A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

He followed her, stalking really, feeling dangerous in mood. “You’re here, are you not?” He looked her up and down in her gown that invited a man’s touch. The shape of her breasts through the fabric was clearly outlined. He could discern the pebbled tips of her nipples, and the distraction, the urge to taste them again, only angered him. “Women who come here know what they want. That’s why they’re here. They’re in control. They’re not vulnerable. This isn’t the place vulnerable or helpless females frequent. Someone should have made that clear to you.”

She made a sound that was part snort, part growl. “Oh, you’re insufferable. Clearly it was a mistake to reveal anything of my true self—”

He laughed roughly. “You want to reveal something of yourself?” He stepped closer, and she took a step back. His hands curled into fists at his sides. The temptation was there, to rip the mask from her face. “Let’s begin with your name. Your face. Your bloody hair!”

She drew a hissing breath. “This has gone far enough.” She turned and reached for a cloak draped on the corner of the bed that he had not noticed before. She flung it around her shoulders, her movements jerky. “You know I cannot—”

“Go home. Marry. Show him what you’ve learned from me. He should count himself very fortunate indeed.” She froze at his deliberately cruel words. Her back still to him, he moved behind her, pressing his body against hers, letting her feel his hardness against the small of her back. “But know that when you’re with him, you’ll be thinking of me.”

A shudder racked her body. He stroked a hand down her false hair. He picked up the mass of it, brought it over her shoulder and grazed his mouth over the tender skin of her neck. She made that sound again. That delicious hitch of her breath. He bit down softly where her shoulder and neck met, let his teeth scrape the skin he knew was so very sensitive. She jerked a little, making a soft, strangling sound low in her throat.

She lurched away from the press of his body and bolted for the door, fumbling for the latch.

He watched her go, his hand dropping to his side as she slipped from the room without a backward glance.

She made her way to Mrs. Bancroft’s private rooms where she quickly shed the scandalous plum-colored gown she had borrowed from the proprietress. Once again in her own modest clothing, she kept the domino just to be safe, repositioning it on her face and covering herself head-to-toe with her cloak. She wrote a hasty note of thanks to Mrs. Bancroft, knowing she would never be back. Tonight had to be the last time. Satisfied, she headed back down the stairs, still shaking, still longing.

She moved blindly, seeing nothing of her surroundings. The need to flee pumped through her blood with urgency. If she didn’t leave now, she’d lose everything. She’d lose herself.

She had only thought of her desire to see him again. Nothing else had mattered. She had not considered how much worse, how much harder, it would be to walk away this time.

The doorman fetched a hack for her and saw her safely inside. She managed to hold on until she was safely ensconced in the hack and on her way back to her mother’s house. She smoothed a shaking hand over the skirts of her familiar sensible gown before bringing both of her hands up to her face. With a ragged exhale, she released a choked sob into her curled fingers.

Coming to Sodom had been a selfish, desperate act. She had sent the missive to Dec because she felt drowning and helpless beneath her mother’s roof. Lonely and aching . . .

She wanted to escape her existence even if for just a little while. And she couldn’t stop thinking about Dec. She missed him. She couldn’t stop remembering his kiss and thinking how she would never have that again.

It had been rash. She’d very nearly given everything to him tonight. And not just her virtue—although that very nearly happened. She had actually toyed with the idea of removing her domino and tossing her wig aside that moment at the end when he had come up behind her.

When had she become so foolish? A girl who thought that the stepbrother who never wanted anything to do with her might actually want her? Her. Rosalie. She lifted her face from her hands. A tear rolled down her cheek and she dashed it away with clumsy fingers.

The house was silent when she crept around to the servants’ entrance. She rapped twice at the door and Mrs. Potter appeared as promised, opening the door for her. The housekeeper hadn’t asked for details when Rosalie requested her help, simply agreed with a smile and a wink.

With a nod of thanks, Rosalie slipped inside and fled to her chamber, pushing the trunk back into place against the door. A precaution that might not be necessary anymore, but one she wouldn’t neglect, nevertheless.

She’d taken enough risks for the night. She was quite finished with living on the edge, reaching for things that weren’t to be. She needed to get out of this house. And she needed to forget about Dec.

She wasn’t certain which would be harder to do.





Chapter 17


The swish of his bedchamber’s drapes dimly registered as sudden light punched his eyelids. Dec groaned and reached for a pillow, quite certain that someone was on the verge of death. He’d played cards with Max late into the night and imbibed too freely of brandy. At the time, it seemed a good idea. Better than going home to an empty house where he would sleep in an empty bed.

A dull throb pounded at his temples. He cracked an eye to peer out at the person who dared to interrupt his sleep.

Aurelia stood beside his bed, hands propped on her hips.

He groaned. “Aren’t you in the wrong house?” He hadn’t seen her since she and Aunt Peregrine packed up their things and moved. “What time is it?”

“It’s early. I couldn’t sleep last night, and I vowed I would see you as soon as the day dawned.”

He sat up, shielding his eyes with a hand. “What’s so bloody urgent? And would you mind closing the drapes again?”

“No. I need your attention.”

“You have it,” he growled.

“Have you seen or spoken to Rosalie?”

“Not since she left. No.” Not that her absence had stopped his thoughts from straying to her. Max had mentioned seeing her at the opera in the company of old Hildebrand. The man was a letch. Clearly Melisande wasn’t looking out for Rosalie’s best interests if she let him court her. Not that he expected her to. He might have been concerned for Rosalie if he didn’t already know she was determined to marry a man of her choosing. She had made that abundantly clear to him.

“Well, you need to.”

He looked at her sharply. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Aurelia waved her hands wildly. “I told her I would not come to you—”

He sat up. “Too late for that. You’re here. Out with it.”

She nodded once, her lips pressing into a firm, resolute line. “Your stepmother has a lover living with her.”

He made a snort. “Unsurprising. She’s never been overly concerned with her reputation.” Melisande still had the weight of her title, fortunately. And while it wasn’t seemly, he’d placed a large enough dowry on Rosalie’s head that most suitors would look beyond her mother’s indiscretions.

“It’s not that . . .”

“What is it?”

“It’s him. Melisande’s lover. He makes Rosalie . . . uncomfortable.”

The hairs at his nape prickled. He fought to swallow against his suddenly constricted throat. “Has he harmed her?”