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

“I only want to help,” Honor said.

“You can’t help me,” Prudence said angrily. “No one can help me. Just leave me be.” How could she possibly convey the depth of her grief? The seething disappointment of having felt so deeply for a man who was, very literally, as far removed from her as was possible? This wasn’t infatuation at all—this was pure heartbreak.

It wasn’t until late that afternoon that Prudence found the courage to read Roan’s letter. He wrote in long, bold strokes.

Dearest Prudence,

It is three o’clock in the morning, and there is very little left of the candle. As I’ve lain in bed, feeling the space beside me cold and empty, I composed a brilliant letter to you in my mind, one that I believe adequately conveyed my feelings for you. But when I rose to put pen to paper, all the elegance of my thoughts was lost. I am utterly incapable of describing the depth and breadth of my feelings. Is it love? I think it is, but I am no scholar when it comes to the heart. I know only that I adore you. I want to slay dragons and lay them at your feet. I want to conquer nations and make you their queen. My life has never lacked for anything, but from this day forward, it will always lack for you.

She read his letter over and over again, intermittently weeping and then staring off in the distance and seeing nothing.

Prudence somehow managed to rouse herself the next day, determined not to drown in her grief. She dressed and allowed Honor to drag her on a call to Augustine and Monica.

“Prudence, darling!” Augustine said, greeting her with a hug. “I’ve been made most happy—Lord Stanhope has called to speak to me about a match!” Augustine seemed oblivious to her distress, elated that the problem of what to do with Prudence had been solved.

“Will you accept his offer?” Monica asked, peering curiously at Prudence.

Prudence merely shrugged. “Why not? I suppose one man is as good as the next.”

Augustine laughed loudly at that, and Prudence stared out the window.

That’s all she could manage for a few days, staring out windows.

Merryton and Grace planned to leave London at week’s end—Merryton could never bear to be in London long. Mercy busied herself collecting all the things she supposed she would need at Lisson Grove. Linens and soaps, ribbons and stockings. Life moved placidly along, everyone returning to their lives, moving with the tide of time. Everyone but Prudence.

Her life stood still.

Stanhope came round twice for Prudence, but Honor told him she’d come down with an ague, refusing to allow him to see her.

“I can’t put him off forever,” she said, pacing nervously before Prudence, who was sprawled on the chaise in her room. “What do you mean to do?”

“I told you. I will marry him,” Prudence said.

Honor came to a halt and stared at Prudence. “Prudence—”

“Honor, please,” Prudence said, throwing up her hand. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

Honor pressed her lips together and went out, leaving Prudence to stare at the tree branch that danced on a breeze outside her window. She wondered idly how many hours she’d stared at the branch this week, imagining Roan and Aurora on a ship bound for America. She could see him on the quay, overseeing the handling of luggage, glancing back over his shoulder at England. She could see him on the ship, standing at the helm, staring out over rough waters and thinking of Prudence.

Grace came one afternoon, probably at Honor’s behest. Grace began in earnest to try and cheer Prudence, but Prudence was aware she needed more than cheering. She tried to rally, to rouse herself from the doldrums, but it felt as if her disconsolation had invaded her blood. She knew her sisters were losing their patience with her. So was she! This was not how she wanted to live, God no. And yet, she felt powerless to alter her thoughts.

She loved Roan Matheson. The world had not miraculously slid back to the familiar as she’d assumed. The glow of him had not dimmed. She just felt his loss more sharply as time marched on.

A day before Merryton and Grace were to return to Blackwood Hall, Stanhope came round a third time to call on Prudence. When Finnegan told her he’d come, and that there was no one to intercept him, Prudence sighed, pushed her undressed hair over her shoulder, and walked to the drawing room in her bare feet to receive him.

He looked surprised by her appearance when he entered the room. “Good afternoon,” he said, taking in her dress and the hair that hung loosely down her back. “I heard the American had left. Now I see it is true.”

Prudence’s gaze was unwavering. She was numb to Stanhope now, and waited for him to say whatever he’d come to say.

“Have you thought about my offer?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“And?”

“And, I haven’t a choice, have I? I accept.”