A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin

by Sophie Jordan

  “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 blood
less. “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.

  She shook her head and then nodded and then shook her head again as though she could not make up her mind. “I was hoping with your . . . resources . . . you could help me locate my mother. I have no wish to be a burden to you.”

  He poured himself another drink, feeling too damnably sober all of a sudden. “I imagine I could locate her.” She was likely underneath some man. A poor sod like his father who believed every poisonous word she spouted. “And until then, what am I to do with you?”

  He strolled back across the room, stopping in front of her, holding his glass loosely with his fingers.

  Her gaze lifted, crawling up him slowly. Cat’s eyes. Topaz gold. He frowned, again struck with how almost otherworldly she appeared. Feylike. Had she always looked thusly? He remembered her with more meat on her bones. And all wild hair, obscuring much of her face. “I shall endeavor to stay out of your way . . . if you would allow me to stay beneath your roof.”

  If? There was no choice in the matter. He would feed and house her until he located her mother and forced her to take responsibility for her daughter.

  He moved for the door. “I’ll show you to a room. The staff is already retired for the night.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” The sound of rustling fabric signaled she was following him. He didn’t look over his shoulder. “I promise not to bother—­”

  He stopped suddenly and turned. “Let us be clear. Your presence here bothers me. Greatly.”

  She stopped and backed away so as not to stand too near. “I’m s-­sorry, Your Grace.”

  Inhaling, he continued as though he had not heard her. “There is nothing to be done for it tonight, but on the morrow, I shall send for my cousin and aunt to come stay. For propriety’s sake.”

  “I don’t think that is necessary—­”

  “And what do you know of Society, Miss Hughes?” Bitterness leaked from his voice. “You’ve been rusticating for the last ten years at some school.” He scanned her up and down. “I’ll not have tongues wagging that you’re here unchaperoned. Unless you prefer the dames of the ton to whisper loud enough for you to hear that you’re my latest conquest?”

  Her slender form stiffened. “Of course not. I merely had no wish to inconvenience you. After all, propriety does not seem to be very high on your list of priorities.”

  He blinked, wondering if he had heard her correctly. The veiled insult was there. The corner of his mouth quirked. She was no mild-­mannered miss after all, it appeared. The kitten had claws.

  “No doubt you reference what happened earlier in the drawing room. My guests for the evening invading upon you?”

  “Forgive me,” she hastily offered, shaking her head. “I meant no judgment—­”

  “Of course you did. That’s what ­people do. Judge and condemn.” He sliced a hand through the air, indicating it made no difference. “It won’t happen again. I’ll not entertain while you’re in residence.”

  “Be that as it may, we are kin,” she insisted. “Of a sort. I doubt anyone would question me under your roof—­”

  “With my reputation, I guarantee they would. I grow weary of this discussion. My cousin and aunt will join us. The matter is closed.”

  She pressed her mouth into a hard line and gave a single nod of acceptance. But she looked miserable and ready to burst from relenting to him. She abhorred the situation. He saw it gleaming in her golden eyes.

  Well, that made two of them.

  “Come.” He turned and led her up the set of stairs to the bedroom. He knew several of the bedchambers would have been prepared for his guests. The staff was accustomed to one or several of his friends staying the night on any given occasion.

  He led her to the room two doors down from his. It was mostly pink and yellow. He assumed it fitting for a young lady. Whatever else she was, she was that.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder at her, noting her small steps, her slim shoulders pulled back in very correct posture. Definitely a lady. Ironic, considering the little hoyden she used to be. And the identity of her mother. But then Melisande had fooled his father. Perhaps Rosalie was all pretense, too. His eyes narrowed, sweeping over her slight form in her shabby attire. Was she another social climber in the making?

  “Here you are.” At the door to her room he pushed it open and waved her within.

  She peered inside and gave a brisk nod. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll begin the search for your mother on the morrow. With luck, she is in Town.” His lip curled. “She always did prefer it to the country.”

  She swallowed, the delicate muscles in her throat working as she no doubt recalled the truth of that statement. “We can only hope.”

  Despite her words, her voice lacked a ring of anticipation. Surely she wanted to find her mother. She couldn’t want to remain here. Here, in the lavish town house of a duke. Bitterness welled up inside him. Perhaps that’s exactly what she wanted.

  “Don’t make yourself too comfortable, Miss Hughes,” he warned, unable to stop himself.

  She blinked and then her cheeks flushed darker. Clearly she read his suspicions. “I’m certain that won’t happen, Your Grace.”

  “Might I also suggest we stay out of each other’s way? I don’t see the need for us to reacquaint ourselves. We are not truly family, after all.”

  She nodded, her eyes unnaturally wide and bright in her face—as though she
was forcing herself not to blink. She made him think of a kicked puppy right then and he shoved back the sensation that he was a veritable bastard. She looked down at her boots for a moment before meeting his stare again. “Indeed. We are not.”

  With a lift of her chin, she slipped inside the room and closed the door.

  He lingered in front of her door, staring unseeingly at where she had stood moments before, wondering how soon he might be able to locate her mother.

  Chapter 3

  The chamber was cavernous. The bed swallowed her. She felt like a child at its center, engulfed in the fine linen sheets, her head lost deep in the plump pillows that smelled faintly of lavender.

  It was nothing like the room she shared with Rachel back at Harwich’s, and despite its opulence, she longed for that room right now. She longed for her friend. For the familiar. For smiles and eyes that did not stare coldly down at her.

  He hated her.

  She could see that at once. Perhaps this was just what he had become. Arrogant and pompous. A haughty nobleman immersed in his sparkling world of privilege. She was simply an unwanted relation to be tolerated.

  He was a duke now. Not a boy to abide her with grudging affection and fetch her down from trees. Something inside her chest softened at that memory. He had more than tolerated her back then. He had answered her questions, endured her following him all about the countryside with good humor. Where had that boy gone?

  She laced her fingers across her stomach and stared into the dark of the canopy above her as if she could see something there. Some truth, some bit of strength she so desperately needed right now. It did not matter how he felt about her. He would do his duty. He would shelter her until he located her mother, and then . . .

  Well, she wasn’t certain what came next. With her mother, one could never be certain. That much she had learned. One thing she did know, however, was that she could not count upon her. She would have to forge her own future. Rosalie rolled onto her side and tucked her hands beneath her cheek as the image of Declan filled her mind.