than necessary already. She still had her dowry. Why did she think he might care about her miserable fate? He hadn’t uttered an objection when her mother collected her.

He might have stepped in and stopped her from being accosted when she’d been disguised at Sodom, but that was a far cry from actually caring about what happened to her—Rosalie, his unwanted stepsister.

No. No one could help her but herself.

With that determined thought, she rested her head back against the trunk and settled in to wait for morning.





Chapter 14


After three nights of dozing in and out of sleep in front of her bedchamber door, Rosalie was an exhausted wreck. Horley had made no attempt to return, but she was unwilling to lower her guard and go back to her bed. She continued her vigil, wrapped up in the counterpane in front of the trunk each night, telling herself that it wouldn’t be forever.

In addition to these restless nights, her evenings were a whirlwind. She was led about Town by her mother and Horley. He never strayed far, of course.

She’d met the Marquis of Hildebrand at the opera, and he was just as senile as Horley claimed. And as lecherous. He actually invited her to sit upon his lap, leering at her newly altered neckline. Melisande merely smiled in encouragement. As though he had invited Rosalie to tea and not to a seat on his lap. And then Melisande invited him to tea. And dinner. Rosalie quickly realized that her mother accepted invitations, almost exclusively, to events she knew the marquis would be attending.

Rosalie was having none of it. Her mother could throw them together all she liked, but she would not marry Hildebrand. Instead of allowing the old man to paw at her, she spent the evenings making herself amenable to other gentlemen who were present whom her mother did not recommend. Odds were, any of them would be an improvement. At least they wouldn’t bow to her mother’s whims. If they would, Melisande wouldn’t scowl when she spotted Rosalie in their company. That soon became Rosalie’s criteria. If her mother glared when she spoke to a particular gentleman, Rosalie made a point to continue conversing with him.

It did not take long for her mother to catch on to her game. “You’re simply trying to vex me, Rosalie,” she complained the evening they spent at a dinner party hosted by Lady Stanley, the marquis’s goddaughter. Though her mother wished that she favor the marquis’s attentions, Rosalie had instead taken an interest in Lady Stanley’s nephew, a barrister from Bedfordshire. “Truly, Rosalie, a barrister?” Melisande demanded. “What could you be thinking?”

“I was thinking that he was very kind and an excellent conversationalist.” And he did not make her skin crawl with a mere look. He was very circumspect, his gaze politely trained on her face and not her décolletage as he addressed her.

“Conversationalist? You have friends for that. Or you will. You need not rely on your husband for conversation. With any luck, he’ll expect very little from you after he gets an heir or two off you. Then you can take a lover. With discretion, of course.”

Such a future sounded bleak to her. She lifted her chin. “I’m thinking I shall have whatever husband I choose to have.”

Melisande shook her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You never used to be such a rotten, willful girl. That school ruined you.”

Horley had watched her through the entire exchange, his gaze narrowing as though he wasn’t thinking particularly kind thoughts of her. As if her behavior somehow affected him. Rosalie would have preferred to talk to her mother alone, especially when the conversation turned to her taking a lover. Horley’s expression had turned positively lascivious at that. Pointless wishing. He was always underfoot. No conversation was private.

She had hoped he might leave at some point, return to a home of his own. But his living with her mother appeared a permanent arrangement. Such flouting of convention was scandalous, but her mother claimed he was her protégé—a painter the like of Rembrandt—though Rosalie snooped about and did not find so much as a paintbrush in the house.

Her snooping did, however, lead her to Mrs. Potter. The garrulous housekeeper provided a wealth of information. Apparently, Horley had been with her mother for a year now. Mrs. Potter had never seen him pick up so much as a pencil to doodle on paper, so this claim that he was an artist? Complete fiction. He didn’t possess two shillings to rub together. Money lenders often came in search for him. Following Melisande’s orders, the staff always claimed ignorance of his whereabouts.

“Indeed, we’re under strict instructions. Anyone comes looking for Lord Horley, we haven’t seen him,” Mrs. Potter explained one morning as she puttered about the kitchen, helping Cook prepare Melisande’s afternoon meal—the first of the day. She set a plate full of biscuits in front of Rosalie, motioning for her to eat. “Got his claws in deep to your mama, that one.”

The tight-lipped cook harrumphed as she cut into a fresh loaf of bread. Rosalie bit into the still warm biscuit with a satisfied moan. A dog slept before the crackling hearth, appearing content on a threadbare rug. The kitchen was the one place Rosalie felt safe. Horley would never think to set foot within its humble walls. Perhaps she should sneak in here at night. She could curl up with Cook’s dog and sleep safely. Mrs. Potter poured fresh tea into her cup.

Rosalie took a sip, sighing in contentment as she eyed the kitchen fire.

“There you are now. Eat,” Mrs. Potter chided. “You could use some meat on your bones. Might help with your color . . . you’re too pale. Are you not resting enough? Perhaps you need a nap this afternoon, miss.”