A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (15 page)

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.

 

Chapter 19

T
he day dawned bright, the sunlight bringing with it the harsh reminder of last night. Rosalie was his girl from Sodom. No, he corrected himself. Not his girl.
Never
his girl.

Myriad feelings swamped him. Distaste that she had ever been there. Had ever stepped within its walls and seen the things she had doubtless seen. Guilt. As though he should have somehow known it was her in the shadows. As though he should have known it was her beneath his mouth, shuddering and coming apart under his lips and tongue and teeth.

Perhaps a part of him had suspected all along? Bloody hell, he didn't know. He'd lost perspective.

He only knew that he wanted the girl at Sodom. And he wanted Rosalie. They were the two women he had wanted for the last few weeks. The only two. And they were one and the same. It was a significant realization . . . even if he was not entirely certain what it meant and what to do about it.

He couldn't stop thinking about last night. About all she had said.

She'd gone to Sodom for adventure. A taste of passion. Her first kiss. By her own admission, she had wanted a choice in her fate.

And she had chosen him.

This continued to sink its way inside him. She'd chosen him for her first kiss. And then she had come back for more. He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. How had he managed to break free last night? She knew how to kiss now. Expertly. Enough to leave him aching. She knew how to touch him. And those little sounds she made in the back of her throat—­the very sounds that gave her away last night—­drove him mad. He'd never been with a more responsive woman.

It was a dangerous thing, knowing she was beneath his roof. In close proximity. He'd thought of her for days, and now she was so close.

He expelled a great breath, knowing he'd have to venture from his rooms eventually. He had told Aunt Peregrine he would join them at the Collingsworth ball this evening.

He sank deeper into his armchair, circling the rim of his half-­full glass of brandy with one finger. He would not be alone with her tonight. He needn't worry about repeating the incident in the library. He had come close then to forgetting. Who she was. Who he was.

He would not forget again.

T
hey shared a carriage to the Collingsworth ball. This was the first time Dec had seen fit to accompany them to a social gathering. He usually joined them later at such events. It was awkward, to say the least. He shared the side with Aunt Peregrine, seated directly across from her. He trained his attention outside, through the cracked curtain, as his aunt rattled off the names of gentlemen Rosalie was to pay special attention to this evening.

He had not seen her since the night in the library. Somehow, they had managed to stay out of each other's way. He had not changed his daily patterns, so he could only think the effort was on her part. She was trying to avoid him.

“And Aurelia, George Snidely will be there. He's always paid special attention to you, dear. I expect you to return his attention in kind. This would be quite the triumph if I could see you both engaged by the Season's end.”

Aurelia sighed and turned her head so that only Rosalie could hear her mutter, “Not with the likes of George Snidely, I won't.”

Rosalie stifled a laugh. Dec must have heard the sound though. He turned his attention from the window to gaze at her with an inscrutable stare. She quickly sobered, feeling guilty. As though she somehow should not feel amusement.

She tried to offer up a smile, but it only felt weak and brittle. He held her gaze a moment longer and then turned his attention back outside.

Sighing, she crossed her hands in her lap, wishing she knew what to say or do to make things right between them again. They had been good. At least for a short while. After he'd fetched her from her mother's, there was something there between them. Something more than indifference or vague animosity. A friendliness, a truce of some sort, however fleeting. Now that was gone and she didn't know how to get it back again. If it was even possible.

The carriage pulled up before the glittering mausoleum that belonged to the Earl of Collingsworth. She was soon guided up the steps and into the grand foyer, escorted by Dec. It was all Aunt Peregrine's plan. For her to be
visibly
linked to the Banbury dukedom and no longer under her mother's shadow. For the bachelors of the
ton
to see her as beyond eminently eligible.

Her fingers barely rested on his arm as though afraid to exert any pressure. As though doing so was a presumption she dared not convey to him. It was already difficult . . . this sense that she was using him for her own gain. What did he gain from his association to her?

Following her introduction to the earl and his family, she soon found herself at the edge of the dance floor. A kaleidoscope of gowns in every possible color whirled past.

“Go on now,” Aunt Peregrine encouraged. “Out there with the both of you. What better way for Rosalie to be seen than for you to lead her in her first dance?” She wagged her fan toward the dance floor.

“Oh, no.” Rosalie shook her head. “That's not necessary—­”

“Come.” Dec took her elbow and guided them into the current of dancers.

She bit her lip and focused on not stepping on his toes. She was rattled. Finding herself in his arms, dancing so close with his hand wrapped around hers, the other at the back of her waist.

“I thought you enjoyed dancing,” he said after some moments.

“I do.”

“Then you have no wish to dance with me.”

“No, that's not it,” she said quickly, her gaze flying to his rather intense expression. She closed her eyes briefly. She was making a muck of things. As usual. “You've done so much for me. I didn't wish for you to feel further obligation.”

“It's merely a waltz, Rosalie.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

They danced several more moments. He moved beautifully. With a grace that belonged to some jungle cat.

“You shouldn't have to stay too long,” she said. “After this, your aunt should be satisfied and you can go.”

“Trying to rid yourself of me? Am I such a poor dancer? Or is it my breath?”

“Not at all. I'm only certain there are other places you would prefer to be.” Places like Sodom. With women that were all they appeared to be. Uncomplicated.

He looked down at her, his green eyes intent and yet unreadable. As though he read her mind, he replied, “I have not been back there since you.”

Heat flooded her face. There was no confusing where
there
was.

She was tempted to ask why and yet afraid to as well. It was none of her business.

“I only went that one night because you sent me that missive.”

Her face burned at the reminder of the note she had sent him. It was blatantly brazen. She pushed past her mortification to what he was saying. To the implication of his words.

He had returned to Sodom only for her. He had not gone since.

The dance came to an end. She spotted Aunt Peregrine waving her over. Dec followed her gaze.

“It appears my aunt has need of you.”

She nodded, feeling shaky inside. Not a new occurrence, but more so since he'd discovered the truth. That she was the woman he'd been with at Sodom. That he had kissed her. Touched
her.
She could hardly look at him without that knowledge making butterflies erupt inside her—­the awareness that nothing stood between them anymore, no disguises, no hidden truths.

“Thank you for the dance.”

Taking her elbow, he escorted her back to her aunt. Rosalie pasted a smile on her face as Aunt Peregrine introduced her to a young man fresh out of Eton who looked close to her own age. Mr. Fanning bent over her hand even as his gaze fixed on Dec. Clearly, he seemed in awe of the Duke of Banbury.

“A pleasure to meet you.” He spared Rosalie only a glance as he uttered this. “My cousin is the Viscount Wescott. I believe you know him, Your Grace.”

Dec nodded absently, flicking Fanning a glance before sliding his stare back to Rosalie. “I believe we are acquainted,” he responded.

“He speaks very highly of you, Your Grace.”

Dec's lip curled into a smirk. “Indeed? I can hardly recall his face.” Mirth brimmed in his eyes. She looked away, hoping to hide her grin. This was a bit of the boy she remembered. Mischievous and incorrigible.

Fanning sputtered, no doubt feeling foolish. Aunt Peregrine pushed any awkwardness aside with her chatter. Before Rosalie knew it, Aunt Peregrine had persuaded them into a dance. Another waltz played. Fanning didn't dance half as well as Dec, but she doubted many gentlemen did. She would have to stop comparing other men to him if she was ever to marry anyone else and find any level of contentment with him.

“You must be very close to your stepbrother,” Fanning offered in way of conversation.

“Yes. I suppose I am.”

No sense denying it. That was the idea they wanted to give, after all. That whoever she married would also have the benefit of an alliance with the Duke of Banbury.

“You're very fortunate.”

She looked sharply at Fanning's boyish features. Fortunate? Fortunate that Dec saw fit to bring her under his wing when she was no actual blood relation to him? Fortunate that he bestowed her with such a generous dowry?

“Yes. I suppose I am.” Her gaze moved from the boy who held her hand limply in his moist one. She looked across the room, searching for the man who occupied her thoughts with such single, burning intensity.

She sucked in a breath when she found him. He stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching her. Tall, broad-­shouldered and narrow-­hipped in his black evening attire, he was easily the most attractive man in the room, and every woman knew it from the way they cast their eyes his way. She knew it, too. He was everything she desired, but he was beyond her reach.

Aunt Peregrine and Aurelia had moved off and he stood alone, with a face void of expression, watching her circle the dance floor with Fanning.

Fanning followed her gaze. “He seems a much devoted brother. I confess to hardly speaking to my sister when I visit home. Although she does spend most of her time in the nursery playing with her dolls. Perhaps when she is older that will change and I, too, shall stand protectively at the edge of a ballroom watching as she waltzes with suitors.”

Is that how he viewed Dec? As a protective older brother? If he only knew that her alleged “brother” had kissed her until her knees went weak. Her face warmed at the memory. Until she recalled how he had stopped and pulled away. Then she felt only cold.

She dragged her gaze back to Fanning and smiled weakly, attempting to encourage him. That was the plan, after all.

Fanning smiled back at her, no doubt emboldened. “You're a fine dancer, Miss Hughes. A fine dancer indeed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fanning. It is easy with you for a partner.”

They were merely words, pleasantries, but they felt so very final. The words settled like bricks in her stomach. As Fanning smiled widely, she knew he was hers if she would have him. And this time she must. If not him, then someone else. And soon. It might as well be him.

This time she couldn't run or refuse with all the haste of some spoiled debutante with the leisure of choice and time on her side.

She looked out at the dance floor again, searching for Dec. He stood in the same spot. As she whirled past him, she turned her head, her gaze locked with his.

His eyes were inscrutable, but she didn't need to wonder what he was thinking. She knew it had to be similar to her own thoughts. That she might have finally found her husband.