A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin

by Sophie Jordan

  Mrs. Bancroft stopped before the door. “I think you can manage this from here.”

  Alone, he actually hesitated, his hand on the latch. He took a moment, gathering his composure so that he didn’t come at her like some randy goat.

  He opened the door then and she was there. His eyes adjusted to the dimness of the chamber. She popped up from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting, her hands falling to her sides. Her midnight-­dark hair slid like a waterfall around her shoulders.

  She was wearing a darker gown, but in the shadowed chamber, he couldn’t identify the precise color. The bodice was sleeveless, leaving her shoulders bare save the veil of her hair. It was another form-­fitting dress, and he wondered if she had borrowed it again from Mrs. Bancroft. He felt only relief that she wore it for him. That she had come back to Sodom for him and not to experiment with another man.

  He shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Even in the murky gloom, even through the eyeholes of her domino, her gaze seared him. The way she looked at him was devouring and intimate.

  “You came back,” he murmured.

  “I wanted to see you again.” Her low, husky voice was like a physical stroke on his skin. She rubbed her palms against the sides of her gown, and he could only think of that hand rubbing down his chest in that same manner.

  He glanced around the room and his lip curled. It was well-­appointed but he couldn’t help think about how many ­people had used this room before them. As glad as he was that she wanted to see him again, he regretted it was here, in this place. The idea rose, surprising him. Sodom had always been good enough for him before, but for some reason he wanted more for her. He wanted her in his bed. At his home.

  The idea was novel to him. Perhaps it was time to take a mistress. Random women flitting in and out of his life, his bed, had been good enough before, but if he could find one woman to satisfy him for a spell, that wouldn’t be so bad. There was something appealing to the notion. Except the only one he could imagine in that role stood before him.

  Rosalie’s face was there, a flash across his mind before he thrust it away. She could not even be considered.

  “What’s your name?” He knew no names were required here. It was understood at Sodom, but he could not continue without knowing what to call her.

  Her tentative smile slipped, and he knew he had crossed a line. He pushed off from the door and advanced on her. “Come. I must call you something.”

  She shook her head, her mouth pressed shut, and she looked around the chamber as if suddenly reconsidering.

  He stopped before her and cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs resting on the stiff brocade of her domino. He loathed it. He wanted to rip it off, but he knew such an action would send her bolting from his arms faster.

  “No names,” she whispered in that low, guttural scratch.

  “But you know mine.”

  “You’ve no need to protect your identity.” Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “If who I am is so important to you, then we should put a stop to this—­”

  His mouth silenced her, muffling the words he refused to even entertain. There was no ending this. No stopping.

  He needed it. Her. An ease to the ache that plagued him. That he’d been unable to appease in weeks. He tasted her with lips and tongue. She was ready for him, opening her mouth and meeting his tongue with less hesitancy than the last time. There was no awkwardness. She’d made up her mind before she came here. He felt that at once.

  Her hands crept around his neck and he deepened the kiss, growling when she slid her fingers into his hair and pressed her slim body against his.

  She moaned into his mouth. “I missed—­”

  Her lips froze, as though startled by her own words.

  He pulled back to look down at her. “Missed what? Me?” He smiled slowly.

  She dipped her head, and he knew she was embarrassed. He could guess her thoughts then—­that a single kiss with a stranger shouldn’t warrant her missing him, and she was correct. If a woman had announced she missed him before, he would have walked as fast as possible in the opposite direction. Yet hearing the words from her made something swell inside his chest.

  He smiled and brushed a tendril of hair that fell across the hated domino hiding half of her face from him. Her eyes were dark pools, like the night sea. Again he wished to tear the offensive fabric from her face so that he could see her eyes. Her face. Bloody hell, he wished for enough light so he could see all of her and rid himself of the mystery. Was this even her hair or a wig?

  She blinked slowly. “N-­No. I . . .”

  “But you came back. You sent me that note.”

  “You must think me terribly forward.”

  “A girl who gave me her first kiss?” He cocked his head, watching the movement of her lips. “That’s a far cry from what I think.”

  He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of that mouth. Her breath escaped in a sharp hitch. Another one of her little sounds he well remembered. “You can say you’ve missed me. Because I’ve missed—­” He kissed the next corner. “—­this mouth. The little sounds that escape it.”

  He dragged his thumb across her bottom lip, his other arm pulling her closer, one hand gliding down her back. He spread his fingers wide. He could feel her through the thin fabric of her dress. The small bumps along her spine. The twin indentations directly above where her cheeks started to swell. “Have you kissed anyone else since that night?” he asked without deliberation. He had to know. He couldn’t stand the thought that she had come back here and taken with another man. That some man might have kissed her. Or done more than kiss.

  “Have you?” she was quick to rebut.

  He laughed lightly, knowing he deserved that. He had no right to inquire. He had no claim on her. “No. I haven’t.”

  Her eyes widened. Apparently she didn’t expect that answer from him. Her gaze roved over his face. “You haven’t kissed anyone . . . since me?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I merely find it hard to believe. You’re . . . Banbury.”

  “And what do you know of me?” He angled his head, something sharpening inside him. A sense, an awareness, that maybe she knew him. “Wait. Do you . . . know me?” His heart beat a little faster at the possibility. Did he know her? Had they met before?

  The idea that their paths had crossed . . . that they might cross again, outside the walls of Sodom . . .

  She shook her head fiercely. “Merely by reputation. We do not move in the same circles.

  “That is unfortunate.”

  She angled her head and he felt her curious stare even if he couldn’t clearly see her eyes in the shadow of her domino. “Why? Out there. In the real world.” She motioned in the general direction of the door. “We could never have this.”

  “Perhaps we should make a standing appointment, then.” He brought his hand lower, cupping her derrière with one hand and drawing her fully against him. Partly so she could feel his desire, his cock hard against her belly. Mostly so he could just have her softness cushioning the part of him that throbbed to sink inside her.

  “Here? At Sodom again?” Her words floated on a little gasp. Her chin lifted slightly, indicating the chamber.

  “It doesn’t need to be here.” He would prefer it not be here.

  She bit her bottom lip, mulling over his words. “I don’t know that I can do that. This . . . was hard enough to arrange. It’s tricky leaving the house.”

  He frowned, not liking that this might be all they had. Deciding he needed to make this night count, he brought an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, bringing her mouth up to his and kissing her as he carried her across the room.

  She moaned against his lips, her hands flying to his shoulders as though frightened he would drop her.

  “D
on’t worry. I’ve got you.”

  He lowered her down on the bed, wedging himself between her thighs. Her skirts fell back, exposing her legs, deliciously stocking-­clad legs with lacy black garters that he wanted to remove slowly. With his teeth.

  He sat back, gazing at every inch of her displayed like some decadent feast for him. Those eyes of hers were dark and unreadable in her mask, peering up at him. Her lips were swollen from kissing, parted in a small O of wonder.

  He ran his palms up her calves, over the curve of her knees, along her thighs, stopping just at her garters. Her breathing grew louder, raspy.

  He took her hand, guiding her to him. He pressed her palm directly over his breeches, against his cock, groaning at the sensation of her hand, hesitant at first, and then bolder, molding to the shape of him. Her fingers flexed and traced him. He shuddered. Unable to help himself, he showed her what to do, grinding the base of her palm against him in rhythmic strokes.

  “Oh,” she gasped. “It’s growing . . . bigger.”

  He dropped over her until his mouth grazed the tender skin of her neck. “That’s what you do to me.” He kissed his way down her throat, fastening his mouth over her breast through the sheer fabric of her dress, sucking until her nipple beaded hard and she arched into his mouth.

  “M-­More.”

  He wasn’t even certain what that meant, what more even was. He wasn’t even certain if she knew. All he knew was that he needed her, too.

  He released his grip on her hand, leaving her there, fingers splayed over the length of him. She continued to explore, her slender fingers pressing and stroking his straining cock. His skin pulled tight at the base of his skull and his breath fell faster. He bit lightly, nipping at her breasts through the wet fabric, cupping them with both hands, his thumbs rolling over her nipples until she was shuddering and crying out sweetly in his arms.

  Her hands still caressed him through his trousers. If he didn’t compose himself, he would lose himself like some green boy. He locked hard fingers around her wrist, stalling her movements.

  She lifted her mouth to his neck, her lips moving as she spoke. “Please. May I touch it . . . you?”

  The whispered request undid him. He froze for a moment, holding her gaze, wondering how he could stand much more of this. And then the answer came swift and resounding in his head . . . in the hard pump of blood in his veins. He couldn’t. Not anymore.

  He pulled up, yanking open the front of his breeches, briefly severing the sweet torture of her hand on him. And then he was free, his cock jutting between them.

  Her eyes fixed on him, her mouth parted in wonder. Neither one of them moved or spoke. Indeed, it seemed neither one of them breathed.

  He couldn’t move. He didn’t trust himself. Her gaze alone felt like a caress. He inhaled, holding himself in check.

  “Oh . . . I’ve never seen . . .”

  He smiled, almost in pain. Of course she hadn’t. He almost wished she wasn’t so inexperienced. It wasn’t his habit to debauch virgins. He felt like the veritable scoundrel stealing away with a maiden’s virtue. His arms strained, holding himself in check over her.

  Then she touched him. Those slight fingers wrapped around him. Her bare hand to his manhood, skin to skin. His cock pulsed and he forgot everything except sensation and mind-­obliterating need.

  Chapter 16

  His mouth crashed over hers and she could only think that it wasn’t enough. The pressure of his lips and tongue ravaging her wasn’t enough. She mewled, writhing and wiggling under him, her hand never releasing him. She loved the feel of him. Like silk over steel in her hand. She reveled in the way he shuddered and groaned as she worked her fingers on him, rubbing her thumb over the tip of him until she felt moisture rise there to kiss her skin.

  Her other hand moved up, touching his bare chest. She ran her hands over his abdomen and then higher up his chest. Because she could. Because she was free to do so. She savored the cut of heavy muscle under the warm, contracting skin. The tight nipples that shrank under her questing fingers.

  “I have to touch you,” he growled. “It’s my turn.”

  Before she understood fully, he slid down her body. His hands found her thighs, splaying them wider, and then his face was between them.

  “What are you—­”

  “Ssh. Trust me. I won’t do anything you don’t like. Nothing that won’t give you pleasure.”

  And then his fingers were there, sliding against her wetness, parting her. She started, startled at the hand there, touching her in ways she had never touched herself. His hand drifted up, finding and pressing on a spot that had her crying out and arching.

  “There you are,” he said in a deeply satisfied voice. There was a shifting of his weight, a rustling of fabric as he moved, and then his mouth! Dear Lord, he placed his mouth on her.

  She cried out, sitting up, her hands seizing his head buried between her thighs. He pressed a hand to the flat of her stomach, forcing her back down with a deep, guttural groan as he feasted on her, his mouth sucking on that tiny nub, drawing it between his lips and flaying it with his tongue. Instantly she came apart, flying into a million little pieces. He eased his mouth then, licking at the over-­sensitized little button even as he slipped one finger inside her, stretching her.

  “Oh, so bloody tight,” he moaned against her, his finger working in and out. In and out. Again she felt the pressure building. She panted, her fingers still flexing in his hair. He raked his teeth against that nub again and she cried, pushing herself against his mouth, greedy for more, stunned that any of this was possible. He shifted his wrist then, did something marvelous with his finger, brought it up, hitting some hidden, secret place within her, and the pressure inside her burst.

  Again she shook and flew apart.

  He came over her again and she felt him. The hardness of him against her thigh. Instinctively, she sought him, arching, wanting that hardness thick inside her. He dragged his mouth against her neck, biting and sucking at the tendon there. She wiggled until she felt the head of him at her opening.

  “God,” he gasped. “You’re so wet. So ready.”

  She nodded dumbly. Past thinking. Feeling only.

  “Tell me. Ask for it,” he pleaded.

  She opened her mouth. It was there. On the tip of her tongue. The engorged tip of him prodded the opening of her channel, and her eyes flew wide. His hand moved between them, and she felt him grasp himself, better positioning that part of him against her, ready to slide within.

  Good God! She had not meant to go this far. No. No!

  He stiffened over her, and she realized she must have uttered the words out loud.

  She grabbed his wrist, her voice ringing out desperately in the air, which was thick with the smell of them. “Wait. Stop.”

  He froze instantly, sucking in a deep breath.

  She sat up and shoved her skirts back down over her legs. He backed away, needing the distance to stop himself from touching her, from hauling her back into his arms again. He expelled a deep breath and dragged his hands through his hair, stopping when he saw that his hands were shaking. He folded his fingers into fists and sucked in more air, reaching for restraint.

  “This is too much.” She shook back the sleek fall of hair from her shoulders and pressed her hands to her cheeks as if that would somehow help her cool them. “I didn’t mean for this to go so very far.”

  “A week ago I had to steal a kiss from you.” His voice shook a little as he said this, and he swallowed. “You may not believe me, but this was not my plan.”

  “Of course. That was not my thought. I sent you the letter, after all, requesting your presence.”

  Nodding, he inched away . . . although a part of him felt like lashing out like a petulant child at her. Had she lured him here only to torment him? If that were the case, she could count herself successful.
<
br />   “And you didn’t steal it.” Her fingers brushed her swollen mouth as though still feeling him there. “Tonight . . . this was all me. I initiated this. I’m to blame.” Her throaty voice broke at that, and he looked to her sharply, wondering at the thread of emotion he heard.

  “Why did you send me the note?” What had she expected? What did she want? She clearly wasn’t a girl willing to forget herself in an illicit liaison, so what was this about, then?

  She scooted to the edge of the bed, curling her fingers around the side and hunching her shoulders. “I’m sorry. You must think me contrary. I merely wanted something for myself before . . .”

  Her voice faded.

  He moved to the edge of the bed, tucking himself back in and fastening his trousers. “Before?”

  She turned her face to him. “Before I’m gone.” Her voice was hoarse and whisper-­soft, as though she was afraid saying it aloud would make it happen—­would make her disappear right then. “While I’m still me.”

  He angled his head. She made no sense. Who else would she be? Instead of asking, he settled for: “Are you leaving Town?”

  “No. Yes . . . I mean, I don’t know.” She gave her head a small shake. The black strands swished sharply. Her hand went to her hair self-­consciously as though checking it, and that’s when he knew it was a wig. “Perhaps, I will. I didn’t mean . . .” A pause fell before she continued, admitting, “I’m to be wed.”

  Everything came together then, clicking. “Ah. Now I understand,” he murmured, feeling unaccountably angry. He stood in one swift move and turned, towering over her. “So you wished to have a little fun first for yourself. Was that it? Or, wait.” He held up his hand. “Are you honing your skills so that you might please your husband? Learning what to do while stopping short of the full act?”