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

With a squeal of surprise, Miss Cabot bounced back, her bottom fitting far too snugly in between his legs.

This, Roan thought, had all the potential of being the most excruciatingly painful ride of his life. He had never in his life been turned so completely upside down by a woman. He never imagined that he could be compelled in any way to buy an old horse and ride with a beautiful woman in his lap. Frankly, it made Roan fear what else those pretty hazel eyes could compel him to do.





CHAPTER SEVEN

IT SEEMED AS if they rode hours down that narrow country lane without seeing anyone. Occasionally, across a meadow, Prudence would catch sight of a curl of smoke rising from some distant chimney or see a flock of sheep dotting a hillside. But it seemed as if the west country had been abandoned.

The horse—an old draft mare, Mr. Matheson said—plodded along. Nothing Mr. Matheson tried would encourage the beast to go faster. “I can hardly bear to think what I paid for this...nag,” he said, the last word uttered with some difficulty as he tried his best to spur the horse on.

They stopped periodically to rest the horse. The late afternoon had turned quite warm; Prudence removed her bonnet and her spencer and tucked them into her valise along with her reticule.

Without her spencer, Prudence was even more keenly aware of Mr. Matheson at her back as they rode. Her skin grew damp from the heat between them. She could feel all the contours of his body, all the man bits, pressed against her hips. It was equally provocative and alarming. She knew it was wildly inappropriate to be seated against him as she was...but she liked it.

Prudence’s mind wandered to salacious vignettes, her imagination stretching to see him without his clothing. The thoughts made her moist in a way that felt a little dangerous given the circumstances, but again, Prudence wasn’t sure she cared. She’d never been so intimately close to a man and it seemed ridiculous to be concerned about propriety now, not after that kiss, not after sitting so close to him.

Not that Prudence was quite ready to toss aside all of her virtue.

Or so she told herself.

As her awareness of him only intensified, she became increasingly determined to draw attention to something else. Anything else.

She tried talking to him at first—How do you like New York? Is it very big? Was the voyage very rough? How many sailors do you suppose it takes to man one of those ships? But Mr. Matheson did not seem in a mood to talk, and soon he was responding to her many questions with monosyllabic grunts.

Prudence therefore resorted to humming. She was regarded as highly accomplished on the pianoforte, to which Prudence would modestly agree. Her singing, however, was not as pleasant. She began to hum to cover up the sound of her growling stomach and to chase away the shivers that ran up and down her spine every time a bobble in the horse’s step pressed her more firmly into Mr. Matheson. She began to sing when she noticed how her legs ached from sitting so awkwardly for so long a period of time, but to move them would push her body deeper into his.

She had just burst into a near operatic voice when Mr. Matheson suddenly put his arm around her middle and squeezed it. “Please, I am begging you...stop.”

“My singing?”

“Your singing, your talking,” he said pleadingly.

“I’m only trying to pass the time,” she said, a bit wounded he did not appreciate her efforts. “I should like to halt,” she said, feeling suddenly queasy.

“That’s what I said.”

“I mean the horse. I should like to get off.”

“Soon,” he assured her. “We can’t be far.”

“Now, Mr. Matheson!” she exclaimed, suddenly quite nauseated.

He reined the horse to a halt and lifted himself off its back. Prudence leaped before he could help her, but she hadn’t counted on her legs being as useless as they were. They collapsed beneath her and she stumbled onto all fours.

“Miss Cabot!” Mr. Matheson hauled her up to her feet. He pushed her hair and bonnet away from her face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, batting his hands away. She put her hand to her belly.

“What is it?” he asked, his expression full of alarm. “Are you ill?”

“No!” She winced. “A bit.”

He cupped her face with his palm. “You don’t feel warm. Is it your head? Your belly?”

“I don’t know,” she said, pressing her hands to her abdomen.

“You need to eat something,” he said firmly. “Where is the food you had earlier?”

“In my bag.”