Page 58 of The Scoundrel and the Debutante
That left Penfors, and Roan and Prudence standing awkwardly in the drive as servants bustled about them. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” Penfors said, tilting his head back to look up at Roan. “Have we been introduced, my lord?”
“Regrettably, no,” Roan said. He saw Penfors’s wife bustle out of the house and hurry toward them. “I offer my sincere apologies for arriving unannounced. I am Roan Matheson. And this is—”
But Penfors suddenly pivoted about before Roan could introduce his supposed cousin. “Cyril!” he shouted. “A room for Mr. and Mrs. Matheson! They are Stanhope’s guests so it must be agoodroom, Cyril, not one in the west wing.”
“Oh no!” Prudence cried. “You mustn’t—”
“Nonsense, madam. Stanhope is our very good friend, and therefore, so areyou.” He looked at Roan. “I wouldn’t think of putting you in the west wing. We save those rooms for the scoundrels who turn up uninvited.” He laughed heartily.
“My lord!” his wife said, having arrived in their midst once more. “That is not true.” She looked at Prudence. “We simply do not welcome scoundrels at Howston Hall.”
“You can’t say that we don’t,” Penfors said. “Did you look about the supper table last night?”
“Icansay it and I just did. Now come with me, Mrs. Matheson,” she said, holding out her hand to Prudence. “Is your maid coming?”
“I haven’t—”
“Oh, that’s quite all right. We’ve plenty of girls. I daresay we employ all of Weslay here, do we not, Penfors?”
“Yes, quite a lot of them. All right, then, Matheson, are you a good hand in cards?” Penfors asked as Lady Penfors began to drag a stricken Prudence along with her.
“I, ah...I neither win too often nor lose too often,” Roan said.
Penfors roared with laughter at that, startling Roan. “What a strange way you speak! That must be Eton. It’s Eton training isn’t it? I was a Cambridge man myself.”
“My lord! Do stop talking and allow the poor man to his room!” his wife yelled. “They will quite obviously want to bathe before supper, and we haven’t much time.”
“No, we haven’t, have we?” Penfors asked, peering at his pocket watch.
“Mind you keep your bride close, Matheson,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Penfors is quite right, we’ve a house full of rakes and rogues!” She laughed gaily as she maneuvered Prudence in the door and disappeared into the house.
“If you will follow me, sir,” the butler said, and walked briskly behind the footman who carried the trunks.
“You seem alarmed,” Penfors said. “Do you shoot?”
Roan paused. “Scoundrels?”
Penfors laughed so hard, his eyes squeezed shut and tears leaked from the corners as he settled one hand on his belly to contain it. “What a delight, a delight! Did you hear him, Mother? He’s very clever!” Penfors shouted, even though his wife had gone inside. He hastened toward the entrance, leaving Roan to bring up the rear.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEGUESTROOMthey were rushed to was sumptuous, Prudence thought, with a high, feathered bed and tall, double windows with a magnificent view of the lake behind the house. The bed was surrounded by brocade hangings, the floor covered in thick carpets, and above the mantel, a masterfully rendered depiction of a fox hunt.
Prudence hardly noticed any of it—she frowned at Roan every time she passed him as she paced before the hearth, pausing only once at the window, her arms folded tightly, to watch two swans glide westward. It appeared as if they would glide right into the setting sun. That’s what Prudence felt she’d done—she’d been so blinded by the bright light that was Roan, so enthralled, she’d glided right into a ball of fire.
She whirled away from the window and passed Roan again, this time halting before him, her hands on her hips.
He was seated, his boots propped on a footstool, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingers. He arched a brow.
“How can you sit there as we swim into the sun?” she demanded of him, gesturing to the window.
“Pardon?”
Prudence waved her hand at him—there was no time to explain the volatile mix of emotions now, how the joy and hope and been swallowed whole by Stanhope. “Stanhope knows me, I’m certain of it. Do you realize what that means?”
“No,” Roan said, and shook his head. “Pru, he doesn’tknowyou. He has an idea of you, that’s all.”
“An idea of me! What do you mean?”
