A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin by Sophie Jordan
Chapter 6
The modiste arrived promptly the next morning after breakfast with four assistants in tow. Rosalie felt her eyes widen as they entered her chamber carrying fabrics and boxes that soon outnumbered the number of articles she had ever possessed. Ever. In her entire life ever.
“Oh, very nice, very nice!” The modiste, Mrs. Ashby, clapped approvingly as she surveyed Rosalie’s body. “We have much to work with here.”
Rosalie smiled uncertainly as she eyed the modiste and four assistants. It was difficult to process that they were working class. They were all attired better than she was in elegant dresses and perfectly coiffed hair.
“Did I not say so?” Lady Peregrine nodded eagerly, her turbaned head bobbing.
And still the boxes and baskets continued to arrive, more maids arriving now to help carry them into the room.
Rosalie leaned down to where Aurelia sat on the chaise, tormenting Lady Snuggles with a scrap of ribbon. The cat appeared in no mood to play, but that did not stop Aurelia from repeatedly flipping the blue ribbon at the growling animal.
“Would it not have been easier to go to their shop?” Rosalie whispered. “Rather than forcing them to come here?”
Smiling, Aurelia shook her head. “Mama does not visit Mrs. Ashby’s shop. Madame Ashby brings the shop to her. To any other highborn lady, for that matter.” Aurelia’s lips twisted wryly. “It’s always so.” Her voice dipped low to add, “No matter that Will’s pockets don’t run deep enough for such lavish treatment, one must keep appearances. She can’t have any of her friends see her calling on the dressmaker.”
Rosalie nodded as though she understood the habits of the aristocracy.
Evidently having enough of Aurelia, the fat tabby lurched at her, swatting her several times with a paw before plopping down to the floor and waddling away.
“Aurelia!” Lady Peregrine snapped. “Leave Lady Snuggles alone!”
Aurelia shrugged and dropped the ribbon and sighed, looking bored.
Mrs. Ashby was a large woman, elegantly dressed, with plump, swollen hands that moved and fluttered like overfed pigeons as she directed her staff with sharp commands.
Rosalie sank down on the chaise, taking Lady Snuggles’s spot. “So . . . much . . . much,” she murmured as three of the assistants departed to fetch yet more.
“Oh, this shall be no small undertaking,” Aurelia remarked. “You require a full wardrobe. Brace yourself for day-long misery.”
“This is going to cost a fortune,” she grumbled, feeling guilty. She did not like the idea of spending Dec’s money so recklessly. And all of this in addition to her dowry? It was far too much. When she thought back to her years at Harwich, and the many girls there who had so little—Mrs. Heathstone herself wore the same frocks year after year after year—it made her chest pinch with discomfort.
She turned and caught Aurelia looking at her oddly. “What?”
“You’re quite the anomaly.”
She frowned. “Why does that sound like an insult?”
“I meant no offense. Any other female would gladly step into your shoes at this moment with no thought whatsoever to the expense. They would greedily take all that my cousin is giving without the slightest hesitation. Goodness knows Mama would accept such generosity if Will would allow it. My brother is too proud to take anything from Declan, and trust me, he has offered. Clearly you are more like my brother, for here you sit. Looking uncomfortable and faintly pale about the gills.”
Rosalie watched with ever-widening eyes as yards of glittering fabrics continued to pile upon the bed for Lady Peregrine’s examination. Dec’s aunt dove into the bolts of fabric with a feral glint to her eyes, sorting through them with expert care, already deep in conversation with the modiste over the various types of gowns Rosalie would need. Morning dresses. Walking dresses. Day dresses. Traveling dresses. Ball gowns. Nightgowns. Riding habits. Corsets. Stockings. Petticoats. Chemises . . .
It made her dizzy. “This is quite out of my depth.”
“You are the daughter of a duchess,” Aurelia reminded her.
A duchess who never had much use for her. Rosalie had been away at school for the last ten years, living a modest existence without even the smallest dose of extravagance. The greatest luxury she ever had at Harwich was, occasionally, mint jam with her toast.
The last of the shop girls returned then. Her arms full of ermine-trimmed cloaks of every conceivable shade.
“Close your mouth,” Aurelia gently suggested.
Blinking, she shut her mouth with a snap, but not before she silently vowed to send a trunk of clothing to Harwich at her first opportunity.
The morning passed in a blur. She was pinched and prodded and pinned. She stood still for their ministrations until her feet ached. Several gowns were pulled over her head, measurements noted, and then two assistants went to work with needle and thread so that she would have something to wear when they left today. It would be several days before the bulk of her wardrobe was ready.
“Mama.” Aurelia fell back on the chaise, clutching her stomach. “We’re hungry. Can we not take a respite for lunch?”
Lady Peregrine looked up from the swatches that she held up for comparison against Rosalie’s face. “We’ve much to do and a short amount of time. Really, Aurelia, think of Rosalie and don’t be so selfish.”
“I am thinking of Rosalie, Mama. She looks on the verge of expiring, too!”
Lady Peregrine shot her an exasperated look before fixing her attention once again on two swatches of blue that looked very much alike in Rosalie’s opinion. “Which one for the Colton ball?”
Aurelia flopped back on the chaise with a moan. “Mama, they are identical. We’re tired and famished.”
“Very well, you little monster.” Lady Peregrine flung a scrap of silk at her with a decided lack of heat. A smile played about her lips. “I’ll ring for some refreshments.”
“No need.” Aurelia popped back up, suddenly revived. “Rosalie and I will go. I want to make certain Cook gives us plenty of those little lemon biscuits with the raspberry icing.” When her mother looked ready to object, she added, “And those sandwiches you love, Mama. Enough for all. I’m certain that Mrs. Ashby and her staff could use some fortification, too.”
The modiste’s head jerked around from where she was surveying an assistant’s work on one of Rosalie’s day dresses. “That would be lovely. I am feeling rather peckish,” Mrs. Ashby agreed. The assistants nodded avidly.
“Oh, very well,” Lady Peregrine relented.
Aurelia grabbed Rosalie’s hand and tugged her down from where she stood on a small dais.
“Tell Cook to prepare enough for everyone. But really, must you both—”
The door closing behind them muffled Lady Peregrine’s final words.
“There now. You’re free. Go. You can thank me later. I’ll fetch enough food that Mrs. Ashby and her assistants shall be occupied for a good hour.”
“Go?” Rosalie shook her head. “Where?”
“Use your imagination. It’s a large house.” She batted her hands at Rosalie before turning for the stairs that led to the kitchens.
Rosalie stood there for a moment, weighing her options. Her room was in use. The library seemed a rather obvious place, as Lady Peregrine had already noted her fondness for books. She would know to look for her there.
Deciding a little fresh air might do her some good, she slipped out the back of the house into the small garden. The sun fought through the clouds, and she lifted her face to its feeble rays. She was accustomed to colder weather in Yorkshire. This felt as good as the warmest day she was ever treated to there.
She descended the steps and strode across the brick courtyard, past the bench and out onto the lawn. Bending, she removed her slippers and enjoyed the cool grass beneath her toes. Leaving them behind, she walked deeper into the garden, turning between two thick hedges of heather, stopping when she came to a large oak. She sank down before the base of it, the bark at her back. Stretching her legs out in front of her, she wiggled her exposed toes in the air, inching her skirts up to her knees.
Arching her neck, she looked up at the thick canopy of leaves, rustling softly in the wind. This almost felt normal. Out here she could almost forget what waited for her in that enormous house just beyond the courtyard. A luxurious life that suddenly felt too big. Frightening in its strangeness.
“You still have a fondness for the outdoors, I see.”
Her gaze dropped and she straightened, pushing her skirts back down to her ankles as she focused on Banbury standing before her.
“Your Grace.” She pulled back her head to look up at him, following the lean lines of his frame. “What are you doing here?”
“This is my house.” He waved a hand. “My garden.”
She flushed and started to rise. “Yes, of course. Of course, it is.”
“No, remain as you are. I did not mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t disturb me.” She watched with some alarm as he lowered himself to the grass and stretched out his long legs. He kept several feet between them.
His boot flat on the ground, he bent one knee and propped an arm casually upon it. “I understand the dressmaker is here.”
She nodded with a wincing smile.
“And yet you are out here?”
She nodded yet again.
He gazed at her curiously before looking down and plucking a blade of grass between his fingers. “Most girls would love an afternoon spent with a dressmaker, planning a grand new wardrobe.”
She held her tongue, uncertain what to say that did not make her appear ungrateful.
“You’re not most girls.” Not a question, but a statement. And one she did not know how to respond to. Indeed, he likely thought her mute.
He angled his head, his expression growing rather perplexed. “You were once a garrulous creature.”
She finally found her voice. “You remember me so well, then?”
It was his turn to stare at her in silence, as though she had caught him off guard with the question.
“Do you remember,” she began, clearing her throat and smiling slightly, “the time when I did not want to get wet so you carried me across the pond?”
She stared at him hopefully, waiting for his answer. She recalled that day often over the years. They had laughed so uproariously when he lost his balance and they splashed together into the pond.
He studied her slowly, looking her over, missing nothing. Not even the bare toes peeping out from her hem. He must think her terribly provincial, whilst he was so sophisticated in his rich dark jacket and silk cravat.
“No. I don’t.”
Her foolish heart sank.
Then he looked away again, flicking that bit of grass out into the yard with a sharp move. “Although I confess more memories have resurfaced since your arrival here.”
So he truly hadn’t thought of her over the years. Not as she had thought of him. Only now did his mind search back.
She nodded wordlessly. It was a sobering thought and stung more than it should. Clearly he had served a bigger part of her childhood than she had for him. A necessary realization, however. It put things in proper perspective.
He lied.
He remembered that day they fell in the pond with utter clarity. Aside from the hilarity of that afternoon, he remembered because when they returned home, dripping wet, it had been to the surprise of his father and Melisande’s arrival.
It was that visit when everything had changed. When his father had ceased to look at him fondly, proudly, as fathers looked at their sons.
It was the end of one life and the beginning of another.
“I remember you liked climbing trees,” he announced, compelled to give her something. She looked so crestfallen when he claimed that he didn’t remember that afternoon.
Her gaze snapped to his face, a smile tugging on her lips. “You do?”
He lifted one shoulder in a begrudging shrug, resenting that her smile should somehow satisfy him. “Only you could never quite manage to get down on your own.”
She laughed then, and strangely enough, the sound curled warmly around his heart. “I don’t know why I continued to try. I remember always thinking: I can climb this tree. This one will be different! Only once up there I could never successfully get down.”
He chuckled, nodding. “It was rather comical.”
“Your father never seemed to be amused. My antics drove him mad with worry. He said I would break my neck someday.”
Dec fell silent. Yes, he remembered that, too. His father had cared for her. More than her own mother had. He’d called her strawberry-top. Ultimately, his father had cared for her more than even his own son. Not too difficult, he supposed. Not when his sire grew to despise him.
She studied him warily, evidently aware the subject of his father was an unwelcome one. She would remember that night, after all. She had been there, watching from the top of the stairs, her child’s eyes wide with incomprehension as his father cursed him, struck him, and cast him from his house.
“Good thing my father was only around some of the time then,” he managed to say in an even voice. “He was not fully aware of how deeply your penchant for getting stuck in trees ran.”
“I suppose the good thing was you.” Her eyes softened, mirth returning to her mouth as she gazed at him, clearly relaxed and at ease in this moment. “Being around so often to get me down.”
His chest tightened uncomfortably. He looked from her, to the garden, and then back to her again. He could not recall being alone with a woman in such a companionable way as this when they were not both naked. And she was a woman now. No giggling little girl.
His gaze skimmed her slight form, considering her from the top of her head to the small feet peeking out from her hem. Her toes looked delicate, her ankles as shapely as any woman’s he had ever tasted. His gaze shifted back to her face and noted that her cheeks were flushed. She had not missed his inspection. His thorough study of her. He’d looked his fill. And he liked what he saw.
Suddenly, it seemed wise to put some distance between them. He’d given over her care to his aunt. There was no reason for this. For him to be out here talking with her, reminiscing like they were old friends. He did not have women who were friends. He had women he shagged. It only made sense that the more time he spent around her, the itch to get beneath her skirts would overtake him. That’s what he did. How he existed through life. She was clueless as to what manner of man he was.
“Aunt Peregrine is probably looking for you.”
She nodded hastily and rose to her feet, appearing almost anxious to be rid of him, too. He shoved off that sting to his ego. Perhaps she wasn’t as clueless as he assumed.
At any rate, he moved then, not bothering to wait for her as she reclaimed her shoes. He left the garden with swift strides lest she come to expect such moments as this. Moments of them together where he would drop his guard and soften, forgetting who he was—forgetting who she was.
He would be careful never to let that happen again.
