The Scoundrel and the Debutante Read online

  Prudence gasped with great indignation. “That is not true! We are quite sturdy!” she cried. “Look at me now, walking along, carrying my own bag.”

  “Gracious, you are carrying your own bag,” he said with mock wonder, and then laughed as he easily wrested it from her hand and held it in the same hand as his bag now. “Don’t look so shocked. You are obviously very sturdy, Miss Cabot,” he said, and his gaze slid down the length of her. “And perhaps not as impetuous as Aurora.”

  He smiled, and Prudence felt the smile trickle through her. She blushed and glanced away, absurdly proud that he thought her sturdy.

  He sighed. “Ah, but I can never stay cross with Aurora for long. And my father has coddled her all her life, so I suppose it’s not entirely her fault. She’s the only girl, between me and my younger brother, Beck, and my father has doted on her.”

  “And is Mr. Beck Matheson as impetuous as his sister?” she asked.

  “Beck is not at all impetuous. He’s much like me—responsible, careful and, above all, industrious,” Mr. Matheson said proudly.

  Prudence gave him a pert smile, amused by his pride. “Your industrious nature is quite American, I suppose.”

  “Of course,” he said instantly, then shot her a look. “America is industrious.”

  “Fond of hard work there, I’ve heard.”

  A crooked smile of delight turned up the corner of his mouth. “Should one be disdainful of hard work?” he asked, as if it were preposterous to be anything but fond of it, and gave her a playful nudge with his shoulder.

  “What sort of hard work does your family engage in?”

  “We are in lumber.”

  Prudence had supposed he was in trade—wasn’t everyone in American involved in one trade or another? But lumber? It sounded so...common. But then, without titles and no haut ton to speak of, she supposed everyone must work for what they had. “Do you mean you cut down trees?” she asked, surreptitiously examining his hands.

  Mr. Matheson laughed. “I’ve cut one or two, but no. My family owns one of the largest lumber suppliers in America. We buy lumber from Canada, employ men to transport the lumber from Canada to New York, and then we sell it to builders. We sell it to Gunderson Properties, one of the largest builders in the city. A marriage between Aurora and Sam Gunderson will guarantee our supply has a demand, you see? We’ve also recently partnered with Pratt Foundries.”

  “Oh,” Prudence said.

  “Lumber and iron, that’s what construction requires. Our partnership with Gunderson and Pratt will be very lucrative for all of us. We’ll see our family through for generations to come.”

  That did sound industrious, and it also sounded interesting to Prudence. No one ever spoke to her of such things. “It seems ambitious,” she said.

  “Very ambitious,” he agreed. “My father has forged these relationships, but they depend on...” His voice trailed off for a moment. “On understandings. On marriages. That sort of thing.”

  He didn’t have to explain that to Prudence. She understood very well how “understandings” and “marriages” created wealth.

  “But enough of me,” he said. “How many siblings do you have, and are they all as impetuous as you?”

  Prudence laughed outright. “I have three sisters, Mr. Matheson.”

  “Roan, please,” he said, his eyes shining with his smile.

  Roan. His name swirled around inside her. It sounded American. It sounded industrious, as if it chopped down trees and forged iron and erected great buildings. Prudence let it roll around her thoughts. “My sisters are more impetuous than me, do you believe it? I am the one who is considered the most responsible.”

  “No,” he said with a disbelieving laugh.

  “At least until today,” she amended, and he laughed again. “There is Honor, Mrs. Easton, and Grace, Lady Merryton—she’s a countess. They are both older than me. And then there is the youngest, Miss Mercy Cabot, who is two years my junior, and who vows to never marry but become a famous artist.”

  “Four sisters, one of them a royal countess. That must delight the English princes.”

  “Royal! Whatever gave you that idea?”

  He arched a brow. “Isn’t a countess royal in some way?”

  Prudence burst into laughter, bending backward a little with her gaiety at that preposterous remark, catching herself with a hand to his arm. “Grace is a countess, but not a royal one. And really, how many princes do you think there are in England?”

  He puffed out his cheeks as he thought about that. “A dozen?” he guessed hopefully. When Prudence giggled, he said, “All right, I’m woefully ignorant of monarchies in general. It seems unnecessarily complicated to outsiders.”

  “But I thought Americans understood the monarchy perfectly.”

  “I am sure most do, but as we’ve cleanly emancipated ourselves from it, I don’t give it much thought. If you come to America someday, you’ll see what I mean.”

  For a moment, Prudence tried to imagine herself in America. She imagined a throng of people with scythes and pitchforks, emancipating themselves from what they perceived to be tyranny. “I’ve never been beyond England’s shores,” she said thoughtfully. “But Sir Luckenbill. He’s traveled to New York.”

  “And who is this Luckenbill fellow?”

  “He is a friend of my sister’s husband and has come to dine on occasion. He’s a distinguished scholar,” Prudence said. At least Sir Luckenbill claimed to be one—a scholar of science, although the exact nature of his scientific knowledge seemed rather vague to her and her sisters.

  “Well? How did he find it?”

  She smiled up at him. “Should I tell you the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “He found it rather primitive in comparison to London. And the people...” She paused. “Well, he said they were rather boorish, really.”

  Mr. Matheson laughed. “That’s because in America, men are men. We don’t wear our kerchiefs in our cuffs and sniff smelling salts.”

  “English gentlemen do not sniff smelling salts,” Prudence said, but did not deny that many of them did indeed carry handkerchiefs in their cuff. She couldn’t imagine this man ever carrying a handkerchief in his cuff.

  “If you had brothers, you might understand a bit of what I mean,” Mr. Matheson said. He suddenly caught her elbow and pulled her into his side to keep her from stumbling over a rabbit hole.

  “I have a brother,” Prudence said, hopping around the hole. “The Earl of Beckington is my most beloved stepbrother.”

  “An earl you say,” he said, sounding impressed. “He must be royalty, then.”

  Prudence laughed again. “No!”

  He still had hold of her elbow as he groaned skyward. “What is the damn point of all these titles if they aren’t meant to be royal?”

  “Would you like me to explain it?” she asked as he let go of her arm.

  “No,” he said. “I never cared much for history and all that looking backward. I much preferred the here and now in my instruction. Arithmetic and science. The science of democracy. But never mind that, you have me curious—why isn’t your brother escorting you? He shouldn’t allow you to roam around the countryside alone.”

  “There you are again with this notion that someone else may allow me, a grown woman, to do as I please. Augustine is not my king, sir, and besides, I find it highly ironic that you are asking these questions of me, given that you don’t really even know where your sister is.”

  “Touché, Miss Cabot. Had I known she would be left unattended, I would never have allowed it,” he said, and winked at her. “What is your earl’s excuse?”

  “Augustine has not the slightest notion of where I am and nor should he. He is well occupied by his life in London, and I am well occupied by mine. And you are very opinionate
d, Mr. Matheson.”

  “Am I?” he said, sounding surprised, and halted his step as if to contemplate it. He dropped the two bags and nodded. “Perhaps I am. I won’t apologize for it.” He smiled, and brushed a bit of hair from her cheek. “You’re easily riled, Miss Cabot.”

  “I am not easily riled,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “That’s what men say to women when they’ve been put back on their heels.”

  He laughed. He brushed her cheek again, then pushed the brim of her bonnet back. “Will you remove it?” he asked. “I would very much like to see all of your face.”

  Prudence felt something swirl between them, a palpable energy curling around her, tugging her closer to him. She held his gaze and loosened the tie of her bonnet, then pushed it off and let it fall down her back and hang around her neck.

  His gaze took her in, unhurried, from her hair, which Prudence was certain was a mess, to her face—smiling a little as he did—and down, skimming over her bodice before lifting up again. He met her gaze and smiled. He touched her face with his knuckle. “Thank you. I am always invigorated by the sight of a beautiful woman.”

  Beautiful. Prudence had been called beautiful all her life, but when Mr. Roan Matheson said it, she believed it. She could feel the warmth of his admiration slipping down her spine and glittering in her groin. She began to walk again with the impression of his finger blistering on her cheek and the look in his eyes burning in her thoughts.

  Silence fell over them again. Prudence was acutely aware of the rooster beside her, his body as big as a mountain and apparently twice as strong. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the weight of the bags he carried, while she tried not to limp in her horrible shoes.

  She really had to think of something else, because she had become rather fixated on the way he gazed at her. His gaze was pleasantly piercing, as if he was trying very hard to see past the facade of her skin. “How is it your sister has become acquainted with Lord Penfors?” she asked curiously.

  “I suppose in the way Aurora has of meeting anyone—by inserting herself into situations she has no call to be in. Do you know him?”

  “Only by vague reputation. I know that he remains mostly in the country, has a wife, but no children of whom I am aware. You mean to find her and then what?” she asked.

  “Escort her home, obviously. And then I will present her to her fiancé and wish him the best of luck.”

  Prudence couldn’t help but giggle. “But if your sister hasn’t heeded your advice yet, what makes you think she will now?”

  “An excellent question. I may be forced to shackle and bag her. Now I must ask, what will you do once you are put on a coach home?”

  The reminder of Blackwood Hall sobered her. Prudence grimaced at the thought of the long winter stretching before her, and fidgeted with the strings of her bonnet, hesitating.

  “Ah,” he said.

  “Ah? Ah, what?”

  “Just that I see.”

  “What do you see?”

  “It’s obvious,” he said, his eyes twinkling with his smile.

  Her pervasive ennui was obvious?

  “In fact it all makes sense now. Your trip to see a friend,” he said as if he didn’t believe there was a friend. “Taking a coach to gaze at me—”

  “Not gaze at you,” she sputtered.

  “Then quickly deciding you best run home. There must be a gentleman waiting in the wings. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s someone you can’t decide if you want to encourage, or someone you wish was more encouraging of you.”

  His reasoning was so ridiculous that Prudence laughed.

  Mr. Matheson stopped in the middle of the road once more and dropped the bags again, his hands finding his waist as he turned to face her. “Now what have I said?”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong!” she cried gleefully. “Perhaps it is different in America, but when one’s family is embroiled in scandal, no one is rushing to the door to court the daughters. There is no gentleman. In fact, one might say there is a definite lack of one!”

  The moment the words came tumbling through her lips, Prudence clamped a hand over her mouth. If there was one thing a debutante did not do, it was to announce, to perfect strangers, that there was no interest in her whatsoever.

  Worse, Matheson was staring at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

  “All right, go ahead, laugh if you must,” she said, waving her hand to hurry him along. “I’ve said it. It’s the truth.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said with a shake of his head, “but I am astounded.”

  Prudence groaned. “Go on, make light of it.”

  “I’m not making light of it. I will say this. In America, when a woman as...as beautiful as you, Miss Cabot—and make no mistake, you are very beautiful—has no understanding with a gentleman of means, there would be a line around the city blocks for her. Without any concern for scandal.”

  Prudence blinked. She felt that slide of warmth down her spine, the internal glittering again.

  “Your attentions would be in very high demand,” he said again, and his gaze moved over her, the intensity of it seeping in through her pores. A smile of atrociously showy proportions spread across her face.

  “That is precisely why women like you should not be walking about roads like this alone,” he continued, his voice turning gruff. “Men are beasts and scoundrels and utterly incapable of not following after a woman like you.”

  Impossibly, her grin spread wider. “I walk everywhere at Blackwood Hall—”

  “Ack,” he said with a flick of his wrist. “It’s not the same. Out here, without protection or any sense at all, you’re prey for men like me.”

  She laughed. “Men like you!”

  “Yes. Me. Scoundrels, as I said.”

  “You’re not a scoundrel!” she scoffed.

  “Oh, but I am every inch a scoundrel, Miss Cabot,” he said with a devilish smile. “Don’t be fooled. Hasn’t anyone ever warned you about the appetites of men?”

  A swirl of concern began to nudge in beside her glee at having been called beautiful by such a handsome man. Lord Merryton had indeed warned her of scoundrels and rogues. Never trust a gentleman, no matter what he says to you, Prudence. There is one thing in his mind that controls him, and it is not a virtue.

  “Well, good heavens, don’t look frightened of me now,” he said impatiently. He dipped down and retrieved the bags, then casually put his arm around her waist, urging her to walk. A flash of incongruence swept through her—she liked the way this self-named scoundrel felt beside her.

  “You remind me too much of my sister. I could no more tarnish your reputation than I could hers.”

  Prudence did not care to remind him of his sister in that moment, not at all—the comparison sat sourly in her belly.

  “What sort of scandal?” he asked as they walked along, like brother and sister.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said there is no gentlemen at your door because of scandal. What sort of scandal?”

  She really didn’t care to reveal her family’s sordid shenanigans. “My sisters were married in an unconventional manner,” she said carefully.

  “Forced to marry?”

  “Forced?” she repeated, wondering how best to phrase it.

  “I mean, were they pregnant?”

  Prudence gasped, both with indignation at such a horrible accusation and with shock—no one ever said that word aloud. If there was one word in the English language that was carefully concealed with euphemisms, it was that one. “Absolutely not!”

  “No?” He shrugged. “What other unconventional manners of marriage are there?”

  “More than that,” Prudence said.

  Mr. Matheson chuckled and gave her a soft squeeze. “You amuse me, Miss
Cabot. You’re a bit prudish, aren’t you? And yet forthcoming in a strange way, especially for a woman walking along a deserted road with a complete stranger.”

  “I don’t feel as if you’re a complete stranger any longer,” she said.

  “Well, I am. You really know nothing about me. You remind me of a man I ran into the time my horse went lame upstate,” he said, and began to relate the tale of what sounded to Prudence like a very long and dangerous walk through the American countryside. This was where, apparently, Mr. Matheson had come up with the idea that there ought to be better modes of transportation between the cities and the north country, and he had very firm opinions about it. Prudence was able to observe this at length, for on this topic, her participation in the conversation was completely unnecessary.

  The talk of transportation and the need for a canal had utterly fatigued her by the time they reached the village. Moreover, her feet were killing her.

  There was hardly anything to the village. A pair of cottages, a smithy, and a tiny inn and post house. Almost all of the village appeared deserted, save the woman wandering about her garden. Up the road were a few more buildings, perhaps a dry-goods store. The stagecoaches had come and gone, but more important, there was no sign of Dr. Linford.

  With a sigh of relief, Prudence sat down on a fence railing across from the inn. She desired nothing more than to remove her shoes and rub her feet, but would settle for at least taking her weight off them.

  Mr. Matheson, on the other hand, put down the two bags and glanced around as if it had been nothing to carry them these five miles. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry,” he said.

  “No, thank you.” She glanced up at him. She couldn’t deny that their little adventure had come to an end. She had done enough for one day, and no matter what, she couldn’t impose on him any longer. For heaven’s sake, the man had only just arrived from America. “Thank you for walking with me, Mr. Matheson. I know you’re eager to find your sister. I’ll be quite all right until a coach comes along.”

  He looked surprised. “My name is Roan. And I prefer to put you on a coach myself.”