A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin by Sophie Jordan

Chapter 15

The parchment crinkled in Dec’s pocket where he had stuffed it earlier. Not a half hour ago the missive had arrived, intruding on his solitary dinner. His appetite had fled at once and he’d pushed back from the table.

Not that he had much of an appetite lately. He’d taken his meals alone the last couple of nights, shrouded in the silence of an empty house. Strange how he suddenly noticed that emptiness, that silence. He’d never been especially conscious of it before. He had never minded, but now he felt the absence of his aunt and cousin and Rosalie keenly. Ah, hell, Rosalie. He felt her absence most of all.

He had come to expect the soft sound of her voice, her laughter . . . glimpses of her throughout her house, sitting in his garden, her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her gown. He still saw her even though she wasn’t here. Her image was imprinted on his mind. Even her scent seemed to trail him, that faint scent. Nowhere else more than at the door to his room, so close to her old room. Honeysuckle, he thought. How did she come to smell of honeysuckle in the midst of London?

He’d let her go with Melisande, telling himself it was for the best. It was right. They were mother and daughter. Rosalie belonged with her.

He’d always viewed Rosalie as an extension of Melisande. Never as her own self. Never her own person. She was part of the woman who had destroyed his youth and robbed him of his father and left him a shell. Melisande had taken so much from him that he could never get back, and he had simply viewed Rosalie as cut from the same cloth.

Until he saw them side by side in his drawing room.

It dawned on him then how entirely different they were. Rosalie was nothing like her mother. She wasn’t Melisande. The evidence had always been there, but not until that moment had he faced it.

As much as he told himself letting her go was right, he felt guilty. He worried. Even though he told himself he needn’t. Rosalie still had the advantage of her dowry. She would not be with her mother for long. She’d have her pick of suitors. Her future was bright. He’d seen to that.

So why did that rationale not make him feel better? Not that it mattered how he felt. It was done. She’d been eager to leave, and he had no cause to keep her. He was nothing more than a stepbrother who had not even been in her life for years.

He looked down at the parchment again, flexing his fingers around the edges. The missive could not have arrived at a better time. The distraction was much welcome. The single sentence, neatly scrawled on a blank sheet of parchment, took his thoughts to a kiss that had affected him more than the seductions of any expertly experienced female. There had been something about her. Her utter lack of guile and artifice. His body responded at the memory, recalling her soft mouth, so warm and responsive to him . . . and the little sound she made when he had lifted her against him.

Meet me at Sodom tonight.

It wasn’t signed, but he knew. The possibility of seeing her again made his skin tighten and mouth dry. He hadn’t returned to Sodom since the night he kissed the masked girl. Nor had he touched another female. He simply wasn’t in the mood. In the past, any willing woman would suffice. A night’s pleasure, a few hours losing himself, and the numbness faded. For a short while. Until the next time. But any woman wasn’t what he wanted anymore, and the realization troubled him more than he wanted to admit. None of them appealed in the slightest.

The only other woman to even tempt him had been Rosalie, and since she was out of the question—and wisely out of reach—this opportunity was one he would not pass.

He changed his jacket quickly and departed.

Sodom was crowded tonight. He spied Max at one of the tables. This time wearing clothes. A woman sat on his lap, her arm draped around him, fingers playing in his hair, but he seemed more interested in his cards. In fact, he looked almost annoyed, stretching away from her delving fingers.

Mrs. Bancroft greeted him with a warm smile. “Your Grace, how good to see you. We’ve missed you.” Dressed modestly in a canary yellow gown with black beads at the hem and cuffs that reached her neck, the proprietress was an anomaly among the rest of the women present, which only added to her allure. Men in the room followed her movement across the room with hungry eyes. She was as unattainable as the queen. She was untouchable and every man wanted to conquer her. Every man but him. He was here for one reason.

“Mrs. Bancroft.” He bowed over her hand. Despite her charm, there was only one woman he wanted to see tonight. He opened his mouth to inquire if she had seen her.

As though she read his mind, she volunteered, “This way. She is waiting for you.”

His blood quickened. She led him to the second floor at a sedate pace that drove him mad. If he knew which room she was taking him to, he might have actually rushed past her in his eagerness.

He inhaled, chiding himself to not behave as a green lad. His hands opened and curled at his sides as he fought for his composure. He wasn’t even certain she wanted more than another kiss from him. That, quite clearly, had been all she was willing to sample the last time. It would be torment, but he would take it. He would take whatever she wanted to give.

Mrs. Bancroft stopped before the door. “I think you can manage this from here.”

Alone, he actually hesitated, his hand on the latch. He took a moment, gathering his composure so that he didn’t come at her like some randy goat.

He opened the door then and she was there. His eyes adjusted to the dimness of the chamber. She popped up from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting, her hands falling to her sides. Her midnight-dark hair slid like a waterfall around her shoulders.

She was wearing a darker gown, but in the shadowed chamber, he couldn’t identify the precise color. The bodice was sleeveless, leaving her shoulders bare save the veil of her hair. It was another form-fitting dress, and he wondered if she had borrowed it again from Mrs. Bancroft. He felt only relief that she wore it for him. That she had come back to Sodom for him and not to experiment with another man.

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Even in the murky gloom, even through the eyeholes of her domino, her gaze seared him. The way she looked at him was devouring and intimate.

“You came back,” he murmured.

“I wanted to see you again.” Her low, husky voice was like a physical stroke on his skin. She rubbed her palms against the sides of her gown, and he could only think of that hand rubbing down his chest in that same manner.

He glanced around the room and his lip curled. It was well-appointed but he couldn’t help think about how many people had used this room before them. As glad as he was that she wanted to see him again, he regretted it was here, in this place. The idea rose, surprising him. Sodom had always been good enough for him before, but for some reason he wanted more for her. He wanted her in his bed. At his home.

The idea was novel to him. Perhaps it was time to take a mistress. Random women flitting in and out of his life, his bed, had been good enough before, but if he could find one woman to satisfy him for a spell, that wouldn’t be so bad. There was something appealing to the notion. Except the only one he could imagine in that role stood before him.

Rosalie’s face was there, a flash across his mind before he thrust it away. She could not even be considered.

“What’s your name?” He knew no names were required here. It was understood at Sodom, but he could not continue without knowing what to call her.

Her tentative smile slipped, and he knew he had crossed a line. He pushed off from the door and advanced on her. “Come. I must call you something.”

She shook her head, her mouth pressed shut, and she looked around the chamber as if suddenly reconsidering.

He stopped before her and cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs resting on the stiff brocade of her domino. He loathed it. He wanted to rip it off, but he knew such an action would send her bolting from his arms faster.

“No names,” she whispered in that low, guttural scratch.

“But you know mine.”

“You’ve no need to protect your identity.” Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “If who I am is so important to you, then we should put a stop to this—”

His mouth silenced her, muffling the words he refused to even entertain. There was no ending this. No stopping.

He needed it. Her. An ease to the ache that plagued him. That he’d been unable to appease in weeks. He tasted her with lips and tongue. She was ready for him, opening her mouth and meeting his tongue with less hesitancy than the last time. There was no awkwardness. She’d made up her mind before she came here. He felt that at once.

Her hands crept around his neck and he deepened the kiss, growling when she slid her fingers into his hair and pressed her slim body against his.

She moaned into his mouth. “I missed—”

Her lips froze, as though startled by her own words.

He pulled back to look down at her. “Missed what? Me?” He smiled slowly.

She dipped her head, and he knew she was embarrassed. He could guess her thoughts then—that a single kiss with a stranger shouldn’t warrant her missing him, and she was correct. If a woman had announced she missed him before, he would have walked as fast as possible in the opposite direction. Yet hearing the words from her made something swell inside his chest.

He smiled and brushed a tendril of hair that fell across the hated domino hiding half of her face from him. Her eyes were dark pools, like the night sea. Again he wished to tear the offensive fabric from her face so that he could see her eyes. Her face. Bloody hell, he wished for enough light so he could see all of her and rid himself of the mystery. Was this even her hair or a wig?

She blinked slowly. “N-No. I . . .”

“But you came back. You sent me that note.”

“You must think me terribly forward.”

“A girl who gave me her first kiss?” He cocked his head, watching the movement of her lips. “That’s a far cry from what I think.”

He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of that mouth. Her breath escaped in a sharp hitch. Another one of her little sounds he well remembered. “You can say you’ve missed me. Because I’ve missed—” He kissed the next corner. “—this mouth. The little sounds that escape it.”

He dragged his thumb across her bottom lip, his other arm pulling her closer, one hand gliding down her back. He spread his fingers wide. He could feel her through the thin fabric of her dress. The small bumps along her spine. The twin indentations directly above where her cheeks started to swell. “Have you kissed anyone else since that night?” he asked without deliberation. He had to know. He couldn’t stand the thought that she had come back here and taken with another man. That some man might have kissed her. Or done more than kiss.

“Have you?” she was quick to rebut.

He laughed lightly, knowing he deserved that. He had no right to inquire. He had no claim on her. “No. I haven’t.”

Her eyes widened. Apparently she didn’t expect that answer from him. Her gaze roved over his face. “You haven’t kissed anyone . . . since me?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I merely find it hard to believe. You’re . . . Banbury.”

“And what do you know of me?” He angled his head, something sharpening inside him. A sense, an awareness, that maybe she knew him. “Wait. Do you . . . know me?” His heart beat a little faster at the possibility. Did he know her? Had they met before?

The idea that their paths had crossed . . . that they might cross again, outside the walls of Sodom . . .

She shook her head fiercely. “Merely by reputation. We do not move in the same circles.

“That is unfortunate.”

She angled her head and he felt her curious stare even if he couldn’t clearly see her eyes in the shadow of her domino. “Why? Out there. In the real world.” She motioned in the general direction of the door. “We could never have this.”

“Perhaps we should make a standing appointment, then.” He brought his hand lower, cupping her derrière with one hand and drawing her fully against him. Partly so she could feel his desire, his cock hard against her belly. Mostly so he could just have her softness cushioning the part of him that throbbed to sink inside her.

“Here? At Sodom again?” Her words floated on a little gasp. Her chin lifted slightly, indicating the chamber.

“It doesn’t need to be here.” He would prefer it not be here.

She bit her bottom lip, mulling over his words. “I don’t know that I can do that. This . . . was hard enough to arrange. It’s tricky leaving the house.”

He frowned, not liking that this might be all they had. Deciding he needed to make this night count, he brought an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, bringing her mouth up to his and kissing her as he carried her across the room.

She moaned against his lips, her hands flying to his shoulders as though frightened he would drop her.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

He lowered her down on the bed, wedging himself between her thighs. Her skirts fell back, exposing her legs, deliciously stocking-clad legs with lacy black garters that he wanted to remove slowly. With his teeth.

He sat back, gazing at every inch of her displayed like some decadent feast for him. Those eyes of hers were dark and unreadable in her mask, peering up at him. Her lips were swollen from kissing, parted in a small O of wonder.

He ran his palms up her calves, over the curve of her knees, along her thighs, stopping just at her garters. Her breathing grew louder, raspy.

He took her hand, guiding her to him. He pressed her palm directly over his breeches, against his cock, groaning at the sensation of her hand, hesitant at first, and then bolder, molding to the shape of him. Her fingers flexed and traced him. He shuddered. Unable to help himself, he showed her what to do, grinding the base of her palm against him in rhythmic strokes.

“Oh,” she gasped. “It’s growing . . . bigger.”

He dropped over her until his mouth grazed the tender skin of her neck. “That’s what you do to me.” He kissed his way down her throat, fastening his mouth over her breast through the sheer fabric of her dress, sucking until her nipple beaded hard and she arched into his mouth.

“M-More.”

He wasn’t even certain what that meant, what more even was. He wasn’t even certain if she knew. All he knew was that he needed her, too.

He released his grip on her hand, leaving her there, fingers splayed over the length of him. She continued to explore, her slender fingers pressing and stroking his straining cock. His skin pulled tight at the base of his skull and his breath fell faster. He bit lightly, nipping at her breasts through the wet fabric, cupping them with both hands, his thumbs rolling over her nipples until she was shuddering and crying out sweetly in his arms.

Her hands still caressed him through his trousers. If he didn’t compose himself, he would lose himself like some green boy. He locked hard fingers around her wrist, stalling her movements.

She lifted her mouth to his neck, her lips moving as she spoke. “Please. May I touch it . . . you?”

The whispered request undid him. He froze for a moment, holding her gaze, wondering how he could stand much more of this. And then the answer came swift and resounding in his head . . . in the hard pump of blood in his veins. He couldn’t. Not anymore.

He pulled up, yanking open the front of his breeches, briefly severing the sweet torture of her hand on him. And then he was free, his cock jutting between them.

Her eyes fixed on him, her mouth parted in wonder. Neither one of them moved or spoke. Indeed, it seemed neither one of them breathed.

He couldn’t move. He didn’t trust himself. Her gaze alone felt like a caress. He inhaled, holding himself in check.

“Oh . . . I’ve never seen . . .”

He smiled, almost in pain. Of course she hadn’t. He almost wished she wasn’t so inexperienced. It wasn’t his habit to debauch virgins. He felt like the veritable scoundrel stealing away with a maiden’s virtue. His arms strained, holding himself in check over her.

Then she touched him. Those slight fingers wrapped around him. Her bare hand to his manhood, skin to skin. His cock pulsed and he forgot everything except sensation and mind-obliterating need.