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

She opened one eye and smiled with surprised. “Will you?”


He picked up the ewer from the basin. “I will.” He brought the wine bottle and their cups first, and set them on the floor. He moved her things from the chair and sat, then dipped the ewer into the water. Prudence sat up and leaned forward; he poured water over her hair to wet it, watching the water and her hair stream down her back.

“I think Mrs. Bulworth will be very appreciative that I arrive in clean dress and with my hair properly put up,” she said with a wry smile. “She won’t know how she owes you a debt for it.”

Roan smiled and lathered her hair.

Prudence sighed and closed her eyes again, relaxing as he washed her hair. “I will miss you,” she said softly. “Is that madness? I’ve known you a day and a half, and yet I know I will miss you more than breath.”

Roan hesitated a moment before continuing in the work of washing her hair. He would miss her, too—just how much he would miss her amazed him. “I will miss you, too,” he admitted.

He dipped the ewer and poured it over her hair to rinse it. She said nothing as he finished her hair and put down the ewer.

Prudence grabbed his hand. “Come in,” she said.

He laughed. “That wash tub won’t accommodate us both.”

“It will,” she said, and drew her knees up to her chest.

Roan very much doubted that they could fit in the tub, but he wasn’t above trying. He quickly disrobed, aware that Prudence’s eyes were on him, her gaze brazenly sliding over his body, drinking him in. More than one woman had seen him bare as he was now, but this was the first time that Roan could recall wanting a woman to find him as appealing as he found her. He stepped into the tub, braced his hands against the edges, and carefully lowered himself in. Water sloshed over the sides when he did, and Prudence laughed with delight. Roan was stuffed into that bath, but grateful for the wash.

She helped him, rubbing soap on his chest, on his neck and face. He helped her, too, lathering up her breasts, her abdomen. She laughed at him when he dipped his head to wet it, and she came up on her knees to return the favor of a hair wash. “Shall I shave you? I shaved the earl when he was no longer able.”

“I’d like that,” he said.

Prudence reached over the side of the tub and found the razor he’d taken out, the cream for his face. She smiled as she leaned forward and carefully scraped the two days’ growth of beard from his face.

When they had cleaned themselves, Roan poured wine for them both. He liked this, sitting in a bath with Prudence. Her hair was slicked back, and her breasts rode just above the water line, her face softly golden in the light of the fire. Roan had never been so captivated, never so content.

They talked about family, and horses and dogs, of which they shared a love. He told her about a canal so many of them were trying to see built, from Lake Erie to New York City. “It will change commerce as we know it,” Roan said.

Prudence told him what she would recall of her father, who had died when she was rather young, and of the person her mother had been before her madness. “She was so beautiful,” she said wistfully. She told him about her mother’s second marriage to the Earl of Beckington, who clearly had loved his many stepdaughters. She told him about London society, and the balls and garden parties and many soirees. She laughed ruefully. “Those days are behind me now, I’m afraid.”

That sobered him. If ever a woman deserved to be toast of a ball, it was Prudence. He could picture her in an expensive ball gown, jewels glittering at her ears and throat, her smile illuminating those around her. “What will you do?” he asked quietly. “After you’ve called on your friend?”

“Assuming Merryton hasn’t sent an army after me?” Prudence asked, and splashed him. “I suppose I’ll return to Blackwood Hall and wait.”

“Wait,” Roan repeated, not understanding. “For what?”

Prudence shrugged. “For an offer.”

Roan must have showed his dismay at that, because she smiled and wiggled her toes against him. “Don’t be glum, Roan. It’s what debutantes do. What else is there for us, really?”

“But surely you are allowed an occupation.”

Prudence laughed. “Such as governess or teacher? I wouldn’t mind it—in fact, I should like it very much. I always fancied I’d have lots of children. I don’t know what will become of me, but young ladies of certain standing are not meant to work. They are meant to marry well and arrange seating cards at supper parties.” She smiled and flicked water against his chest again. “I envy Mercy in some ways. She found her escape from the tedium through art. I should have been as diligent in my endeavors.”