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

“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?”