A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin by Sophie Jordan

Chapter 9

The house was silent when Dec returned later that night. He’d stayed away all day, through dinner and after, having no desire to return home to a house full of women chattering on about wedding plans.

His tread fell silently over the runner, his movements slightly stiff. He’d taken a beating today at Jackson’s and his knuckles were tender along with the side of his torso, but he didn’t regret it. It had helped. For a time at least. It always did—always helped chase the numbness that seemed to encase him every day of his life. He felt in those moments. Even if it was painful. Pounding his fists into another man’s flesh and taking another’s blows into his body always made him feel alive.

He was almost to his bedchamber door when the door to the chamber two down from his was flung open. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you all day, Your Grace.”

He turned, watching in bewilderment as Rosalie advanced on him, her arms folded across her chest like some sort of militant headmistress.

“You’ve been waiting for me?” He arched a dark eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

Her topaz eyes flashed gold fire. “How dare you accept a marriage proposal on my behalf?”

She stopped before him and he looked down at her, his bewilderment no less abated. As if realizing how close she stood—and how much larger and taller he was, she stepped hastily back one pace.

He leaned against his door, crossing his arms in much the same manner as her pose. “Was marriage not the idea? I thought we were in agreement on that. Why else would I have bestowed a dowry on your head? Sent for my aunt to usher you through the Season.”

“Marriage, fine. Yes. I understood that was the goal, but that does not give you the right to choose who I will or will not marry. You are not my father. I make that decision. Me.” She pressed a hand to her chest, drawing his attention to the slight swell of her breasts beneath the modest nightgown.

He slowly lifted his gaze back to her face. “And I take it you do not approve of Strickland?”

“He is not my choice, no,” she bit out. “A fact that you might have discovered if you had only but asked me.”

“Fine,” he bit out. “Far be it from me to force you to wed anyone against your will. This is not the dark ages.”

She blinked. “Y-You will not attempt to coerce—”

“As you said, I’m not your father.”

She nodded, eyeing him uncertainly. Did she think him such a monster that he would force her to the altar against her will?

He unclenched his jaw to add, “No, not your father—merely the man whose pockets you prevail upon whilst you go about on your merry quest to find a husband to your specifications. Tell me, have you any notion how long it will take you to find this paragon of manhood good enough to tempt your lofty personage to the altar?”

She pulled back, clearly affronted. The color rode high in her cheeks and her eyes sparked. “You mock me?”

He feigned an innocent look. “Never.”

“I was not aware there was a time limit. Perhaps you should alert me how long I have, Your Grace?”

She spat his title like it was an epithet. She was maddening.

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Had she always been so insufferable? “I simply hope you do not intend to drag this out into next Season.” He motioned around him. “This is a bachelor residence. Precisely how I like it and hope to soon reclaim it.”

“Indeed.” That nose went up a notch and the motion sent her hair tumbling back over her shoulders. He eyed the fiery banner falling over her shoulder, undulating in waves to the middle of her back. His hands curled at his sides, itching to touch, to feel the mass, to see if it felt as soft as it looked. A sudden image of him wrapping a fist around it and tugging her head back for—

He shook his head once, hard, knocking the thought out of his head.

She kept talking, looking so indignant, that impertinent mouth of hers moving like she was the aggrieved party and not he. “My apologies for being such an imposition . . . perhaps my mother will return—”

He huffed a breath. “Do not rely upon your mother.” The very suggestion sent a flash of annoyance through him. “I think you would have learned that lesson by now.”

“But I’m to rely on you?” she rejoined, her expression skeptical.

“Your odds are better relying upon me, yes. Your headmistress knew that. That’s why she left you here.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, her lips parted slightly. Her breath, he noticed, seemed to fall a little faster. As if this entire encounter agitated her . . . affected her. Was it just that he had angered her by accepting Strickland’s offer? Or was it more than that? He seriously doubted the same manner of inappropriate thoughts tripping through his head even crossed her mind.

She clearly lacked the experience to entertain such lascivious ideas. She probably wouldn’t even know what to do with that impertinent mouth of hers. His gaze fixed on the plump bottom lip. Her top lip was equally appealing . . . dipping deeply at the center, sharply delineating her lips. He was tempted to lean forward and lick that mouth, trace their fascinating shape with his tongue.

The sudden impulse made his cock stir and strain against his breeches. He shifted where he stood, willing his arousal down. Bloody hell. This was inopportune. Especially with her looking at him as though he was something to be scraped off the bottom of her boot. Perhaps he should have stopped off at Sodom and eased himself in some willing female. He was overdue a visit there.

He slid his gaze down the long length of corridor before returning his eyes to her. They were alone, but anyone could hear them and emerge. He really should end this conversation. Restraint wasn’t his strong suit. Especially concerning females. His body was having a hard time acknowledging his mind’s instructions that this one was off-limits.

She moistened her lips, her eyes gleaming brightly with bitter emotion. “Sad testament to my life, is it not? That you are the only one I can rely on.” Instead of looking sad or pitiable, she actually appeared furious over the circumstances of her life. He drank in the sight of her—unbound hair, cheeks afire, eyes bright with emotion, and, the thought slipped in, unbidden, treacherous, unpardonable . . .

Was this how she would look beneath him, moving and arching as he buried himself deep?

He sucked in a breath. The sudden thought startled him. Felt more jarring than a fist to his ribs—and he knew precisely how that felt. He’d taken several such blows today.

“We all have our burdens to bear,” he replied, his hand moving to the latch on his door, suddenly anxious to flee her and the image that was now branded on his brain.

He did not like her. Any more than she liked him. He did not want her here, in his life.

And he most especially did not want her.

Very well. That last part was a lie. He wanted her. But no more than any other sweet-smelling female of passing good looks.

He enjoyed women. All manner of women. He liked them short. Tall. Brunettes. Fair-haired. His gaze skimmed her hair again. Carrot-haired.

As long as they were willing and enthusiastic, they served to chase the numbness, for however long the tryst lasted, at least. Which was perhaps why he never went long without a tryst.

His mind backtracked and it suddenly dawned on him that he hadn’t slaked his lusts on a woman in a fortnight. That explained his over-active libido in her presence. A matter he should correct. Perhaps then he would cease to wonder what Rosalie would feel like beneath him.

He shifted his feet and the action pulled at something tender in his side. He winced at the ache, a hand moving to his ribs.

Her gaze shot from his face to his hand. “Are you injured?”

“ ’Tis nothing.” He forced his hand down to his side.

Frowning, she reached out as though to touch him. He stepped back a pace, dodging her hand, and the sudden move had him wincing again.

“You are hurt,” she insisted. “Shall I ring for a physician?”

“ ’Tis nothing.”

She eyed him skeptically, half turning with the clear intention to hunt down a servant on his behalf.

He sighed. “I visited Jackson’s Saloon today.”

Her blank stare conveyed that this meant nothing to her.

“Gentlemen visit there when they wish to box.”

“Box?” she echoed. “As in pugilism?”

He nodded.

“You mean you let someone strike you with his fists?”

He squared back his shoulders. “I manage a few blows of my own.”

“That’s savage and—and idiotic.”

He stiffened, quite certain no one had ever called him that before. Scoundrel, yes. Rake, yes. His father had a few choice words for him, but never idiotic. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

“Inviting bodily injury can be called nothing else. Why on earth would you desire such a thing? Would you care to stick your hand in this door?” She waved a hand toward his chamber door. “I can slam it on you several times.”

He looked heavenward before leveling his gaze on her again. “There would be no sport in that, now would there?”

With a growl of disgust, she reached for him again. “Let me see.”

“What? No!” He sidestepped her hands. “It’s not that bad.”

“How do you know you haven’t broken a rib?”

He snatched hold of her wrists, trapping them between their bodies. Bodies, he realized, that were suddenly much too close. His nostrils flared, catching the scent of her. Clean, sweet female. No cloying perfumes. She watched him mildly, clearly unaffected at their proximity, immune, unaware of how close he was to shedding restraint and doing what he did best when he had a woman this close to him.

“I know,” he managed to get out between his clenched teeth, “because I’ve suffered a broken rib before. ’Tis nothing.”

Her eyes flitted over his face before lowering to where his fingers locked around her wrists, easily spanning them. He flexed his grip. Her bones felt so slight and small, as though the barest pressure could snap them. He quickly released her, adding distance between them once again.

“I think you’ve said all there is to be said,” he declared after an awkward silence.

She rubbed her wrists as though trying to rid herself of the memory of his touch, and the gesture pricked at his pride. “That’s it. You’re dismissing me, then?”

“You’ve made your point. I shall never presume to accept a marriage proposal on your behalf again.”

“Indeed.” Nodding jerkily, she pressed her lips into a defiant line and marched into her room, shutting the door not too gently behind her. If his aunt and cousin were asleep, then they no longer were.

He began to turn for his room, but then stopped. His cock still felt uncomfortably hard in his breeches. There would be no sleep for him. With a curse, he turned and strode back down the stairs, intent on rectifying the matter.

Perhaps, then, the next time he found himself alone with his stepsister he wouldn’t fantasize about burying his nose in all that soft-looking hair as he sank into her body.

“Rosalie! Are you asleep?”

The query came loud, for all that it was whispered through her door.

“If I was, then I am no longer,” she groused, sitting up from where she had flung herself across the bed not so long ago, still troubled over her encounter with Dec.

What was wrong with the man, that he sought out physical pain? A sensible man would avoid such abuse. There was nothing sensible about him. She did not understand him. Not at all. Nor did she understand the undeniable pull she felt toward him. True, he was offering her a roof over her head . . . a Season, a dowry, but he was not a kind man for all of that. He was hard. Rude and curt and high-handed. And yet when she was near him, she wanted to stand closer. Those big hands on her wrists . . .

She wanted to feel them again. There and elsewhere . . .

The door opened. Aurelia hurried across the room, an abundance of white fabric in her arms.

“What have you there?” She nodded at the profusion of white.

“A gown.” Her friend dropped it on the bed, and it was then that Rosalie was given the full impact of Aurelia’s attire.

She was not garbed in her nightgown . . . although a nightgown might have been more modest than the black ensemble she wore. The dark fabric complimented her olive-hued skin much better than the pastels she usually wore. It was scandalously low-cut and lacked the fullness of a skirt, as was current fashion. It was very Grecian in style, and form-hugging. Which for Aurelia, with her ample bosom and curves, was almost criminal. Typically, her clothes made her look plump, but in this gown, the truth of her narrow waist and lush, womanly curves was on full display.

“What are you wearing?”

“A gown. Do you like it?” She smoothed a hand over her rounded hip. “This one is for you. Hopefully it fits.” Aurelia pointed at the lump of white fabric on the bed.

Rosalie reached for the garment and held it up between her fingertips to see that it, too, was in the same style. The fabric very fine and diaphanous. “Where did you get these? They’re scandalous.”

“I did it.”

Rosalie stared at her uncomprehendingly. “What?”

She continued. “I went to Sodom. This afternoon. I called on the proprietress, Mrs. Bancroft, all by myself.”

Rosalie lurched up on the bed on her knees. “You did what?”

Aurelia nodded, her brown curls looking almost as black as her dress. “She met with me in her private office. Oh, Rosalie, she was ever so sophisticated. She promised us discretion.”

“You are serious?”

Aurelia frowned. “Were you not? Earlier today. I did not mistake your meaning, did I?”

Rosalie shook her head. “No . . . I am . . . I am ready for . . .”

Whatprecisely? Was she ready for Sodom?

“Oh, excellent! I do not know if I could have gone it alone.” Aurelia exhaled and then snatched Rosalie’s dress back from her. “Come. I’ll help you into your gown. My maid, Cecily, will fetch us a hack around back. And look. Mrs. Bancroft gave us these. To protect our identities on this adventure.”

Aurelia nodded to the two dominos she had dropped on the bed. Rosalie lifted the masks. One was black and the other red.

“I think I should wear the red . . . offer some contrast with my black gown. And the same purpose should serve for you with the black. Don’t you think?”

Rosalie lifted the midnight-dark mask to her face, fingering the satin that stretched over the stiffer brocade.

“Oh, that looks splendid.” Aurelia hopped where she stood for a moment, jiggling her breasts so much that they looked dangerously close to spilling free of her scandalously tight bodice. “And let us not forget these.” She waved two wigs in the air.

“Wha—”

“Mrs. Bancroft said it will help protect your identity. And with your very recognizable hair, it’s really a must. I’ll take this lovely golden wig. You wear the black one. It’s very Cleopatra, no? With your white gown . . . perfect!”

Rosalie fingered the sleek black strands, excitement humming low in her belly. She was really doing this.

Aurelia clapped her hands. “Let’s get you in the dress first, shall we? No corset, mind you. It won’t look right.”

Rosalie’s gaze snapped up to her face. “No corset?”

Aurelia stretched out the scrap of bodice between her hands as though that served as explanation enough. “Come. Let’s simply see, shall we?”

She permitted Aurelia to help her undress and slip into the gown. Turning, she could scarcely breathe as her friend buttoned the tiny rows of buttons at her back. It had nothing to do with the fit of the dress, either. It was all nerves. The riot of butterflies in her belly.

What am I doing?

“Oh, and these stockings! We mustn’t forget these.”

Rosalie put them on, blanching at the decadent pair of sheer stockings—nothing like the serviceable, modest ones she always wore. These were thin as cobwebs with a thin strip of lace running up the outside of her thighs. She shifted, stunned at the decadent sensation of the material on her bare legs. Aurelia helped her tie them off with lacy garters.

“There. Now . . . the wig.” She struggled for some moments, knotting Rosalie’s hair close to the base of her scalp before securing the wig in place. The dark strands swished sleekly just past Rosalie’s shoulders.

Aurelia stood back and waved her arms with a flourish. “Oh! You look like some princess from an ancient era, ready for seduction. See for yourself.”

On shaking legs, Rosalie moved to stand before the mirror. Her mouth parted on a gasp.

A stranger stared back at her. The white material clung indecently, appearing soft, beckoning the hand. The bodice dipped so low it revealed not only the top swells of her breasts but the pale, smooth expanse of skin between the small mounds. She even imagined she could make out the dusky outline of her nipples beading against the white fabric. The black mask was startling—a stark contrast against the creamy canvas of skin and gown.

The dark wig framing her face altered what was visible of her features, creating the illusion of bigger eyes, coal-dark and faintly exotic within the domino.

Denial surged on her lips. She couldn’t go out like this. But then the realization sank in that she enjoyed it . . . the way she looked excited her. Filled her with courage and emboldened her.

And no one had to know it was her.

Smiling, she faced Aurelia. “Now let’s finish you off and be gone from here.”