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

Roan could only stare at his sister. Had she always been so impossible? Had she always done what she pleased without regard for anyone else? He let go of her bridle and spurred his horse on, needing to be away from her. He heard Aurora shout at him, but he paid her no heed.

He didn’t know if he was angrier with Aurora or Prudence. Aurora for having said anything at all; Prudence for having failed to ask him if it were true. But then again, Roan had been angry with the world of late. He’d had almost two months to think of what had happened in England and the pain of having left Prudence had not abated in the least. There was not a day that passed she wasn’t in his thoughts, not a moment he didn’t regret not having fought harder for her. He had accepted her dismissal when he should have proposed marriage to her in earnest.

Aurora’s regrets were public. His were not. To anyone around him, Roan appeared as he always had—confident and busy. But he was empty, depleted of spirit. He imagined Prudence married now. He imagined her in another man’s bed, which was particularly torturous to him. He imagined that she had moved past her week of adventure, and could smile again.

Roan couldn’t. He was hopelessly mired in his loss.

There was more talk of sending Aurora to Boston, but Aurora appealed to their father. “Susannah Pratt and Sam Gunderson are marrying next week. We’ve all been invited. I can’t miss it, Papa. If I miss it, everyone will think it’s because I have hard feelings. Don’t you want his father to know there are no hard feelings?”

“Aurora is staying here,” the senior Matheson announced at supper one night. “If she doesn’t attend, everyone will think it’s because she has hard feelings. I would not want his father to believe that is true, not if we are to repair our relationships there and have any hope of renewing our agreements.”

Aurora smiled a bit smugly at her brothers. Roan and Beck rolled their eyes. It had been so all their lives and they knew better than to fight it.

The illustrious wedding would be celebrated at the City Hotel in New York, the only place large enough to accommodate all the guests. This was a society affair, and all of New York wanted to attend. Roan preferred what he considered a typical wedding: a small family affair in a parlor. Something that could be quickly done and from which he might quickly leave so that he didn’t have to think of Prudence.

He tried desperately not to think of her. He tried to put the past behind him, but it felt impossible. He saw her everywhere, under every bonnet, walking down every street. Every woman in New York whose hair was the slightest shade of gold was, for the space of a breath, Prudence.

The day before the wedding Roan joined his parents at the family’s town house on Broadway Street in the city. Roan wouldn’t be in town long—he intended to leave for meetings about the canal as soon as the wedding was over. He would ride north, alone, with bedding and a shotgun and perhaps one of the family dogs to accompany him. That was where Roan intended to work out his bad humor. He’d never been a maudlin man and he didn’t care to be one now. Fortunately, he’d be gone for weeks. He would not see bonnets or blond hair. He would forget. He would make himself forget.

When he arrived that afternoon at the family town house, Martin, the butler, held out a tray and informed Roan that a Mr. Lansing had come to call.

“Who is Lansing?” Roan asked, racking his brain as he picked up a letter from the tray.

“He is the captain of a sailing vessel, sir. He said a Mr. George Easton had sent him.”

Just the name of Easton gave Roan a queer feeling. “Thank you, Martin.” He went into the library and ripped open the seal of the letter, hoping and praying for any word of Prudence. Something. Anything.

The letter was nothing more than an introduction of Captain Lansing from Easton and an expressed hope that they might discuss the cotton trade. Enclosed were some figures Easton had mentioned about the sort of profits they could expect.

Roan tucked the letter away and thought of Prudence’s eyes. Would it have been so very difficult to include a note from her? A message? At the very least, a postscript? Miss Cabot sends her regards. Miss Cabot took her wedding vows on this date. Lady Stanhope is taking a bridal tour with her husband...

There was not even a mention of her name.

The next morning, the wedding of Susannah Pratt and Sam Gunderson was held in a chapel, and the wedding luncheon served in the City Hotel. People gathered outside the windows of the hotel to catch a glimpse of the bride and to see the finery of New York’s wealthiest. Roan stood to one side dressed in his best dark suit and silk waistcoat, wishing the damn luncheon would come to an end so he might go back to proper moping.

He noticed Aurora in the Gundersons’ company, standing close. He even thought he detected a hint of a smile on the old man’s face. He shook his head—his sister was remarkable in her ability to charm.