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

Roan was momentarily distracted from the dance of words with Stanhope because the house was even grander as they neared it. He couldn’t begin to imagine how Aurora had gained an invitation here. Through what acquaintance? For what purpose?

The road went through the forest, so only the front of the house was visible, but even that small glimpse was enough to startle one into silence. It stood three stories high, all stone. Rows of sparkling windows on each floor looked over the forest. Ivy covered one of the two anchoring towers, and a trellis of roses had been trained to create an arch over the doorway.

The carriage turned onto the drive, circling around an enormous green, in the middle of which was a stone fountain, fashioned to look as if three fish were leaping over one another, their three mouths open and spouting water. Two peacocks strutted about the fountain, pecking at the grass.

The house was a beautiful, idyllic vista. Roan had never seen anything quite as grand as this, except perhaps in books, or in paintings that hung over mantels in New York, and he couldn’t help be impressed with the size of it. The house where Roan’s family resided, considered to be one of the grandest homes in the valley, and situated in a setting very similar to this, was only half as large.

The carriage rolled to a stop.

The pair of double doors that marked the entrance suddenly opened, and a butler and two footmen—Roan supposed this, given their livery—ran out onto the drive and stood at attention as the coachman came down from the bench up top and opened the carriage door.

Stanhope was the first to alight, and paused just outside, offering his hand to Prudence.

“My lord, you are welcome,” the butler said. “Madam.”

Roan stepped out of the carriage behind Prudence just as a very short and round gentleman came hurrying out of the house. He had florid cheeks and a wide nose, and looked to be in the vicinity of his sixth decade. Close on his heels was a woman who was a head taller than him, and nearly as round. She had the sort of soft, doughy face Roan’s grandmother had sported in her dotage.

“My lord Stanhope! We thought you’d not come!” the man said happily.

“You’ll be very glad you have, you know,” the woman said, bubbling with enthusiasm. “You’ve missed all the excitement! Redmayne very nearly shot Lady Vanderbeck!”

“Shot her!” Stanhope exclaimed, and took the woman’s hand, bowing over it.

“Silly woman means with the badminton cock, of course. We won’t allow Redmayne to have a gun, not after last time, what?” the man said. “Oh! You’ve brought friends,” he said, seeing Roan and Prudence. He cast his arms wide. “You are most welcome!”

Stanhope, Roan noticed, did not dispel the idea that they were friends, but merely looked at Roan as if he expected Roan to deny it. Roan wasn’t about to do any such thing, not before he at least knew who this man was to his sister.

“How do you do,” Roan began, but was interrupted by galloping horses and laughing riders who thundered onto the drive.

“Penfors, really!” cried one woman. She was dressed in a ruby riding habit with a matching hat placed jauntily to one side of her head. “You didn’t tell us the road’s been washed away!”

“Has it?” asked the short, portly gentleman, who was, apparently, Lord Penfors. “I wasn’t aware. Were you aware, darling?” He turned toward the woman who’d come out with him.

“I’ve heard no reports of it!” she protested as if she were being accused. “Cyril?” she shouted, twirling about, marching toward the house. “Cyril! What is this news of the road being washed away?”

“Stanhope!” the woman in ruby called out. “You bounder, you.” She leaped off her horse and ran for him. “I knew you’d come!”

Stanhope laughed. “I take great exception to being called a bounder, madam. I have not yet reached that lofty status,” he said, and greeted her enthusiastic hug with one of his own.

“Oh, Penfors!” the woman said as she linked her arm through Stanhope’s, “you must welcome Mr. Fitzhugh into our party.” She gestured to a gentleman who was still seated on an enormous, fine, black stallion. “He has come from Scotland with a very big purse, as it seems he sold the castle after all.”

“Yes, of course, you must join us, Mr. Fitzhugh. You are most welcome,” Penfors said as the man hopped down and a groom ran out to fetch his horse. Fitzhugh bowed low and scraped his hat against the road, thanking Penfors before running to catch up with Stanhope and the woman in ruby, who were walking inside. The other riders moved on, laughing and chatting on their way to the stables.

That left Penfors, and Roan and Prudence standing awkwardly in the drive as servants bustled about them. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” Penfors said, tilting his head back to look up at Roan. “Have we been introduced, my lord?”