The Scoundrel and the Debutante Read Free Page B

honest, glowing sort of smile—
    â€œI am grateful for your assistance, Miss...?”
    â€œCabot,” she said. “Miss Prudence Cabot.”
    â€œMiss Cabot,” he said, and bowed his head slightly. “Mr. Roan Matheson,” he added, and stuck his hand out.
    Prudence glanced uncertainly at his hand.
    So did he. “What is it? Is my glove soiled? So it is. I beg your pardon, but I’ve come a very long way without benefit of anyone to do the washing.”
    â€œNo, it’s not that,” she said with a shake of her head, although her thoughts were spinning with the how and why and from where he’d come such a long way.
    â€œOh. I see.” He removed his glove and extended his hand once more. She noticed how big it was, how strong. How long and thick his fingers were and the slight nicks on his knuckles. A hand that was not afraid of work. “My hand is clean,” he said impatiently.
    â€œPardon? Oh! No, it’s just that it’s rather unusual.”
    â€œMy hand?” he asked curiously, holding it up to have a look.
    â€œNo, no.” She was being rude. She looked up at his startling topaz eyes. And at his hair, too, dark brown with streaks of lighter brown, and longer than the current fashion, which he had carelessly brushed back behind his ears. It was charmingly foreign.
He
was charmingly foreign and...
virile.
Yes, that was it. He looked as if he could move mountains about for his amusement if he liked. Her pulse, Prudence realized, was doing a tiny bit of fluttering. “It’s unusual that you are offering your hand to be—” she paused uncertainly “—shaken?”
    â€œOf course I offered it to be shaken,” he said, as if it were ridiculous she would ask. “Why else would one offer a hand, Miss Cabot? To shake. To acknowledge a kindness or a greeting—”
    She abruptly put her hand in his, noting how small it seemed in his palm.
    He cocked his head. “Are you afraid of me?”
    â€œWhat? No!” she said, flustered. Maybe she was a tiny bit afraid of him. Or rather, the little shocks of light that seemed to flash through her when he looked at her like that. She curled her fingers around his. He curled tighter.
“Oh,”
she said.
    â€œToo firm?” he asked.
    â€œ
No
,
not at all,” she said quickly. She liked the feel of his grip on her hand and had the fleeting thought of his grip somewhere else on her altogether. “I beg your pardon, but I am unaccustomed to this. Here, men offer their hands to other men. Not to ladies.”
    â€œOh.” He hesitantly withdrew his hand. But he looked at her with confusion. “Then...what am I to do when I meet a woman?”
    â€œYou bow,” she said, demonstrating for him. “And a lady curtsies.” She curtsied, as well.
    He groaned as he pulled his glove back on. “May I be brutally honest, Miss Cabot?”
    â€œPlease,” she said.
    â€œI have come to England from America on a matter of some urgency—I must fetch my sister who is enjoying the fine hospitality and see her home. But I find this country confounding. I sincerely—” He suddenly turned his head, distracted by the sound of a coach rumbling into town. It was the northbound stage, and it pulled to a halt on the street just outside the courtyard. Two men sitting atop the coach jumped down; two young men climbed down from the outboard. Another man was waiting on the sidewalk to catch the bags that one of the coachmen began to toss to him.
    The coach looked rather full, and Prudence felt a moment of pity for Mr. Matheson. She couldn’t possibly imagine how he would maneuver his large body into that crowded interior.
    â€œWell, then, there we are,” he said, and began to stride toward the coach. He paused after a few steps and glanced over his shoulder at Prudence. “Aren’t you coming?”
    Prudence was momentarily startled. She