Prudence laughed self-consciously. “No.”
“I mean it,” he said, and touched the back of his hand to her cheek, then brushed his knuckles against her décolletage. “You have astounded me every day, but tonight, you’ve taken my breath away.” He leaned down, kissed her tenderly on the lips.
She smiled and stroked his jaw. “I adore you, do you know it?” She twined her hands around his neck and pulled his head down. “You’re very handsome yourself. I suppose you hear that from all the little birds flitting about you in America, don’t you?”
“Birds don’t flit around me,” he said, and kissed her as his hands slid down her ribs, to her hips. But he didn’t linger, lifting his head with a sigh. “You’re a temptress. I would like nothing better than to tear that gown from you now, seam by seam.” He ran his thumb lightly across her lip. “How did it happen? How were you standing on that green in Ashton Down on the day, the hour, the moment, I should arrive?”
“I would ask the same of you.”
“For the rest of my life, I will ask myself that question.” He shook his head and kissed the top of her head. “All right, then, Prudence, chin up. Smile at them as you’ve smiled at me, and they will be charmed to their toes and eating out of our hands by midnight.”
She slipped her hand into his. “I confess I prefer the little fire on the brook with only you and me and the nag.”
Roan laughed. “Never let it be said that Roan Matheson doesn’t know how to woo a lady.”
*
IT WAS ONLY half-past seven, too early for supper, and yet there were at least two dozen souls in the salon if there was one, and all of them appeared to have been in the wine for hours.
Penfors greeted them at the door and insisted on taking them around, introducing them around as “Stanhope’s guests.” Stanhope, Prudence noticed, did not attempt to correct Penfors, but merely smiled at Prudence as if they’d conspired together in this.
She refused to acknowledge him, her skin tingling with the agony of her dread.
Roan’s gaze scanned the crowd, searching for his sister. All the while, Lord Vanderbeck, a thin man lacking a firm chin, was quite taken with the idea that Roan would hail from New York, and caught him up in a torrent of questions. What was the commerce, how did the navy fare, had he ever been to Philadelphia. Roan answered politely and seemed at ease with the gentleman.
Vanderbeck was tedious, and Prudence found herself looking around, too, for a woman who might resemble Roan. She was so intent on her search that she was startled when Lady Penfors appeared at her elbow.
“You don’t want to listen to that blowing wind,” Lady Penfors said loudly, apparently uncaring if Vanderbeck heard her or not. “Come, there are others for you to meet.”
Prudence was introduced to the young, ginger-haired Mr. Fitzhugh, who very openly admired her décolletage. Mr. and Mrs. Gastineau barely spared her a look. Mr. Redmayne and his companion, Mr. True, politely greeted her, and Mr. True pointed out his sister, the widow Barton. Prudence recognized the widow Barton as the woman in ruby who had so exuberantly leaped off her horse to greet Stanhope.
And then she saw Lord Stanhope a few feet away, his gaze locked on her. It seemed she would have his undivided attention once again. He started in her direction, but Lady Penfors barreled in between them.
“Stanhope, I wonder why you’ve not introduced Mrs. Barton to your friend.”
Prudence avoided Stanhope’s gaze. “How do you do?” she asked politely of the woman.
Mrs. Barton had lively brown eyes and a charmingly dimpled smile. “Oh my, you’re quite a beauty, aren’t you?” she said as she surveyed Prudence from the ribbon in her hair to the tips of her satin slippers.
“This is Mrs. Matheson,” Lady Penfors practically bellowed.
“Ah...” Prudence could feel the rush of heat to her face. She frantically thought of how to correct Lady Penfors, but Mrs. Barton spoke first.
“What a stunning gown,” she said approvingly. “It looks to be the work of Mrs. Dracott,” she added, referring to the most sought-after modiste in London.
Prudence had never dreamed anyone would make note of her gown. As it happened, it was the work of Mrs. Dracott and Prudence was momentarily stunned into silence. Mrs. Dracott’s clientele was very elite. To admit she wore a Dracott gown was tantamount to admitting she was more than what she’d let on.
Mrs. Barton laughed roundly at Prudence’s momentary fluster. “I’ve stepped in it, haven’t I? I’ve forgotten that Mrs. Dracott’s gowns are above the reach of most. I’ve been very fortunate in that regard.” She turned a little to her right and to her left to draw attention to her pale rose silk gown.
The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)
Julia London's books
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