A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

A sour taste coated his mouth. He could think of no one he would rather see less. Well, apart from her mother, of course. Both females belonged to an era of his life he wished to forget.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

She scooted to the edge of the sofa, folding her hands primly in her lap. “Mrs. Heathstone, the headmistress of Harwich, deposited me here.” She paused at his blank look, apparently hoping he might say something. He held silent and she plunged ahead, “Harwich is the school I’ve been attending for the last ten years.”

He continued to stare, still waiting for further explanation. Those slim, pale fingers of hers fidgeted and shifted restlessly.

“She sent you a missive.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged stiffly. He vaguely recalled receiving it. Once he realized it had to do with his stepmother’s daughter he’d stopped reading.

She processed this reaction with a blink before continuing. “I completed my studies two years ago.” Her fingers flexed in her lap. They were slim. Like her. She could use a meal or two. Did they not feed her at this school? He assessed her critically. She might have grown taller, her hair may have somewhat darkened and her features may have sharpened and lost some of their baby roundness, but the rest of her hardly gave a nod toward womanhood.

“Two years ago,” she repeated, as though this should mean something to him. “When I was eighteen.”

“Congratulations,” he managed to get out, still lost as to why she was here.

She twisted her fingers until they looked bloodless. “And now I am twenty.” She spoke slowly, as though he was dense or she was trying to reach a child.

He shook his head, certain she was trying to explain something but simply not following her. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Miss Hughes? Is that why you’re here? You want something from me?”

Even in the murky glow of the room he could discern the bright splash of color in her cheeks——they seemed to darken the smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks. “Forgive me, but this is terribly awkward, Your Grace.”

“Just arrive at the point, then.”

“I’ve been at Harwich for two years. Not as a pupil and not as a member of the staff. It has been Mrs. Heathstone’s sheer goodwill that has kept me on there. Mama has not sent a penny for my care. Not since I completed my studies. She has ignored all of Mrs. Heathstone’s letters.”

He blinked at the mention of her mother. His stepmother. Melisande. He had mostly banished the memory of her. Except in the darkest dream, but there was little he could do to prevent that.

Seeing no way around it, he asked, “Where is your mother?”

“That is it precisely, Your Grace. I do not know.”

I do not know. A simple enough declaration, but it held a wealth of implication. If she didn’t know where her mother was, and she had essentially been dumped here by her schoolmistress, then she was his problem now.

Bloody hell.

Oh, he supposed he could cast her out. There was no one to force him to take her in, house her, feed her, but he could not abandon her to the streets. A lone female with no other relations. It was unconscionable, even for him.

Just to be certain of that point, he asked, “And have you no other relations? Your father’s people? What of them?”

She shook her head, her gaze dropping. She made a perfect study of those hands in her lap again as she answered him. “No. My father’s parents are gone. I believe he had a brother . . . but he never married. The last I heard, he settled somewhere in America.”

With a muttered epithet, he strode across the room and lifted the snifter of brandy from its tray. He poured himself a healthy swig and downed it. This evening had taken a decidedly foul turn. “I suppose that leaves me then, doesn’t it?”

At her silence, he turned to look back at her, sitting so small and quietly. “No reply? You used to be full of chatter.” That’s what he remembered of her. A little magpie. When she followed him about, she would pelt him with questions mercilessly.

She shook her head and then nodded and then shook her head again as though she could not make up her mind. “I was hoping with your . . . resources . . . you could help me locate my mother. I have no wish to be a burden to you.”

He poured himself another drink, feeling too damnably sober all of a sudden. “I imagine I could locate her.” She was likely underneath some man. A poor sod like his father who believed every poisonous word she spouted. “And until then, what am I to do with you?”

He strolled back across the room, stopping in front of her, holding his glass loosely with his fingers.

Her gaze lifted, crawling up him slowly. Cat’s eyes. Topaz gold. He frowned, again struck with how almost otherworldly she appeared. Feylike. Had she always looked thusly? He remembered her with more meat on her bones. And all wild hair, obscuring much of her face. “I shall endeavor to stay out of your way . . . if you would allow me to stay beneath your roof.”

If? There was no choice in the matter. He would feed and house her until he located her mother and forced her to take responsibility for her daughter.

He moved for the door. “I’ll show you to a room. The staff is already retired for the night.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The sound of rustling fabric signaled she was following him. He didn’t look over his shoulder. “I promise not to bother—”

He stopped suddenly and turned. “Let us be clear. Your presence here bothers me. Greatly.”

She stopped and backed away so as not to stand too near. “I’m s-sorry, Your Grace.”

Inhaling, he continued as though he had not heard her. “There is nothing to be done for it tonight, but on the morrow, I shall send for my cousin and aunt to come stay. For propriety’s sake.”

“I don’t think that is necessary—”

“And what do you know of Society, Miss Hughes?” Bitterness leaked from his voice. “You’ve been rusticating for the last ten years at some school.” He scanned her up and down. “I’ll not have tongues wagging that you’re here unchaperoned. Unless you prefer the dames of the ton to whisper loud enough for you to hear that you’re my latest conquest?”

Her slender form stiffened. “Of course not. I merely had no wish to inconvenience you. After all, propriety does not seem to be very high on your list of priorities.”

He blinked, wondering if he had heard her correctly. The veiled insult was there. The corner of his mouth quirked. She was no mild-mannered miss after all, it appeared. The kitten had claws.

“No doubt you reference what happened earlier in the drawing room. My guests for the evening invading upon you?”

“Forgive me,” she hastily offered, shaking her head. “I meant no judgment—”

“Of course you did. That’s what people do. Judge and condemn.” He sliced a hand through the air, indicating it made no difference. “It won’t happen again. I’ll not entertain while you’re in residence.”

“Be that as it may, we are kin,” she insisted. “Of a sort. I doubt anyone would question me under your roof—”

“With my reputation, I guarantee they would. I grow weary of this discussion. My cousin and aunt will join us. The matter is closed.”

She pressed her mouth into a hard line and gave a single nod of acceptance. But she looked miserable and ready to burst from relenting to him. She abhorred the situation. He saw it gleaming in her golden eyes.