A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin by Sophie Jordan
Chapter 7
In a week’s time, Rosalie arrived at her first ball dressed in a gown she would never have imagined for herself. She had never worn anything so fine in her life. This fact only filled her with acute embarrassment. As though at any moment someone might look up, point at her and cry, Fraud! Imposter! Of course that didn’t occur.
She was dressed no more elegantly than any of the other ladies in attendance. In fact, her gown was simpler than some. The modiste had insisted that her slight frame needed no embellishments. None of the lace and ribbons and bows that adorned so many of the Season’s other debutantes. Her blue gown fit snugly at the bodice before flaring out in a full skirt, the hem of which was intricately threaded with black embroidery and pearls. The tiny cap sleeves were no more than thin scraps of black lace. The small, transparent sleeves, coupled with the heart-shaped neckline, made her feel decidedly exposed. She’d never revealed so much skin in her life, but Lady Peregrine insisted it was respectable.
As she stepped into the ballroom, she was awash in sensation. The lights, the sounds, the colors of gowns swishing past.
This was all she had dreamed. So why did it feel as though snakes writhed in her belly?
“Let the games begin,” Aurelia murmured at her side.
Lady Peregrine was quickly swallowed up by a bevy of chattering ladies—but not before looking over the head of one lady and narrowing a pointed look on both Rosalie and Aurelia.
Aurelia laughed lightly with a shake of her head. “We’ve been given our task. Let’s get to it then, shall we?”
Rosalie turned blinking eyes on the girl. “I beg your pardon?”
“Chin up. The wolves are already eyeing you.” Aurelia hid her mouth with her fan, leaning closer. “Mama has already seen to it that word of your dowry has spread throughout the ton, so you have blessed little to do. Simply smile and make yourself amenable.”
Rosalie faced the ballroom again, unsure how she felt about this information. She saw that several ladies and gentlemen were indeed looking her way, eyeing her avidly. She couldn’t help thinking that the look in several of the gentlemen’s eyes was more than simply speculative . . . but rather measuring. Like she was a sow at market to be judged and considered.
She lifted her chin as Aurelia advised and fought back a tide of nausea.
“Come. Let’s brave the den. I hope your slippers are comfortable. I expect you shall dance more than any other lady in attendance tonight.”
Rosalie glanced down at her slippers.
Aurelia chuckled, leading the way. “Try not to look so wide-eyed. It’s like waving a red flag for all these fine young bucks to come and devour you.”
She nodded jerkily, ignoring the whispers that erupted in their wake. Snatches of words drifted to her ears. Banbury . . . rich as Croesus . . . biggest dowry of the Season . . . fifty thousand . . .
She reminded herself that she had wanted this. Desperately. She had craved adventure. A chance to find love. The kind she read about in novels. The kind that the poets wrote of . . . she knew it was out there. Why else would the idea of it exist? She simply needed to be lucky enough—and persistent enough—to find it.
“And here comes the first.”
Rosalie looked up, her heart pounding in her chest as a man a good two decades older than herself approached. His chin disappeared amid the folds of his cravat.
He bowed to Aurelia, wiping a hand over his balding head.
“Lord Strickland,” Aurelia greeted. “How fine to see you again.”
He nodded and mumbled something so low that Rosalie could scarcely hear him.
“Yes, this is my cousin, Miss Rosalie Hughes.”
Lord Strickland clicked his heels together and bowed smartly over Rosalie’s hand, pressing a sloppy kiss to the back of her glove. His lips moved like slugs crawling over the thin fabric.
Upon rising, he motioned to the dance floor with another inaudible mumble. She glanced at Aurelia, who gave a nod of confirmation that he was indeed requesting a dance.
“Yes, I should like to dance, my lord,” Rosalie murmured very correctly, and allowed herself to be escorted onto the dance floor. Even not very tall, she stood a good half foot taller than Lord Strickland. She had no trouble looking over his head, which gave her a decided advantage in observing those who watched her. She frowned. All gentlemen twice her age, much like Lord Strickland. Where were all the young, handsome men of her fantasies?
In your fantasies.
She sighed and wondered if perhaps she had been naive when thinking about the manner of suitor she would find. Her gaze connected with Aurelia across the ballroom. She, too, danced, caught up close in the embrace of a man as wide as he was tall. Aurelia wiggled her fingers in a halfhearted wave over the swell of his shoulder. Rosalie grimaced, realizing in that moment that the lot of a debutante was not the most desirable fate after all. That the dream of adventure and excitement . . . love. It was just that. A dream.
“Must we be here?”
Dec glared at Max. “Yes. We must. And I’ve already explained why.”
Max leaned against the wall with a scowl. “I haven’t been to a ball since . . .” His eyes lifted as he considered. “Well. Since never.”
“No one said you had to come.”
His friend shrugged. “You said it wouldn’t take long.” He tugged at his cravat. “Can you make haste? The way some of these ladies are eyeing me is making me decidedly nervous.”
Dec laughed. “The elusive Viscount Camden is in their midst. Dance with a few of them. You’ll be all over the scandal sheets tomorrow.”
“Bloody hell,” Max growled. “I’ll resist the temptation.”
“Breathe easy. My aunt requested I make an appearance, dance with the chit once, and then we can be off.”
“Then be done with it.” Max gestured to the crowded room. “Before I’m set upon.”
“If I can locate her, I shall.” Dec’s narrowed gaze swept the room, searching for Rosalie among the mad crush of brightly colored gowns. He should have inquired the color of dress.
“There’s your cousin.” Max nodded toward Aurelia. “Termagent. She’s actually dancing with some poor sod.”
Dec’s lips lifted in amusement. “She’s only nasty to you, you know. She can be quite civil to other people. Pleasant, even.”
Max snorted. “A facade merely. I’ve known her since she was all of eight years old. The female is a barbed-tongued little witch.”
He chuckled and shook his head, but his laughter quickly faded as he spotted Rosalie on the dance floor. “There she is,” he murmured, assessing her in her finery. She looked right at home amid the glittering ton. Her hair was stunning. A fiery sunset that drew the eye.
“Ah. She does polish up rather well, although I must confess I preferred how she appeared the other eve,” Max mused beside him.
He shot his friend a quick glare. “How’s that?”
“She was rather beddable looking . . . all soft and sleep-tousled. Bodes well that a female can look appealing when so little effort has been made with her appearance.”
“I suppose,” he allowed, wondering at the tight pull of his skin and the clench of his fists. He didn’t like his friend looking at Rosalie that way . . . or talking about her in such a way. She was not some chit at Sodom for them to appraise.
“ ’Tis true. Look around you. A good amount of sparkling doves in attendance . . . but they all required hours to accomplish such a feat. It’s all illusion.”
The orchestra slowed and he knew the song was coming to an end. He inhaled and squared his shoulders. “Best see this done.”
Max clapped him on the shoulder. “Try not to look so miserable. You might send her cowering into one of the ferns.”
Somehow he found that unlikely. She’d already shown a fair amount of courage barging into his office in a fit of temper last week. Her fury had diminished. He’d watched it fade from her eyes as she reached the conclusion that a dowry—a season—wouldn’t be so bad. She forgave his presumption. She was no fool. She recognized it was a boon.
He arrived at her side just as the final notes came to a close. He recognized her partner as Lord Strickland. The man was older but not infirm or decrepit. Of good family, he had nothing sordid or illicit associated with his name. Unlike himself, Declan thought. Aunt Peregrine would deem Strickland the perfect candidate and entirely eligible.
Lord Strickland’s small, squinty eyes landed on him. “Your Grace, so good to see you. I’ve just had the pleasure of dancing with your sister—”
“Stepsister,” he corrected, his gaze dropping to Rosalie. Color painted her cheeks at his quick declaration, making her freckles almost more pronounced, dark brown flecks in her usually porcelain complexion.
“Yes, quite,” he uttered in that mumbling voice of his. “Well, she dances like an angel.”
He nodded, his gaze riveted to Rosalie. She wouldn’t meet his stare, instead training her attention somewhere just beyond his shoulder. Her disregard of him was blatant . . . and not a little annoying.
“Indeed, my lord. I shall have to see that for myself, then.”
Her gaze snapped to his face as if shocked by his words, treating him to the full blast of her topaz eyes. If possible, those twin red flags on her cheeks burned brighter.
“Oh, quite right. You must, you must,” Lord Strickland agreed effusively, stepping back with a wave.
Dec squared off in front of her and reached for her gloved hand, so small and slender. His bigger hand swallowed it. Her fingertips curled over the edge of his hand, and the corners of his mouth tugged upward as he gripped her waist. He tugged her closer. She came forward grudgingly. “I would almost think you didn’t want to dance with me, Carrots.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
He grinned then. Couldn’t help himself. They danced for several moments. Strickland was right. She danced very well. It was more like she floated, skimming the floor, the only thing keeping her anchored was his hands.
“You might not want to appear so averse when someone calls me your sister.”
His smile slipped. “You’re not my sister.”
Her gaze clashed with his. “And must you appear so vehement on that point? You’re acting as my guardian and ushering me through the Season. You might not want your distaste to appear so obvious.”
He stared down at her but said nothing. To be fair, he was not sure how he felt about her other than that he wanted her gone from his life. All his thoughts of her were tied too closely with his ill opinion of her mother. It was a tangled knot and he didn’t see any way to separate the strands.
The music came to an end and she dropped his hand, stepping back hastily. “I think that served to adequately give me your endorsement. In case the dowry was not sufficient enough. My thanks, Your Grace.” At those stiff words, she gave a hasty curtsy before weaving her way through the crowd, disappearing in the crush of bodies.
He slowly turned, glancing over his shoulder several times as if he would catch a glimpse of her.
“There now. Ready to go?” Max asked.
He nodded absently, trying to shake her from his thoughts and how she was nothing like he had imagined. Nothing like her cloying mother. Rosalie appeared almost as eager to be rid of him as he was of her.
“Yes. I’m finished here.”
