Page 60 of The Scoundrel and the Debutante
“For the rest of my life, I will ask myself that question.” He shook his head and kissed the top of her head. “All right, then, Prudence, chin up. Smile at them as you’ve smiled at me, and they will be charmed to their toes and eating out of our hands by midnight.”
She slipped her hand into his. “I confess I prefer the little fire on the brook with only you and me and the nag.”
Roan laughed. “Never let it be said that Roan Matheson doesn’t know how to woo a lady.”
* * *
ITWASONLYhalf-past seven, too early for supper, and yet there were at least two dozen souls in the salon if there was one, and all of them appeared to have been in the wine for hours.
Penfors greeted them at the door and insisted on taking them around, introducing them around as “Stanhope’s guests.” Stanhope, Prudence noticed, did not attempt to correct Penfors, but merely smiled at Prudence as if they’d conspired together in this.
She refused to acknowledge him, her skin tingling with the agony of her dread.
Roan’s gaze scanned the crowd, searching for his sister. All the while, Lord Vanderbeck, a thin man lacking a firm chin, was quite taken with the idea that Roan would hail from New York, and caught him up in a torrent of questions. What was the commerce, how did the navy fare, had he ever been to Philadelphia. Roan answered politely and seemed at ease with the gentleman.
Vanderbeck was tedious, and Prudence found herself looking around, too, for a woman who might resemble Roan. She was so intent on her search that she was startled when Lady Penfors appeared at her elbow.
“You don’t want to listen tothatblowing wind,” Lady Penfors said loudly, apparently uncaring if Vanderbeck heard her or not. “Come, there are others for you to meet.”
Prudence was introduced to the young, ginger-haired Mr. Fitzhugh, who very openly admired her décolletage. Mr. and Mrs. Gastineau barely spared her a look. Mr. Redmayne and his companion, Mr. True, politely greeted her, and Mr. True pointed out his sister, the widow Barton. Prudence recognized the widow Barton as the woman in ruby who had so exuberantly leaped off her horse to greet Stanhope.
And then she saw Lord Stanhope a few feet away, his gaze locked on her. It seemed she would have his undivided attention once again. He started in her direction, but Lady Penfors barreled in between them.
“Stanhope, I wonder why you’ve not introduced Mrs. Barton to your friend.”
Prudence avoided Stanhope’s gaze. “How do you do?” she asked politely of the woman.
Mrs. Barton had lively brown eyes and a charmingly dimpled smile. “Oh my,you’requite a beauty, aren’t you?” she said as she surveyed Prudence from the ribbon in her hair to the tips of her satin slippers.
“This is Mrs. Matheson,” Lady Penfors practically bellowed.
“Ah...” Prudence could feel the rush of heat to her face. She frantically thought of how to correct Lady Penfors, but Mrs. Barton spoke first.
“What astunninggown,” she said approvingly. “It looks to be the work of Mrs. Dracott,” she added, referring to the most sought-after modiste in London.
Prudence had never dreamed anyone would make note of her gown. As it happened, itwasthe work of Mrs. Dracott and Prudence was momentarily stunned into silence. Mrs. Dracott’s clientele was very elite. To admit she wore a Dracott gown was tantamount to admitting she was more than what she’d let on.
Mrs. Barton laughed roundly at Prudence’s momentary fluster. “I’ve stepped in it, haven’t I? I’ve forgotten that Mrs. Dracott’s gowns are above the reach of most. I’ve beenveryfortunate in that regard.” She turned a little to her right and to her left to draw attention to her pale rose silk gown.
“It’s beautiful,” Prudence said, realizing she was meant to comment.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Barton said with a wink. “I should like to paintyourgown!” she said with a swirl of her fan above her head, and Prudence wasn’t entirely certain if she meant to paint on her gown, or copy it onto a canvas. “Who has made it?”
“Who?” Prudence repeated, then cleared her throat as she desperately searched for an answer. “My, ah...my mother.”
Stanhope chuckled, drawing Prudence’s attention.
“Silly man!” Mrs. Barton said, and leaned against Stanhope. “What, do you think that only a modiste might put thread to fabric? Ofcourseher mother fashioned her gown!”
“If you say so,” Stanhope said, smiling at Prudence.
Prudence’s heart began to sink to her toes. She had the very nauseating feeling that Stanhope was referring tohermother in particular, that he somehow knew it was impossible for her mother to sew anything—much less a gown as intricate as this.
“I can very well imagine that lovely train swimming about behind you as you dance,” Mrs. Barton said. She suddenly gasped. “That’s it! We must have a dance. Lady Penfors!” she shouted, forcing Prudence to lean back as she waved her fan across Prudence in the direction of Lady Penfors.
That was the worst idea—Prudence was certain she’d be made to stand up with Stanhope.
“A grand idea,” Lady Penfors called back. “Yes, yes, we must, straightaway, after we dine. Cyril! Where are you, Cyril? Send down to the village for musicians at once!”
