A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (6 page)

He focused on Strickland again. Once again the man was babbling, his hands moving rapidly with his enthusiasm as he discussed a spring wedding.

Dear God
. Did Strickland actually think he gave a damn over the wedding particulars? He pushed off from where he leaned against the mantel. “You've my blessing. I leave you to discuss plans with my aunt.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” The much shorter man seized his hand and pumped it in a handshake several times, simultaneously clapping Dec on the back. For one terrible moment it actually looked as though the man would hug him.

“Congratulations, Strickland.” He extricated himself and made his way to the door. “I believe you can locate my aunt in the salon. Rosalie will likely be with her. You're family now. You're welcome to find your way there and tell them the happy news.”

Strickland ran a hand over his bald, perspiring scalp. “Indeed. I shall go find them directly.”

“Good day.” Turning on his heels, he strode from the room, from the house, not considering the clipped pace of his stride. Or that he found himself looking over his shoulder several times, watching as the earl practically skipped toward the salon. Or that his stomach churned like he had just consumed a bad bit of fish.

She would be a countess. He had done his duty by her. And some.

Any female would be thrilled from such an arrangement.
He
should be thrilled.

A vigorous bout at Jackson's Saloon would do him some good. Suddenly, he felt the need to unleash himself.

“I
beg your pardon, my lord?” Rosalie's hands curled into fists in her lap. “Could you repeat yourself?”

Certainly she had misheard. Or misunderstood.

In fact, nothing Strickland had said since he entered the salon made a dash of sense to her. Nor did she even quite understand his unexpected presence here at all. He had not mentioned calling upon her last night, and on the heels of her conversation with Aurelia, she was not feeling kindly disposed to his sudden appearance.

“We're to be married!” Strickland dropped beside her on the sofa where she sat before the fireplace, a book forgotten in her lap. For once, his speech rang clear and loud.

She looked from his eager countenance to Aunt Peregrine and Aurelia, who stared back at her with a cocked eyebrow that seemed to say:
See there, I told you so
.

“Are you mad?” The words escaped without deliberation. It was simply the only thought in her head.

Aunt Peregrine gasped. An irreverent laugh escaped Aurelia, which she quickly silenced by slapping a hand over her mouth.

Strickland blinked, his smile slipping ever so slightly. “Er, what . . . Uh, no. I spoke with your brother—­”

“Stepbrother,” she snapped.

He inclined his head at the error. “I only just spoke with him moments ago and he accepted—­”

“He told you I would marry you?”

Strickland stared at her as if unsure how to proceed, his mouth parted like a gaping fish.

She demanded again, the point very important to her, “
He
told you I would marry you?

At last, he nodded and found his voice. “Indeed. Quite happily so, he gave us his blessing.”

The wretch!
She pounded a fist into her lap, indifferent to the book sliding from her lap to the carpet.

“Rosalie,” Aunt Peregrine scolded.

She vaulted to her feet, ignoring the warning. “Without even asking me?” She flattened a hand to her chest. It was inconceivable that he would accept an offer without consulting her.

She began pacing the room, heedless of anything in that moment save for Dec's utter gall . . . his arrogance. She should have known this would come about. He was the one who decided to give her a Season and a dowry without consulting her, after all. All with the express purpose of winning her a husband. It stood to reason that he would accept the offer on her behalf.

“My lord,” Lady Peregrine began in a placating tone. “Miss Hughes is simply surprised . . . delighted . . . but surprised. I am certain you understand.”

Aurelia snorted and muttered indiscreetly into her hand, “More like
disgusted
.”

Fuming, Rosalie reached for her composure and sucked in a calming breath. Before she did anything else, she must dispel the notion that she would be marrying Lord Strickland, and she needed to do that as graciously as possible. Stopping, she faced him and forced a brittle smile. “I am truly honored. You humble me with your offer, but I'm afraid I cannot accept, my lord.”

Aunt Peregrine cleared her throat in the sudden silence. “Rosalie, dear—­”

She held up a hand, cutting off Lady Peregrine. She held the earl's gaze, waiting for him to say something.

Strickland blustered, his face flushed varying shades of red. “But your brother—­”

“My
stepbrother
was working under the misapprehension that he has the authority to accept marriage proposals on my behalf. I apologize for any embarrassment this has caused you.”

“Apologize! Apologize!” Strickland lurched to his feet. “I should say so!” He wagged a finger at her. “I was under the impression you welcomed my suit . . . your brother—­”

“Stepbrother,” she interjected, not that he paused for breath to acknowledge his mistake.

“—­made a fool of me by accepting my offer of marriage before the words had even left my lips. He was that eager to be rid of you!”

The words shouldn't have stung. They shouldn't have.

She shook her head. “I am very sorry . . . I just do not feel we suit, my lord.”

He stormed toward the door and yanked it open, rattling the wood on its hinges. “Indeed! We do not! I should have known better to consider anyone connected with Banbury! He's a morally repugnant scoundrel unfit for good company! Duke or no duke! Any sister of his is equally tarnished, I'm quite certain. And there is the matter of your mother.” His lip curled. “If half the rumors of her misdeeds are true, I was quite cracked in the head to consider you for a bride.” With that parting shot, he stormed out of the room.

They held silent for some moments, staring at the empty door.

“Well,” Aurelia began—­no surprise she should find her voice first. “I suppose that tirade nursed his wounded ego.”

“Let us hope.” Lady Peregrine sighed. “Oh, Rosalie, what have you done? He shall not have kind words to say of you! He's probably on the way to his club to share with everyone how—­ ”

“He'll do no such thing. He's a proud little peacock and will not wish to advertise his shame,” Aurelia interjected. “And her dowry will not slow the flow of suitors pursuing her.”

Rosalie settled her gaze on them both. “What I have done is establish that I alone shall choose my husband.”

Lady Peregrine shot accusing eyes to her daughter. “Is this your doing?”

Aurelia held up both hands, palms facing out. “Do not look at me. I didn't tell her to reject him.”

Rosalie dragged in a deep breath, expanding her lungs. Anger simmered in her blood, ready to burst free, looking for release. There was only one person who deserved it. “Where is he?”

Lady Peregrine shifted on her chair, looking uneasy. She began petting her fat tabby cat faster. The animal meowed plaintively and stared unblinking at Rosalie. Almost accusingly. As though the beast knew Rosalie was responsible for the rough treatment.

“I heard him mention to the housekeeper that he was going to be gone all day and not to wait dinner for him,” Aurelia volunteered. “You shall have to wait to vent your spleen, although I hope I can stand witness. Please?” She turned to her mother. “I'm so glad we came here. This is the most entertainment I've had in . . . well, ever.” She frowned, her shoulders slumping a little. “Oh, that's a depressing thought. I really do lead a dull existence.”

Rosalie resumed her pacing. This was really beyond the pale. If Dec thought he could plan her life, her future, right down to her husband, then she would dissuade him of that notion posthaste.

“Rosalie, you're giving me a neck ache.” Aunt Peregrine motioned to her neck. “Seat yourself. Let us talk this through.”

Shaking her head, she sank back down on the settee. “There is nothing to discuss. I will have a say in who I marry—­no,
I
will
choose
.” She patted her chest.

Lady Peregrine looked at her rather sadly, slowing her death pet on Lady Snuggles. “What were you expecting, my dear? A knight on a white horse? Strickland would have been a brilliant match . . . do you hope for better, then?”

Yes
.

Why did she feel so wrong admitting that? Why was it wrong to want more? She had hoped for better. If not love, then something close. Affection at least.

She met Aunt Peregrine's suddenly grim stare and read her thoughts perfectly. Just for good measure, she added, “Not better precisely.” She was such a coward. She couldn't even state the truth of her desires. “Simply different. I want something more.”

“More?” Lady Peregrine shook her head. “You sound like Aurelia here.” She tsked. “Don't let her fill your head with foolish ideas.”

A marriage of her choosing? That was so foolish, then.

Realization dawned. She finally understood. This jaunt down the marriage mart—­she was never expected to voice an opinion through any of it. Her fate was to be decided by Dec all along. That was the price to be paid for the gift of a dowry.

This was her fate, then. Spinsterhood or a loveless marriage to the likes of Strickland.

Only she did not even have the luxury of spinsterhood to fall back on. Her fate was less secure than Aurelia's. She did not have an elderly aunt in need of a companion. Or Will for a brother who would always see to her care. She had her mother. And Dec. Neither of whom wanted her around. Her mother neglected her for years and Dec had tossed her to the first suitor to come calling.

She looked with singular focus at Aurelia, trying to convey what she was thinking,
feeling
, in one look—­what she dared not declare in front of Lady Peregrine.

Aurelia's eyes widened and her lips parted in a surprised little O.

Rosalie nodded once. Swift and emphatic, sending her friend a silent message.

She wanted more. And she was willing to take a risk to get it.

 

Chapter 9

T
he 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.

“R
osalie! 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?”