The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)

She watched the coach move down the road and disappear under the shadows of trees.

Five miles from a village.

She looked around. There was no one, and no sound but the breeze in the treetops and the fading jangle of the coach. Prudence had never been alone like this. But, as her poor, mad mother used to say before she’d lost the better part of her mind, no one could correct one’s missteps but oneself. The sooner one set upon the right course, the sooner one would reach the right destination.

Prudence would argue the point about the right destination, but there was nothing to be done for it now. And for God’s sake, she would not shed a single tear. There was nothing she detested more than women who resorted to tears at the first sign of adversity. Yes, walk she would, in shoes that were meant to wander about a manicured garden...just as soon as she gave her aching feet a rest.

Prudence dropped her valise and sat down on top of it, her knees together, her legs splayed at odd angles to keep her balance on the small bag. She folded her arms on top of her knees, pressed her forehead against her arms and squeezed her eyes shut. How could you be so stupid?

Reality began to seep into her thoughts.

Whatever made her believe she could be like her sisters? She’d never been like the rest of them, had never taken such daring chances, disregarding all propriety on a whim. What made her believe that she could step out of bounds of propriety now? Yes, she’d been at sixes and sevens of late, unsatisfied with her lot in life, but still! She was alone on a road, perfect prey for highwaymen, thieves or other horrible things she couldn’t even bring herself to think of. Gypsies! Prudence gasped and her heart fluttered, recalling the frightening tales Mercy had insisted on telling.

“Well.”

The sound of a man’s voice startled her so badly that Prudence tried to leap up and scream at the same time and managed to knock herself off her imperfect perch and onto her bottom.

Mr. Matheson instantly reached for her, and Prudence, in a moment of sheer relief, grabbed him with both hands, hauled herself up with such vigor that she launched herself into his person and threw her arms around his neck.

Perhaps he was as stunned as she—he caught her, but neither of them moved for one long moment. Then Mr. Matheson put his hands firmly on her waist and carefully set her back, staring down at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“I beg your pardon,” she said apologetically. “I was momentarily overcome with relief! What are you doing on foot?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Rescuing you.”

Prudence could feel the color rising in her cheeks, the thump, thump, thump of her shame and delight in her chest. “You gave me such a fright,” she said, pressing her hand to breast. “I thought I would perish with it.”

“Well, I think we’ve sufficiently delayed your ultimate demise for at least an hour or so,” he said. “What the devil are you doing here? Why did you leave the coach? Where in hell do you think you’re walking?”

“To the next village or cottage,” she said, gesturing lamely in that direction. “I mean to pay someone to return me to Ashton Down.”

He squinted down the road in the direction she gestured. “What a perfectly ridiculous thing to do,” he said gruffly. “Why would you? You had a seat on a coach!”

“Because I feared Mrs. Scales would not be able to restrain herself from reporting all that had happened since leaving Ashton Down, and she...might possibly utter my name.”

“I think the odds of that are excellent,” he said, nodding, as if it were a foregone conclusion. “And your solution to this was to, what, run away?”

“No,” she said, as if it were absurd to suggest she’d run, even though she obviously had. “My solution was to go at once and find someone who would return me to Blackwood Hall. I should rather my family learn of this...turn of events...from me.”

“Mmm.” He folded his arms and stared down at her with such scrutiny that her skin began to tingle. “So you thought you might march up to anyone with a conveyance and ask that they see you to this hall where you might report your folly?”

When he put it like that, it sounded ridiculous. Prudence sniffed. She scratched her cheek and gazed down the road, then looked at him sidelong. “Well, you needn’t look so smug, Mr. Matheson. You’ve made your point. I’ve been foolish.”

“I haven’t even begun to make that point, Miss Cabot, but I’ll happily do so as we trek into the next village and find that conveyance. At the moment, however, I’d very much like to turn you over my knee like a child, for God knows how childish you’ve been.”

“Yes, so it would seem!” she said, miffed. “You’re not my father, Mr. Matheson.”

“Your father!” he sputtered. “I’m scarcely thirty years old. And yet I have twice as much sense as you.”