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

The question was so unexpected that Prudence almost choked on a gasp. “No,” she said with all due indignation, and sent up a silent prayer that there was no child in her.

Stanhope merely shrugged. “Isn’t that why most people elope? Perhaps I am mistaken. Frankly, one never hears of it, really. There are always rumors of it—this girl eloped with that boy,” he said casually. “Personally, I’ve never known any debutante to do anything untoward. Well, with the notable exception of the Cabot sisters.”

Prudence’s heart stopped beating. She missed her step, stumbling over his feet in her shock. But Stanhope smoothly caught her and turned her about as if he had expected her stumble. They both moved one step to the right. She gaped at Stanhope—how could he know? She looked frantically about for Roan, but he was twirling a laughing Mrs. Barton around.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Stanhope said soothingly.

Don’t be alarmed? She was panic-stricken! She felt flush, could feel a bead of perspiration trickle down her neck. Good God, Prudence, don’t faint. What did he want? Money? Would he extort money from her now to keep his silence?

Stanhope clucked his tongue at her. “Judging by the way you are gaping at me, I take it you are surprised I’ve not been fooled by your ruse.”

“You are mistaken—”

“Come now, Miss Cabot. Has no one ever commented on the remarkable resemblance you bear to your sister Grace? I had always heard the younger Cabot sisters were the true beauties, and now I see that is true.”

Prudence swallowed down another swell of nausea. “You are acquainted with Grace?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve also had the great pleasure of making Mrs. Easton’s acquaintance, as well,” he said, referring to Honor.

That was it, then—there was no denying it. Whatever happened now would be nothing compared to the joy she’d known with Roan. She’d been destined to be a spinster anyway, hadn’t she?

Stanhope took her hand, twirled her around and let her go, sending her back to her line. They took another step toward the front of the line.

Prudence pressed a hand against her abdomen to soothe her roiling nerves. Rage was building in her, with Stanhope, with the world.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t faint, darling. That will make it far worse, won’t it? You mustn’t fret. You’ve managed a great deceit and I don’t intend to reveal it.”

Prudence didn’t accept his reassurances. She hadn’t grown up in the upper echelons of London society without learning how treacherous it was. “I don’t intend to faint, my lord,” she said coolly. “What do you want? Money? Because I will tell you now I have none.”

“That accusation pains me,” he said with a wince as they reached the top of the line. He held out his palm to her. She put her hand in his and he swept his arm around her back to lead her down the line. “I want nothing at all, Miss Cabot. I would never take cruel advantage of a woman.”

Prudence didn’t believe him. She knew nothing about him, but she didn’t believe him, not for a moment.

Her heart was pounding, her body perspiring. She danced by rote, the steps as familiar to her as walking. How many times had she and her sisters practiced them? How many dances had she attended? She dipped and leaped and smiled when she should without thought, without anyone seeing the distress that was filling her to almost bursting. Her steps were light and carefree, but when they reached the end of the line, Prudence jerked her hand free of his. “Thank you, but I don’t care to dance any longer.”

He shrugged. “Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Matheson,” he said, and with his hands clasped behind his back, he strolled away as if he was touring a garden and smelling roses.

Prudence looked around her, uncertain where to go, where to hide. Everywhere she turned she saw treacherous, knowing faces. It felt as if all the people gathered in this salon knew what she’d done.

When she felt a hand on her arm she jerked away, certain it was Stanhope again.

“Pru!”

She whirled around; Roan’s expression was one of concern. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?

Calm yourself. Poise. She had to be poised. Unruffled. Serene. “I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “I’m just...I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

“Penfors won’t—”

“Give them my regrets, will you?” she asked quickly, before Roan could argue against it, and slipped away from him, walking briskly to the door of the salon. She didn’t look back, but kept walking, smiling at the footman who held the door open. But once she stepped in the hall, Prudence ran, down the carpeted hall and up the grand staircase of Howston Hall like a thief. She ran to the suite, shut the door behind her and locked it. No, no, she couldn’t lock it—Roan would come, he would think she’d locked him out. She unlocked it, then backed away from the door, staring at it, her chest rising and falling with anxiety, half expecting Stanhope to burst in.