A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin by Sophie Jordan
Chapter 18
She did not see Dec for the rest of the day. Shortly after returning home, Aunt Peregrine and Aurelia arrived, luggage and a growling Lady Snuggles in tow once again. They hugged her warmly and chattered happily, making her feel like she had, in truth, come home.
“Aurelia.” Rosalie pulled her aside while Aunt Peregrine went off in search of a treat for Lady Snuggles. Apparently the beast deserved a reward after her jaunt across Town yet again. “I—”
“I’m sorry,” Aurelia blurted, grasping her hands. “I know I abused your trust by going to—”
“Thank you,” she cut in, looking her friend squarely in the eyes. “You did me a favor I shan’t ever forget.”
Aurelia smiled in relief and released her hands to hug her. “I’m so glad you came to be here. How terrible if you never came to be in our lives.”
Dinner was a leisurely affair. Rosalie dined with Aurelia and Aunt Peregrine. Dec was conspicuously absent. They discussed which social engagements they should schedule into their agenda. She chimed in, but her gaze continually strayed to his empty chair, wondering at his whereabouts. She didn’t inquire despite her curiosity. It was better if he was scarce. His proximity made her too nervous by far.
She knew it was likely he wouldn’t guess it had been her at Sodom. Not if he hadn’t already done so. But she didn’t trust that she wouldn’t give herself away with a touch, a lingering glance. After being so intimate with him, she found it difficult to resume as though they were polite acquaintances.
After dinner, she enjoyed a warm bath before changing into her nightgown. The sky was just purpling into dusk, but she slipped into bed, exhausted, her muscles melting into the mattress. A pleased sigh shuddered from her lips. She was so relieved that she could sleep without fear. In peace that no one would enter her room uninvited.
She was asleep almost the instant she closed her eyes.
Rosalie woke to a darkened chamber. Her mind groped in the darkness for a moment, struggling to remember precisely where she was. She inhaled, but there was no scent of the lavender rushes that Mrs. Heathstone always framed the windows with. No sound of howling wind on the moors outside. Gradually, memory returned. Along with all that had happened. Where she was. What she had done and with whom. She was a long way from Yorkshire. It felt a lifetime since Mrs. Heathstone unceremoniously dumped her on her stepbrother’s doorstep.
She wasn’t certain the precise hour, but she knew it was not yet morning. She lay in bed for several moments longer, expecting to fall back to sleep. She had been tired enough to sleep well into tomorrow afternoon. Or so she thought.
After half an hour of staring into the dark, she pushed back the counterpane, donned her night rail and left her room, giving up on sleep. Nothing stirred as she made her way to the library. She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The remnants of a fire burned in the hearth, the crumble of incinerated wood cracking softly as it cast a dull glow throughout the room.
Well familiar with the library’s layout by now, she made her way to the wall of shelves housing the novels. Squinting, she peered at the spines. She was debating rereading one of her favorite of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, or something called The Black Tulip that looked relatively new.
“Looking for a little late night reading? I thought you would be asleep by now.”
She spun around, clutching the book close to her chest. Dec stood in the doorway, jacketless, without his cravat, wearing only his shirt and breeches.
She sucked in a breath. She could well imagine his muscled chest. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. “I was asleep. I’m afraid I woke and can’t seem to fall back to sleep again.”
Nodding, he walked fully into the room, his hessians whispering softly over the rug. “This is my favorite room in the house.” He moved to the hearth and lifted the guard away so he could add several more logs to the fire. She studied his movements, appreciating the hard lines of his body. Straightening, he waved to the plump sofa before the hearth. “I’ve spent many a night on that sofa. Reading a book, staring into the flames until I fell asleep. Perhaps you should try it?”
“I cannot sleep down here. What would the servants think if they discovered me? Your Aunt Peregrine? It would not be seemly.”
He stopped before her. One stride separated them. “I thought we agreed this is your home. Do you not feel comfortable here?”
“I do.” She nodded vigorously. “It’s only that it is not only my home. It’s yours, too. I cannot simply spend the night on the sofa.”
“So proper,” he mused, brushing the hair back off her shoulder.
Her breath caught. Everything inside her jumped and reacted to that small touch.
His eyes locked on her face. Several moments passed before he murmured, “Who would have ever thought? It’s a marvel to me.”
“What is?”
“That you are your mother’s daughter.”
Nothing he said could have turned her blood cold faster. It always seemed to go back to her mother. He hated her so much. She lowered her gaze, seemingly finding the pattern in the rug of utter fascination.
“So innocent,” he murmured, placing a finger beneath her chin and tipping her face up.
She thought of Sodom and what had transpired there. Heat swamped her face. Between them. She was not wholly innocent.
“I’m not . . .” She stopped, her voice fading. Was she actually arguing with him about her state of innocence? Brilliant, Rosalie.
His lips quirked. “Not so innocent? I think you are. Or did Strickland manage to steal a kiss.” He was mocking her now, and that only pricked her temper.
“No. Not Strickland,” she blurted.
His smile slipped, not missing the emphasis she placed on her words. “No? Someone else, then?” He stepped closer and closed his hands around her shoulders. Suddenly he wasn’t smiling. “Did Horley—”
“No!” She shook her head. “No! I’m merely trying to say that I’m not such the innocent. I’m not that little girl that tagged after you like some sad puppy all those years ago.”
“I never thought of you that way.”
“Indeed?” The idea that he had thought of her at all inordinately pleased her. More than it should have.
His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth then. It was disconcerting. Her breathing grew shallow, her chest tight and almost pained. He couldn’t be considering kissing her. It was absurd. She was his charge. His stepsister. She might have looked at him with stars in her eyes for years, but he had never looked at her that way. If he even looked at her.
He certainly wouldn’t be looking at her that way now.
She held herself still, achingly conscious of how close they stood. It was familiar and strange all at once. They weren’t at Sodom. She wore no mask. He was gazing at her. Her. Rosalie. Just as she had fantasized.
He leaned his head down a fraction, and then stopped hard, his mouth hovering over hers. His eyes were so close she could see the dark ring around the green depths.
“Rosalie?” Her name was just a breath fanning against her lips.
“Yes?” Her voice was warbled and hoarse. She swallowed, attempting to regain sound.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
She inhaled. There was no mistaking his intention. Despite who they were to each other, he was going to kiss her. She nodded once, reeling at the declaration.
She felt elated and angered simultaneously. What about her? The other her! Obviously the girl from Sodom was forgotten. Obviously she meant nothing as he was ready to kiss someone else. It was madness, she knew, but she still felt betrayed. And also thrilled. Yes, it was illogical. She was jealous of herself.
All this considered, she didn’t command him to stop. She didn’t try to duck or push him away. His head dipped and his mouth slanted over hers with unexpected gentleness. His warm lips teased at hers, exerting only the slightest pressure.
Not at all what she was used to from him. He hadn’t kissed her like that at Sodom. At least not beyond that first touch of his mouth. By the end his kisses had been raw and consuming. Fierce. His mouth had claimed and ravaged hers. She wanted that again. She ached for it.
And it was aggravating. She’d already had her first kiss from him. She wanted more. She wanted what she knew it could be. With a moan, she dropped the book she clutched and grabbed his head, spearing her fingers through the thick strands of his hair, tugging him down even as she stood on her tiptoes and arched against him. Anything to get closer. To have more.
She nipped at his bottom lip and then licked at the seam of his mouth just as he had taught her, seeking entrance. He groaned his approval, and she took advantage of his open mouth, thrusting her tongue inside, searching for his, needing to taste him.
His hands stole around to clutch her back, pulling her even closer. She could actually feel the thump of his heart in his hard chest.
He sucked on her tongue and she moaned, fingers tightening in his hair. He shuddered, his hands sliding down her shoulders to grasp her arms.
Suddenly, he wrenched her from him and held her at arm’s length.
His gaze blistered her. “Rosalie,” he gasped.
Panting, she nodded and made another dive for his mouth, but he kept her at a distance, his hands firm on her arms. “You.”
She didn’t understand. She strained toward him, but he held her at arm’s length. Her body was alive and humming. She couldn’t think at all. There was only feeling. She could scarcely register him.
“It’s you.”
Something in his voice made her freeze and stop pulling against his hands. His gaze skimmed her. All of her. Missing nothing. From the top of her head to her bare feet peeping out from her hem. His gaze came to a stop on her hair, lingering over the loosened mass, and she realized with some dread that he was probably imagining it black.
She stepped back completely then, bumping the bookcase behind her. Her gaze darted over his shoulder, contemplating making a mad dash for escape.
His eyes burned a pale shade of green. “It is you. You were at Sodom.”
Denial seemed futile. It was not a question. He spoke with conviction.
A long tense moment stretched between them. Finally, she nodded. Just once. A hard jerk of her head. And there was some relief mixed in with the dread swirling through her. Finally, he knew. No more secrets.
His expression twisted, and she knew she had lost him then. Whatever softness there had been for her vanished. Whatever had motivated him to want to kiss Rosalie vanished. She saw something in his eyes. Her stomach churned sickly. Something hard and bitter that she had only seen when he looked at her mother.
“Is there more?” he demanded. “Anything else I should know? What other secrets do you harbor?”
“None. Nothing.”
He looked skeptical. “You’ve had no other rendezvous at Sodom? I needn’t fear any other gentlemen recognizing you? Come, I need to know what ruin might at any time befall.”
“It was only you. Only those two times.”
He inhaled, his shoulders pulling back at the reminder of them together. She was sure that was it. She had tricked him into doing things with her that he would never have dared otherwise. It stung. He was angry. She knew he would be. And yet a small part of her was hoping he remembered their connection . . . and how good it had been between them.
He dragged both hands through his hair, sending the dark strands in every direction. “How did you even learn of such a place, much less gain an invitation?”
She opened her mouth and then closed it with a snap. She could not throw Aurelia to the wolves. She needn’t be dragged into this.
He held up a hand, shaking his head. “Let me guess. It involves Aurelia.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with her.”
He angled his head, his gaze on her sharp, feral. “So this was all you.”
She gulped, wishing she could deflect his wrath, but she deserved every bit of it. She had deceived him.
“Very well,” he bit out. “It’s clear that we need to continue on our present course and see you wed before it’s too late and you bring ruin upon yourself.”
She nodded. “I—I—” She stopped and looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers until they were bloodless and numb.
There was nothing to say. No argument. She would not protest. She would not drag her feet. Dec knew of her masquerade. Just as she had feared. It was mortifying. She could scarcely look him in the eyes.
“Say something,” he demanded.
She moistened her lips and searched for her voice. “What do you want me to say?”
Everything was out in the open between them. She had said enough. Done enough.
The look in his eyes . . . it was too much.
He didn’t want her. Now he knew it was her, the woman from Sodom he had practically begged for, and he didn’t want her. She wasn’t enough.
He was already talking about her marrying someone else even though she had stood before him with her heart in her eyes.
“What do you want me to say?” she asked again.
He stared at her so intently, his eyes jade-dark, searching, reaching inside her, touching that part of her she had worked so hard to hide and protect. He saw it now. He saw her. “Why? Why did you do it?”
She shook her head and looked up at the ceiling, squeezing her eyes tightly. Her chest ached from the pain of it all. From him looking at her, hating her, not understanding. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
It was easier than the truth. Easier than explaining that she had needed something more than the life he was arranging for her with such cold calculation. An empty future without excitement. Without passion.
Without love.
She had wanted love. She claimed it was merely adventure she was seeking . . . a taste of life. A first kiss. But it was more. And she had found it. She had found it in him.
The thought struck her like a slap. Love. She loved him. Dear God.
Her legs suddenly felt wobbly. She gripped the edge of a shelf behind her for support.
“Was it all a game?” he demanded. “Was I a game? Were you laughing at me this entire time?”
“No!” The word choked from her lips.
It was never a game. Those nights it was him. And it was her. Nothing else. Nothing more. That was enough. That had been everything. She fought to swallow the lump in her throat.
How couldn’t he know? He had to know. Didn’t he feel that it was her on those nights? Hadn’t some part of him known when he looked into her eyes that it was her? Somewhere, buried deep? Had her shaking fingers on his skin revealed nothing?
He shook his head swift and hard. “You would risk everything . . . a chance for a good marriage. Your reputation . . . for dim-witted sport.”
The words sliced deep. She couldn’t breathe. It had not been sport to her. She loved him. And he despised her.
She turned to flee the room, panicked at her thoughts.
“Where are you going?” he demanded, catching up with her at the door, forcing her around. She resisted, struggling, and that only brought them closer. He wrapped both arms around her, hauling her close. His body, this nearness, was familiar and foreign at the same time. It had never been the two of them, so honest and exposed before. That was new. His eyes swept over her face, piercing and intent.
“Let me go,” she muttered. “I’m leaving.”
“Where? Where will you go?” he bit out, his lips curling in a cruel smile that was no less devastating to her senses. She felt it all the way to her toes.
She shook her head. “Anywhere but here.”
He laughed then—the harsh sound stung her like needles to the skin.
“There’s only here, Rosalie. There is only me. You have nowhere to go. You have no one else.”
“I have my mother. She’ll take me back if for no other reason than to spite you.”
His smile slipped. “And you’d want that? To go back to her . . . to suffer the advances of her lover.”
She raked him with her gaze—at least what she could see of him from the shoulders up. Too much of him, really. The square jaw and straight, sharp line of his nose over well-carved lips. He was too beautiful and well he knew it. She shivered in his arms. Wasn’t Satan said to be the most beautiful of God’s angels? “Some poisons are worse than others.”
His nostrils flared. “Meaning I’m poison?”
She nodded despite the tightening of his jaw. His eyes sparked fury. “You’ve the right of it. I am poison . . . brewed at the hand of your mother. I am to be feared and avoided.”
She ceased to breathe as his words sank in. He was hard and merciless and she had fallen in love with him. How was it possible?
Because you saw another side of him. You saw something other than this spiteful creature.
So which one was real? This man or the other?
He was holding her tightly, practically lifting her from the ground. Her slippered toes grazed the carpet. Her arms were trapped between them, mashed into his chest.
“Let me go,” she whispered, trying to pull her hands free.
Something indecipherable glinted in his eyes. He angled his head, studying her oddly, his dark eyebrows drawn tightly.
“Unhand me,” she added, relieved her voice held steady even as sensation slithered along her nerves. She was achingly conscious of his bigger body. Her softness melded into all his hard angles.
“So you can leave. Run away to your mother?”
“Or I can leave with Aurelia,” she snapped defiantly, knowing she couldn’t stomach being under that roof again. “She’d take me—”
“She’s my cousin, subject to her brother, and he will not go against me.”
Outrage bubbled up in her chest, blinding her to reason. “If I want to go, I will. I’ll find a way—”
“Fine. Go,” he practically snarled, releasing her abruptly.
She stumbled back a step, staring at him as he swung around and stalked toward the massive mahogany desk. She gazed at him uncertainly. His back was to her, his head bowed like he was reaching for something deep inside himself—like he couldn’t stand the sight of her.
And that hurt most of all maybe. That she was something he could not even bear to look at anymore. Shaking her head, feeling battered and a bit broken inside, she turned to leave.
And then she stopped. Took one staggering step and froze.
Turning around, she stared hard at the back of him, resolve firing through her. She would not leave him. Not like this. Not without at least trying to dispel whatever awful thoughts he harbored of her. He wanted to know why she went to Sodom. Then she would tell him.
Lifting her chin, she approached slowly, her slippers whispering over the carpet.
“I went to Sodom,” she began tentatively, her voice growing stronger as she drew closer, “because for once in my life I wanted to do something . . . I wanted to make a decision that was my own. I wanted to choose who I gave my first kiss to.”
His back stiffened and she knew he was listening. He lifted his bowed head and stared straight ahead, still not looking at her.
She stopped directly behind him, almost tempted to touch the rigid expanse of his back but daring not. Talking to his back was easier. Cowardly of her, but there it was.
She sucked in a breath and continued. “I wanted to live for myself and not be at the mercy of others for once. Everyone else decides my fate . . . makes all my choices. I went there for me.”
She knew what she described was the lot of every female. Well, most females at any rate. Debutantes like her didn’t get to choose.
He swung around and she blinked at the sudden heat in his gaze. She stepped back quickly. The hard glitter in his eyes alarmed her. He didn’t say a word. Simply stared. Several inches separated them but it wasn’t enough space. She inched back.
He followed.
His movements were predatory. He backed her up until she couldn’t move any farther and collided with the bookcase. Several leather spines dug into the back of her gown, but she didn’t care. She could scarcely feel them there with his eyes devouring her . . . with the encroaching heat of him enveloping her.
Neither one of them spoke. Neither moved.
Her palms flattened at her sides, brushing well-read tomes. There was nowhere else to go. No retreat at her back. No retreat at her front. Not with the hard wall of his body directly before her. His silence was killing her.
“Say something,” she whispered, the same demand he’d made of her moments ago, her voice a broken little rasp on air that was stretched too thin around them.
“You went to the club because you wanted to live for yourself. Have your own experiences? Correct?”
She nodded jerkily, her eyes unblinking and so wide in her face that they actually ached.
“Then let’s continue.”
She couldn’t react. Not with him looking at her that way. Not with him this close. Her gaze unerringly went to his mouth, and she knew. She already knew how good it could be. But this was different than before.
There were no masks. No disguises. Not that he had ever used one, but she had. She had clung to hers. Perhaps not so much for anonymity as for the sense of courage, however false, it imbued into her.
There wasn’t even darkness. It was simply her. Rosalie. And Dec. Plain and simple. Well, perhaps not so simple, but they faced each other as a man and woman. Not strangers, hungry for a tryst at an illicit club. Not stepbrother and stepsister. Not guardian and ward.
His hand curled around the back of her neck, hauling her mouth to his. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she shuddered, opening her mouth. Instantly, his tongue touched the tip of her own, tasting and stroking. She moaned, her hands coming up to cling to his shoulders. Everything changed then. His kiss deepened, grew harder, hungrier. Fast and desperate. She arched against him, those mewling sounds escaping from the hot fusion of their mouths.
“God, you taste so sweet,” he growled against her lips, crouching for the barest moment to lift her, his big hands cupping her bottom through her nightgown. “Bloody clothes . . .”
“Take them off,” she gasped as he worked one hand beneath her hem, gliding up her stocking-clad leg. She wanted this. Wanted his mouth and hands everywhere on her. She wanted him to do to her what he had done at Sodom. She wanted to fly apart in his arms again.
He froze.
Consternation washed over her. Had she sounded too brazen? Had she repulsed him with her forwardness? He stepped back. Her leg lowered, her foot dropping to the floor. He stared at her with an unreadable expression, his green eyes deep and fathomless. Impenetrable. Just as he was.
“Go to bed, Rosalie.”
She flinched at the words. At the dismissal.
He didn’t wait for her to move. She watched him with aching eyes, her heart a painful clenching fist in her chest as he turned and strode from the room, his strides eating up the distance. As if he couldn’t be away from her fast enough.
Smoothing shaking hands down the front of her night rail, she followed several moments later, certain he was quite gone by now. And he was. She didn’t glimpse sight of him as she made her way down the corridor toward her bedchamber. At her door, she hesitated, her gaze sliding toward the door leading to his bedchamber. Was he in there now? Regretting and hating that she had ever entered his life?
Pushing down on the latch, she entered her room, vowing that when it came to her, he would have nothing to regret again. She would be a ghost in this house. In his life. She would cause him no further worry or trouble. Somehow, some way, she would make herself invisible. It would be as though she didn’t exist at all.
