The Scoundrel and the Debutante by Julia London

one,” said the old man. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a flask. He tipped it up at his lips and drained what was left, then handed it to Mr. Matheson.
    â€œA perfect target. Thank you, sir,” Matheson said. He was enjoying this now, winking slyly at Prudence as he passed her, carrying the flask.
    That flask looked awfully small to Prudence. “I don’t have a firearm,” she quickly pointed out, hoping that would be the end of it.
    â€œThen you may use mine,” Mr. Matheson said, and smiled as he reached deep into his coat and withdrew it. “I suggest you remove your gloves, Miss Cabot.”
    The sisters fluttered and cooed at that, and then unabashedly admired Mr. Matheson as he strolled away to set the flask on another rock.
    There was no escape. Prudence yanked her gloves from her hands, muttering under her breath about fools and angels.
    Mr. Matheson walked back to where she stood and, with the heel of his boot, he scraped a line in the dirt. “Give me your hand,” he said.
    â€œMy hand?”
    He impatiently took her hand, his palm warm and firm beneath hers. He pressed the gun into her palm and wrapped her fingers around the butt of it. He squeezed lightly and smiled down at her, his gold-brown eyes twinkling with what Prudence read as sheer delight. “Ladies first,” he said, and let go of her, stepping back.
    Prudence looked down at the gun. It had a pearled handle and silver barrel, not unlike the pistol her stepbrother, Augustine, liked to show his friends. But Augustine kept his pistol in a case at Beckington House in London. He did not wear it on his person. Moreover, Mr. Matheson’s gun was smaller than the gun she’d been taught to fire.
    â€œYou know how to fire it, don’t you?” he asked as she studied the gun.
    â€œYes!” She lifted the gun to have a look. “That is, I assume that the trigger—”
    â€œI suspected as much,” Mr. Matheson said. He stepped forward, took her by the wrist and swung her about so that her back was against his chest. “I would feel more comfortable,” he said, a bit breathlessly, “if you do not point it at me.”
    â€œOh, I beg your pardon.”
    He leaned over her shoulder and extended her arm with the gun, helping her to sight the target. He showed her how to cock it. “Would you like a practice round?”
    A practice round? No, she wanted this over as quickly as possible. “Not necessary,” she said pertly.
    One corner of his mouth tipped up. Prudence had to force herself to look away from that mouth. Those lips, full and moist, made her a little unsteady and she needed all her wits about her.
    â€œLet the contest begin,” Mr. Matheson said, and stepped back once more to take his place among the few gentlemen passengers who had wandered over to have a look.
    As Prudence studied her target, there seemed to be a lot of chatter at her back as well as the sound of coins clinking when they were tossed into the hat the old man had taken off the young man’s head as people made their bets. There was laughter, too, and Prudence wondered if it was directed at her.
    â€œGo on, Miss Cabot. We don’t want night to fall before you’ve had your chance,” Mr. Matheson said, and someone snickered.
    Prudence glanced coolly at him over her shoulder. She lifted her arm. The pistol was heavy in her hand as she tried to sight the flask. Mr. Matheson had put it at what seemed like a great distance. Her arm began to quiver—she was mortified by that. She aimed as best she could, closed one eye...and then the other...and fired.
    The sound of breaking glass startled her almost as much as the kick from the gun that sent her stumbling backward. She’d not expected to hit the target at all, much less head-on as she seemed to have done in a moment of sheer dumb luck. Prudence gasped with delight and relief and whirled about. “Did