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

God, I am ridiculous.

Prudence didn’t finish her thought. She didn’t need to—he knew what she meant. She was wrong to feel she had any right to him at all. Last night had been about adventure. It had been about the experience of living. So why, then, did it suddenly feel so painful?

An uncomfortable silence swallowed them. Prudence stared into the distance and thought of America. Of apple trees and green hills.

She had no idea how long they rode in silence until Roan leaned down and said softly, “Look there.” He pointed over her shoulder.

Prudence looked in the direction he indicated and saw the curls of smoke rising above the treetops.

“A village,” he said. “That’s a happy sight, isn’t it?”

But a swirl of panic rose up in Prudence, rudely jerking her back to reality. “Oh no. No! I can’t go into a village like this,” she said, glancing down at her dirty gown, the tail of her hair. “I need a fresh gown, to put up my hair.”

“As much as I would like to oblige you, I don’t think there are any baths that can be drawn out here,” Roan said. “And neither do I have a fresh gown for you.”

“You must allow me this! My family—”

“All right, all right,” he said, and tugged her back into his chest. “We’ll take a detour and follow the brook until we find you a suitable place to freshen.” He tugged at the reins of the horse and turned off the road, leading the nag down the trail beside the brook that had followed the road.

The brook turned west, and in the middle of a copse of trees, they found a small lake. It wasn’t very large—perhaps only three acres in all—and lily pads had choked off half of it. But cool, clear water lapped onto a grassy bank. Prudence could see grass waving just below the surface, and a bit farther out, the grass gave way to sediment. “It’s perfect,” she said, and removed her shoes and stockings, then hiked up the hem of her gown and waded in, ankle deep. “Oh.” She closed her eyes and delighted in the delicious feel of the grass tickling her feet, the cool water lapping around her ankles.

“Do you swim?”

Prudence glanced over her shoulder at Roan. He was standing on the bank, one foot propped on a rock, his arms folded, watching her. “Yes,” she said. “Do you?”

His gaze slid down her body and he reached for his neckcloth with one hand, pulling the ends free of the knot. “Like a fish,” he said. She watched him discard his coat and waistcoat, too, and pull his shirt free of his trousers. His gaze never left hers, the shine in his eyes making Prudence feel a little light-headed. His promise to another woman notwithstanding, her thoughts skirted across the memory of last night. They were almost to Himple. This extraordinary adventure would come to an end, and so would the most wonderfully intoxicating thing she’d ever known in her life. The damage to them both had been done. That’s why Prudence hesitated only a moment before she reached behind her and undid the buttons of her gown. She pulled it over her head and tossed it onto the shore, and stood there in her chemise.

Roan’s eyes darkened. His gaze traveled her body once more, but slowly, as if he was taking in every detail, committing it to memory.

She smiled and turned about, wading into the pond until her chemise floated about her waist. Her nipples jutted through the thin fabric, and Prudence spread her arms out to each side, so that her palms skimmed the water. She spread her toes, too, and let the mud squish between them.

This was a familiar feeling—it reminded her of her childhood. What a wonderful childhood it had been, too. She was so young when her father, a bishop in the Church of England, had died so unexpectedly. Her mother had remarried the Earl of Beckington, who was himself a widower, and the four Cabot sisters had trouped off to Longmeadow to be properly schooled in all the things an earl’s daughter was required to know. Music and needlework, painting and archery, geography and history. But when they weren’t at their lessons, they had acres and acres to explore. The sisters set out every summer day with their stepbrother, Augustine, in tow, who always followed them about like a puppy, warning them of all the dangers he imagined they would encounter.