A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (2 page)

 

Chapter 2

D
eclan, the eighth Duke of Banbury, entered his home, accompanied by his usual companions: William, his cousin, the Earl of Merlton; and Maximus, Viscount Camden. He'd known them since Eton. His cousin, Will, of course, even longer. Veritable scoundrels, the both of them. Especially Max, who lacked the burden of family to frown over his exploits.

But then Dec was a scoundrel himself.

Of course, they weren't unaccompanied this night. There were women. There were always women. One for each of them. Lovely, buxom armfuls attired in gowns that revealed more than they covered.

A footman bolted awake from where he slept in a chair along the wall. “Y-­Your Grace,” he stammered, hastily running a hand down his rumpled waistcoat and wiping the drool from his chin.

Declan waved him off. “To bed with you, Link.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman bowed, a grateful smile playing about his lips as he disappeared from the foyer.

Declan assumed his old butler was lost in a deep sleep somewhere in the bowels of the house. Pendle had served Declan's father faithfully since before Declan's birth. Although the servant had never said anything, Declan sensed he had not approved of the way his father treated him. He'd seen warmth glowing in Pendle's rheumy eyes the day he took occupancy of the house, shortly after his father's death.

Pendle's hearing was not quite what it used to be, the only reason Declan could credit for him not rousing at the sound of their return. That and the fact that his friends were busy using their mouths in a manner that did not involve speech.

He led the group into the drawing room, his arm wrapped loosely around his companion for the evening.

The fire still flickered and danced in the hearth. The room was warm and cozy, inviting them in.

“Gor, is this place all yours?” Janie or Janet or some such name asked, her head tilted back to take in the high-­domed ceiling. She snuggled against his side, all round curves and pliant flesh. Her Gypsy dark eyes settled back on him, appraising him with fresh admiration. It seemed he had grown in her estimation since stepping into his home.

Home
. The word rang hollowly. Ever since his father cast him out all those years ago, this place had not felt like a home. His father would roll over in his grave to know that he brought these women here. He would consider them beneath his ilk. Fallen doves fit for a tumble at a bawdy house, but never to cross the threshold of his house. A slow, satisfied smile curled Declan's lips at the happy thought.

“You like it, poppet?” He dipped a finger inside her bodice and dragged it against the swell of a generous breast.

A breathy gasp escaped her and she pushed deeper into his touch. “Oh, aye, I like it, milord,” she replied, a little too dramatically for his taste, but then she was an actress. She and her companions had performed in the bawdy production of
The Education of Miss Annabel Hammersham
at the Weymouth Playhouse just this evening. A titillating performance, to be certain.

Dimly, he was aware of his friends moving throughout the room to the assorted furniture, taking their companions with them.

Declan's partner for the evening was the woman who had portrayed the much lauded Miss Annabel Hammersham. She looped her arms around his neck and lifted on her tiptoes to nibble at his throat. She tugged his cravat loose and tossed it to the floor. “That's better,” she murmured, her cockney accent fighting its way forward. He closed his eyes, appreciating the play of her mouth on his neck.

“Oh, look what we have here? A present. For us, Dec? How thoughtful.”

Declan opened his eyes to follow his cousin's gaze—­—­landing on a sleeping female curled up on the settee near the fireplace. He frowned.

Who in the bloody hell was that
?

He processed the shock of copper hair spilling over the blue upholstery.

Loosening his arms from Janie/Janet and approaching the settee, he gave voice to his thoughts. “Who is she?”

Will and Max crowded around him. “You don't know her?”

He shook his head slowly, eyeing the slim length of her. He could discern little of her shape beneath the shapeless cloak, but he didn't think her very ample. Not in the manner he preferred. He enjoyed sinking into curves . . . filling his hands full of them.

“Well, then.” His cousin sank on the couch beside her. “Shall I wake her with a kiss and find out how precisely she came to be in your drawing room at this hour of the night?” Will brushed a fiery strand of hair back from her forehead. She sighed and rolled onto her back, giving them all a better view of her features. A vague cord of recognition stirred in him. He grasped for the thread but it eluded him.

“I can only imagine what she came here for at this hour,” Max murmured, which only made the woman at his side titter stupidly. “She's likely a former bedmate interested in a repeat performance from our Dec here.”

Janie/Janet pressed herself close against him, reminding him of her presence. “I thought this was a private tête-à-tête.” Her bottom lip pushed out in a pout. “I'm not as adventurous as you may think, milord. I prefer my men to myself.”

“No surprise there. You're not the sharing kind,” one of the other females taunted.

“Shut up, Hettie,” she snapped and then turned to face Declan, sliding her hands up the front of his waistcoat in an effort to reclaim his attention. “I thought you and I were going to get acquainted better.” Her voice lowered to a husky whisper. “Just the two of us.”

“Indeed,” he tossed out carelessly as his gaze drifted over her head to the girl on the couch. The female stirred restlessly, no doubt the sound of their voices disturbing her sleep.

He frowned as Will skimmed a hand around her waist in an overly familiar manner, gliding up her rib cage. “She's a little thing, but fetching, no? Like some woodland nymph.”

Unease skittered down his nape. The situation did not sit well with him, and just as he opened his mouth to command his cousin to remove his hands from her person, her eyes flew wide open and he was treated to the sight of her face in full animation.

Confusion followed by horror crossed the smooth features. She scrambled into a sitting position, shoving Will's hand off her and treating him to a resounding slap across the face.

The
crack
reverberated on the air like cannon fire.

No one moved. No one breathed.

They all stared. At her.

She stared back, her cat eyes darting to each face in the room, her chest heaving as though she had just run a great distance.

Then one of the females laughed thinly, shattering the silence. It was a tinny, nervous sound. “You realize you struck an earl? You'll likely hang for that.”

Dec snorted, swallowing the noise as he watched all color bleed from the strange girl's face.

Will, still clutching his cheek, found his voice. “What was that for?”

Instead of answering him, her gaze darted around the room, assessing, taking their measure. When her gaze landed on him, she stopped there. “Declan,” she murmured, her lips barely moving.

He cocked his head to the side. “Do I know you?”

Her chin came up. She lowered her legs so that her boots brushed the floor. A scuffed, well-­worn pair of boots. His housemaids owned better boots.

“It's me.” As though remembering herself, she held his gaze with disarming directness and added, “Rosalie. Rosalie Hughes.”

He stared, his throat tightening as memories he did not know he even possessed flooded him. Rosalie following him about the countryside. Rosalie spying on him flirting with the vicar's daughter. Rosalie stuck in a tree. Now he knew why she was so familiar to him. Bloody hell.

Carrots
.

As if her mere name were not enough explanation, she added, “Your stepsister.”

Her hair had deepened. It was not quite the orange-­red of her childhood, but it was still as bright as a sunset, especially cast in the fire's glow. The wide eyes set in the elfin face were familiar, too. They glowed like cat's eyes, fringed in long lashes and as watchful as ever.

“Rosalie?” he said, his voice hoarse.

She nodded once, tossing that wild hair of hers around her slight shoulders.

All eyes swung to him, awaiting his reaction with rapt fascination.

“Out,” he managed. No one stirred, and it occurred to him that they might not have heard his low utterance. “Leave us!”

Everyone scurried to action at his bark.

A tug on his sleeve drew his attention to the woman pressed up against him. He had forgotten all about her. Clearly his bark had not sent her running.

“Banbury,” she whined in a singsong voice. “I thought we were going to have fun this evening.”

Without a word, he reached inside his waistcoat. He extended several notes to her. “Here you are. For your troubles.”

With a huff, she looked from him to the money. She tossed a baleful look to the woman on the settee and then leveled a glare back on him. “Enjoy the rest of your evening with your ‘sister.' ” From the way she emphasized
sister,
she clearly did not believe they were related.

Snatching the notes from his hand, the actress swished past him in a flurry of skirts. Everyone else followed, casting him speculative looks. His cousin and Max no exception.

Will was the last to step from the room. Arching one dark eyebrow at Dec, he closed the door after them with a sharp click.

And then it was just them.

Dec all alone with a girl he had not seen since the night his father cast him out. He could still recall his final glimpse of her. Carroty hair wild around her head and shoulders, clutching an old doll as she spied on them from the top of the stairs. She had witnessed his shame. A boy of fifteen years weeping like an infant.

A sour taste coated his mouth. He could think of no one he would rather see less. Well, apart from her mother, of course. Both females belonged to an era of his life he wished to forget.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

She scooted to the edge of the sofa, folding her hands primly in her lap. “Mrs. Heathstone, the headmistress of Harwich, deposited me here.” She paused at his blank look, apparently hoping he might say something. He held silent and she plunged ahead, “Harwich is the school I've been attending for the last ten years.”

He continued to stare, still waiting for further explanation. Those slim, pale fingers of hers fidgeted and shifted restlessly.

“She sent you a missive.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged stiffly. He vaguely recalled receiving it. Once he realized it had to do with his stepmother's daughter he'd stopped reading.

She processed this reaction with a blink before continuing. “I completed my studies two years ago.” Her fingers flexed in her lap. They were slim. Like her. She could use a meal or two. Did they not feed her at this school? He assessed her critically. She might have grown taller, her hair may have somewhat darkened and her features may have sharpened and lost some of their baby roundness, but the rest of her hardly gave a nod toward womanhood.

“Two years ago,” she repeated, as though this should mean something to him. “When I was eighteen.”

“Congratulations,” he managed to get out, still lost as to why she was here.

She twisted her fingers until they looked bloodless. “And now I am twenty.” She spoke slowly, as though he was dense or she was trying to reach a child.

He shook his head, certain she was trying to explain something but simply not following her. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Miss Hughes? Is that why you're here? You want something from me?”

Even in the murky glow of the room he could discern the bright splash of color in her cheeks—­—­they seemed to darken the smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks. “Forgive me, but this is terribly awkward, Your Grace.”

“Just arrive at the point, then.”

“I've been at Harwich for two years. Not as a pupil and not as a member of the staff. It has been Mrs. Heathstone's sheer goodwill that has kept me on there. Mama has not sent a penny for my care. Not since I completed my studies. She has ignored all of Mrs. Heathstone's letters.”

He blinked at the mention of her mother. His stepmother.
Melisande
. He had mostly banished the memory of her. Except in the darkest dream, but there was little he could do to prevent that.

Seeing no way around it, he asked, “Where is your mother?”

“That is it precisely, Your Grace. I do not know.”

I do not know
. A simple enough declaration, but it held a wealth of implication. If she didn't know where her mother was, and she had essentially been dumped here by her schoolmistress, then she was his problem now.

Bloody hell
.

Oh, he supposed he could cast her out. There was no one to force him to take her in, house her, feed her, but he could not abandon her to the streets. A lone female with no other relations. It was unconscionable, even for him.

Just to be certain of that point, he asked, “And have you no other relations? Your father's ­people? What of them?”

She shook her head, her gaze dropping. She made a perfect study of those hands in her lap again as she answered him. “No. My father's parents are gone. I believe he had a brother . . . but he never married. The last I heard, he settled somewhere in America.”

With a muttered epithet, he strode across the room and lifted the snifter of brandy from its tray. He poured himself a healthy swig and downed it. This evening had taken a decidedly foul turn. “I suppose that leaves me then, doesn't it?”

At her silence, he turned to look back at her, sitting so small and quietly. “No reply? You used to be full of chatter.” That's what he remembered of her. A little magpie. When she followed him about, she would pelt him with questions mercilessly.