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

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.