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

His smile seemed almost sympathetic. “I realize it is difficult for you now, but I think you’ll come round to it.”


“No,” Prudence said calmly. “I will never come round to it, my lord. And that I never shall will be your cross to bear.”

He smiled indulgently, as if she were showing him a fit of temper. “I’m not unfeeling,” he said, moving closer to her. “I will give you time to grieve your lover.”

“How very kind of you.”

He reached for her hand. With his gaze on hers, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it softly. Then he leaned down and kissed her cheek, his lips lingering, warm and soft against her skin. Prudence shuddered with despair.

“I will be good to you, Prudence,” he said softly, his nose in her hair. “You will have all that you want. I will make you as happy as a wife can be made.”

Prudence laughed ruefully. “You won’t. You can’t.”

“You may be surprised.”

“I don’t love you. I will never love you.”

Stanhope’s smile faded and he eased back. “Fortunately for us both, love is not necessary for a match such as ours, is it?” He moved away from her. “I’ve called on Beckington. This afternoon I will call on Merryton to discuss the terms.” He started for the door, but paused there and glanced back. “I saw Mercy outside. She seems quite happy about her opportunity to attend Lisson Grove. I am happy for her.”

“Yes,” Prudence said serenely. “She is a very lucky girl.” With that, she turned her back to Stanhope.

She heard Stanhope leave. The windows were open to a fresh breeze and the sounds of people and animals moving about on the street drifted up to her, but seemed to move away from her at the same time. It seemed only minutes later that she heard a knock on a door, heard voices but thought it had perhaps been on the house next door.

Moments later, Honor appeared in the drawing room with Grace. “Prudence!” Honor said, hurrying to her. “Finnegan said Stanhope was here?”

“Yes.”

Honor looked at Grace. “And?”

“And, I accepted,” Prudence said dispassionately.

“Oh no,” Grace whispered, sinking down onto a chair. “My God, Pru...what are you doing? What of love?”

Prudence laughed bitterly at that and brushed Honor’s hand from her arm. “What of it? Many matches are made for less than love.”

“You’re not serious,” Honor said.

“I am quite serious. Why shouldn’t I accept it?” Prudence asked coldly. “It’s likely the only offer I will ever receive, and at least Stanhope knows the truth about me. What would you have me do? Mope about and mourn for a love that is an ocean away? Wander about Blackwood Hall, or your house, or Beckington House and wait for another offer to come? I must do something with my life. I can’t stand still! Do you know how hard it is to stand still?” she demanded shrilly.

“But you don’t love him!” Grace cried.

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Prudence said dismissively. “You didn’t love Merryton when you wed, and you love him now. Mamma married the earl and she grew to love him very much.”

“But Mamma first married Pappa because she loved him so,” Honor said. “She married for love. She married the earl out of necessity.”

Prudence shrugged and picked up a garment to fold. “I will marry an earl out of necessity. It seems rather the same thing to me. This is a solution, and a far better one than I ever hoped for only a fortnight ago.”

“But it’s not what you want,” Honor insisted.

Prudence shook her head. She could hear the children upstairs, laughing and singing, and the sound of it, so innocent, so pure, made her ache. She would never have that. Never. Not because of the scandals that marked her family, not because of her mother’s madness. Because now she couldn’t imagine sharing that sort of happiness with anyone but Roan Matheson.

“I can’t bear it,” Grace said suddenly, standing. “Come, Honor.”

“Come where?”

“Just come,” Grace commanded. “She won’t listen to us.” She grabbed Honor’s hand and pulled her from the room.

Prudence sank down onto the settee. She tried to picture her wedding to Stanhope. Only their families, she supposed. She didn’t care where, or even when. She then tried to imagine the consummation of it. She pictured Stanhope in his night shirt, trying to fit himself into a body that didn’t want him. It made her ill.

“Prudence.”

Startled, Prudence leaped up from her seat. Lord Merryton was standing just inside—she hadn’t heard him come in. He was impeccably dressed as he always was, his black neckcloth against a white lawn shirt making his hair seem even darker. “My lord,” she said, and brushed the back of her hand against her cheek in a futile attempt to brush the flush of her thoughts from her skin.