The Scoundrel and the Debutante (8 page)

“She's alone?” Prudence said, awed by the cheek of that.

“I assume so,” Mr. Matheson said. “That's Aurora for you—she wouldn't listen to reason, which surprises no one, and it has caused quite an uproar. Her marriage to Gunderson is very advantageous for my family. Almost as advantageous as—” Mr. Matheson suddenly stopped talking and looked away. “Never mind. Just believe me when I say that Mr. Gunderson was not pleased. And I was dispatched to fetch her before she does irreparable harm to her reputation, her engagement and to our family.”

“But how do you know where she is?” Prudence asked.

“I don't, really. The last letter we had from her before I set sail said that she was traveling about, staying here and there—but that she'd been invited to visit the home of this Penfors fellow. Given the details of her letter and the date it was marked, we believe she ought to be there now.”

Prudence almost laughed out loud. It was impossible to believe, and in some respects a delight to know, that there was a young woman out there who was more incorrigible than any of
her
sisters. Abandoning her family for a foreign land, with no apparent regard for her virtue? Prudence would very much like to meet Miss Aurora Priscilla Matheson. She would like to lay eyes on the unmarried woman brave enough to do
that—

Wait—was she truly feeling a bit of admiration for a woman like Aurora Matheson?

Mr. Matheson noticed it, too. “What's that smile? Do my sister's antics amuse you? Then she may count one
person who she has made smile, because my family is not amused. Much is riding on her marriage. Not to mention, she is a fool.”

“One can hardly fault her for wanting a taste of adventure. Being an unmarried woman can be quite tedious you know. Always sitting about in parlors, speaking of the weather.” Prudence shifted her bag to her other hand.

Mr. Matheson snorted. “Aurora has
never
sat around a parlor,” he said. “She's had as privileged a life as any young woman could expect in New York. She has squads of friends, attends all the social events—I would wager her derriere has not touched a parlor seat in months.”

Startled, Prudence looked at him.

“What?” he said. “Ah. I forgot. I'm not to say such things to the fragile English flower.”

“I am not
a fragile English flower! Who has said so?”

“My aunt. She informs me you all have tender feelings and to be careful of them. She said the English debutantes are not as sturdy as American women. Fragile, she said.”

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 opinionated, 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.”