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

Prudence didn’t want to sit, she didn’t want anything to do with him. But she dared not show him any fear or reluctance, either. She moved stiffly to the settee and sat, her hands folded on her lap.

Stanhope flipped his tails and sat beside her. He smiled kindly, as if he were a friend. They weren’t friends, they were nothing to one another, only mere acquaintances, and uncomfortably vague ones at that. He meant to extort her, so what was the point of smiling? “Yes?” she prodded him, wishing he’d get on with it. Her palms were damp, her heart racing.

“No pleasantries? No remarks about the weather, no inquiries about my safe return from Weslay?”

Her heart skipped at the mention of Weslay. “Are pleasantries really necessary? I know why you’re here.”

He actually laughed at that. “Do you, indeed? I suspect not, Miss Cabot. I’ve come with a proposition for you.”

A proposition! She could only imagine what it was. She shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s not an indecent proposition, if that’s the idea you have.”

“I am happy to hear it,” she said coolly. “What is your proposition?”

He sighed as if dealing with a temperamental child. “I had imagined a gentler moment, but I see I won’t be granted one. So I’ll speak plainly—I think we might help one another.”

Help. What an odd thing to say. Prudence frowned doubtfully. “How?”

“You are very comely,” he said, his gaze wandering over her. “Any gentleman in this town would be very lucky to have you as his wife.”

A self-conscious heat began to rise in Prudence’s cheeks. “You said it wasn’t indecent—”

“Hear me out,” Stanhope continued undaunted. “It is no secret that scandal and your mother’s unfortunate madness have made you rather untouchable, is it? And I think it obvious to you that if anyone were to discover your recent foray into the English countryside, it would be impossible for any gentleman of note to offer for you.”

Prudence’s humiliation crawled up the nape of her neck. “I certainly can’t fault you for refusing to flatter me, my lord. Did you come expressly to humiliate me?” she asked evenly. “If so, you’ve wasted your time. I am not easily humiliated, thanks to all the reasons you’ve so candidly listed.”

“Humiliate!” he said, surprised. “Quite the opposite, Miss Cabot. I’ve come to offer for your hand.”

That brought Prudence up short. All rational thought flew out of her head. She stared at him, confused as to what scheme he was perpetrating.

“Naturally, in doing so, I am prepared to overlook all of the reasons I’ve listed that make you an unsuitable match for anyone else. Frankly, I couldn’t care less about them. I find you appealing in many ways. And, as it happens, my estate is entailed to such an extent that I am in need of a sizable dowry. I suspect yours will do.”

Prudence suddenly couldn’t breathe. She was indignant, but unsure why. The truth was that had it not been for Roan, she could imagine herself being strangely grateful to Stanhope. Of course she would have hoped for something a bit less transactional about this offer, but that was the way of her world. No matter how people dressed it, marriages were made for connections and financial and social gains. Sometimes great affection was tied to it. Sometimes, not.

Of all the things she had expected from Stanhope, an offer of marriage—to an earl, no less—was wildly beyond anything she might ever have imagined. And yet there was something so mercenary about it that Prudence couldn’t help recoil from it. She didn’t want a bloodless transaction. She suddenly realized how desperately she wanted love.

“You will not have heard a word against me, I suspect,” he blithely continued as if he assumed she agreed with his reasoning. “You will be the Countess of Stanhope and all the attendant privileges that brings. I will cherish you as a husband ought, honor you, father your children and keep you in society as you are accustomed. Who’s to say? We might even grow to genuine affection.” He smiled.

Prudence couldn’t believe it.

He cocked his head to one side and looked at her curiously. “I know this must come as a shock, but you can’t disagree, can you?” he asked, his gaze falling to her lips. “Ours is as good a match as either of us might expect to make at this point, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said, her voice a bit breathless.

“No?”

“No, my lord, it’s not. I won’t accept your offer.”

Stanhope frowned for the first time since she’d met him. “Why? What option do you have?”

“Surely that is obvious to you. I intend to marry Mr. Matheson,” she said, and she meant it. She loved him. She loved him desperately, and she would risk everything to be with him rather than remain here and face men who had the same motives as Stanhope.

His eyes widened with surprise. And then narrowed as if he didn’t understand. “Pardon?”

“I am marrying—”

“Yes, I heard you. Do you mean you’ll leave your family behind? Or does the Yankee think to remain in England?”