Page 30 of The Scoundrel and the Debutante
“No!” she gasped. “What are you doing?”
He began to massage the bottom of her foot, and Miss Cabot’s entire body sagged with relief.
“You really shouldn’t,” she said weakly as she inched her other foot next to the one he massaged. “It’s inappropriate,” she added, her eyes closed.
He smiled, enjoying her expression of bliss as he continued to massage her feet. “What is inappropriate is that you are trying to walk across England in these awful shoes.”
“They are from France,Mr. Matheson,” she said staunchly.
“What has that to do with anything? They are useless.”
“Well, of course! They aren’t meantfor walking about,” she said with breathless indignation, her eyes flying open.
Roan paused in his ministrations to her feet to argue, but Miss Cabot nudged him with her other foot to continue his work. “I never intended to walk across England in them,” she said as he began to massage the second foot.
“You’ve no other shoes in your bag?”
“Yes,” she said. “Silk ones. I suppose in America you all strap bits of cowhide to your feet to match the cowhide of your pants and strut about as ifthatwere the fashionable thing.”
Roan couldn’t help himself—he laughed. “Pardon me,” he said through a chuckle. “I never meant to impugn your fine French shoes.”
“Hmm,” she said, and closed her eyes again.
When he had massaged her second foot as thoroughly as the first, he let it go and stood up. Miss Cabot stretched her legs long and began to point and flex her feet.
“Now, then. Can I trust you?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m going with you,” she said, her head tilted to one side as she examined her feet.
“What? No! You’re not listening.” He leaned over her, grasped her chin in his hand and forced her head up.
Miss Cabot smiled.
“No. You will stay here, on this fence, exactly where you are sitting, while I have a look about.”
She calmly wrapped her fingers around his wrist and gave his hand a strong yank, removing it from her chin. She sat straighter, bringing her head so close to his that Roan could see the flecks of brown in her very fine hazel eyes. “I’m going. You’re foreign and you don’t know how to do things.” And then she swayed back and turned her attention to her feet.
But Roan was confused. “I don’t know how to do what, exactly?”
“Speak to crofters.” She winced as she slid her feet into her shoes, ignoring his stare of disbelief.
“Stay,” he said.
“No.” She began to roll her ankles about, her small stocking feet pointing toward the road. Then she placed her hands delicately in her lap and looked up at him. “Do you intend to stand there and stare at me all day, or shall we find a horse?”
Roan sighed. He knew the look of a stubborn woman and held out his hand to her.
They walked across the pasture and studied the horses as they grazed the grass. They were not young horses, and one of them had a peculiar bump over his right hindquarter.
“Oh dear,” Miss Cabot said.
But Roan thought they looked affable and strong enough. “They’ll do.”
At the other end of the pasture in a meadow just below, Roan spied a few cottages with smoke curling out of the chimneys and some barnlike structures. He paused.
“It’s lovely,” Miss Cabot said wistfully.
Roan shifted his gaze to her, uncertain what she thought was lovely. With the sun’s angle just so, he could see the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She looked remarkably fresh, considering all that had happened today.
