The Scoundrel and the Debutante by Julia London Page B

down and retrieved the bags, then casually put his arm around her waist, urging her to walk. A flash of incongruence swept through her—she liked the way this self-named scoundrel felt beside her.
    â€œYou remind me too much of my sister. I could no more tarnish your reputation than I could hers.”
    Prudence did not care to remind him of his sister in that moment, not at all—the comparison sat sourly in her belly.
    â€œWhat sort of scandal?” he asked as they walked along, like brother and sister.
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œYou said there is no gentlemen at your door because of scandal. What sort of scandal?”
    She really didn’t care to reveal her family’s sordid shenanigans. “My sisters were married in an unconventional manner,” she said carefully.
    â€œForced to marry?”
    â€œForced?” she repeated, wondering how best to phrase it.
    â€œI mean, were they pregnant?”
    Prudence gasped, both with indignation at such a horrible accusation and with shock—no one
ever
said that word aloud. If there was one word in the English language that was carefully concealed with euphemisms, it was that one. “Absolutely not!”
    â€œNo?” He shrugged. “What other unconventional manners of marriage are there?”
    â€œMore than that,” Prudence said.
    Mr. Matheson chuckled and gave her a soft squeeze. “You amuse me, Miss Cabot. You’re a bit prudish, aren’t you? And yet forthcoming in a strange way, especially for a woman walking along a deserted road with a complete stranger.”
    â€œI don’t feel as if you’re a complete stranger any longer,” she said.
    â€œWell, I am. You really know nothing about me. You remind me of a man I ran into the time my horse went lame upstate,” he said, and began to relate the tale of what sounded to Prudence like a very long and dangerous walk through the American countryside. This was where, apparently, Mr. Matheson had come up with the idea that there ought to be better modes of transportation between the cities and the north country, and he had very firm opinions about it. Prudence was able to observe this at length, for on this topic, her participation in the conversation was completely unnecessary.
    The talk of transportation and the need for a canal had utterly fatigued her by the time they reached the village. Moreover, her feet were killing her.
    There was hardly anything to the village. A pair of cottages, a smithy, and a tiny inn and post house. Almost all of the village appeared deserted, save the woman wandering about her garden. Up the road were a few more buildings, perhaps a dry-goods store. The stagecoaches had come and gone, but more important, there was no sign of Dr. Linford.
    With a sigh of relief, Prudence sat down on a fence railing across from the inn. She desired nothing more than to remove her shoes and rub her feet, but would settle for at least taking her weight off them.
    Mr. Matheson, on the other hand, put down the two bags and glanced around as if it had been nothing to carry them these five miles. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry,” he said.
    â€œNo, thank you.” She glanced up at him. She couldn’t deny that their little adventure had come to an end. She had done enough for one day, and no matter what, she couldn’t impose on him any longer. For heaven’s sake, the man had only just arrived from America. “Thank you for walking with me, Mr. Matheson. I know you’re eager to find your sister. I’ll be quite all right until a coach comes along.”
    He looked surprised. “My name is Roan. And I prefer to put you on a coach myself.”
    â€œYou’re not worried for me, surely. There is no one here but an old woman,” she said, gesturing toward the white-haired woman bent over a stick and busy with something in her garden. “And besides, a coach will be along shortly. I’ll be all