A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin by Sophie Jordan Page B

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.
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œMarriage, 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?”
    â€œHe is not my choice, no,” she bit out. “A fact that you might have discovered if you had only but asked me.”
    â€œFine,” 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—­”
    â€œAs 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.”
    â€œI 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