The Scoundrel and the Debutante (13 page)

Oh, but she missed those days. Before they were out in society, before they'd entered the restrictive
haut ton
,
before their every move was scrutinized, their words repeated across Mayfair salons. Standing in this lake with its lily pads, Prudence felt as if she were back at Longmeadow. As if she'd somehow stepped back in time, free to be the girl she'd been then.

She
could
be the girl she was then, at least today. Prudence abruptly dipped down, spread her arms across the water and kicked. She was swimming.
Swimming!

She tucked beneath the surface and exploded into light again, laughing and sputtering at the small little shock the cold had given her. She swam out into the middle of the lake, expecting Roan to call her back, to warn her as Augustine would warn them.
Your chemise will drag you under the water, you fool!

Roan didn't call her back. Roan let her swim.

Prudence rolled onto her back and floated a bit in the middle of the lake, blinking up at the clear blue sky above her head. Her hair fanned out around her like seaweed, and she idly moved her hands, coasting along, feeling the sun's warmth on her face, slowly moving her feet.

She turned her head and saw Roan still standing where she'd left him. She flipped around and swam slowly toward the shore. “Can you guess how long it's been since I've swum in a lake?”

He shook his head.

“Years,”
she said, astounded by it. “I'd forgotten how much I like it.”

She dipped down again and swam toward him, until she could stand in waist-deep water. She gathered her hair over one shoulder and with both hands squeezed the water from it. “Come and join me!” she called up to him.

He shook his head.

Prudence laughed at him. “Do you fear me now?”

“I fear what you're doing,” he said. “The risk is too great.”

“Oh?” She ran her hands over her head. “It's my risk to take, isn't it?”

“It's also mine,” he reminded her.

Prudence smiled. She stepped closer to him. “Roan...we will be in Himple within the hour. I will be sent off, and you'll go home, and...and won't you swim with me, only once?”

He smiled in that charmingly lopsided way he had. “You make this impossible, Pru. I'm a weak man.” His eyes moved deliberately over her. It was a dangerous look that he wore, one that was clear in its desire, and it made Prudence's heart beat quicker. But she didn't move from where she stood. She brazenly let him look at her, standing still as his gaze lingered on her breasts, clearly visible through the wet cotton of her chemise. She couldn't believe all that had happened to her in the past twenty-four hours, how astoundingly different
she felt. Yesterday at this time she'd been dreading the journey to Himple. And now? Now she was looking at a stranger with as much desire as he looked at her. She could feel it beating steadily in her heart, in her limbs, between her legs. She was alive. She was so alive.

Look at him.
Roan was magnificent. There was no other word for a man built as powerfully as him. She recalled his mouth on her sex, how he'd held her so carefully and tenderly after he'd catapulted her to such carnal delights, his hand idly caressing her arm. She could see the heat in his eyes, even from a distance. Prudence had seen that look in men's eyes before, but she'd never really known what it was. And she'd never seen it so deeply rooted as it was in Roan.

She dived under the water, swimming below the surface, letting the water carry her a bit before coming up for air, and glanced back at Roan.

The last time she'd swum like this, she'd been so young and ignorant of the world and the way things went, of all the things that mattered, and would be expected, and would be frowned upon. But nothing like that mattered in this little pond with the lily pads. This adventure had whisked her away from all the trappings of her life.

Roan had moved to the very edge of the water, his gaze so intent it seemed to burn her everywhere it touched her. He wanted her, and she wanted him. Prudence wouldn't deny it—she wasn't going backward. She would never be a maiden debutante again.

He lifted one leg and pulled off his boot. Then the other, first removing his gun from it. Prudence watched him as he unbuttoned his trousers and removed every stitch of clothing from his magnificent body. Roan was starkly naked now, his member erect. He was all hard planes and rippling muscles, and he walked unabashedly into the pond, his legs churning the water as he trod toward her. He seemed heedless of the bruises on his body, heedless of the possibility of anyone discovering them. He seemed heedless of anything but her.

Prudence was enthralled. She was breathless and giddy, and desperately wanting all that he would do to her, would show her.

As he reached her, Prudence put her arms around his neck. Roan wrapped her legs around his waist and his arms around her back. They bobbed in the water like that. He supported her weight and kept his gaze on hers, as if he were trying to determine what to do with her. But Prudence could feel his cock against her, a sensation that electrified her.

“Well, Prudence?” he asked as his gaze slid to her mouth, his expression reminding her of a man who had not eaten all day and was seeing a morsel before him. “What have you to say for yourself? Now your adventure has become mine.”

She smiled.

“I wouldn't smile like that were I you, a virginal debutante with no notion of how it stokes fire in a man,” he said gruffly. “I don't dip my toes in risky waters. I dive in, even when I can't see the bottom.”

A delightful little shiver ran up her spine. “Is there any other way to take a risk?”

Roan made a noise that sounded almost like a growl. “Risks have consequences, you little hellion. Are you prepared for the consequences?” he asked, trying to sound stern.

Prudence wished he would touch her like he had last night, his hands on her breasts and between her legs. “Kiss me,” she commanded him.

Roan frowned at her and pushed a strand of wet hair from her neck. “I'm very serious, Prudence. Are you prepared for the consequences of this? Of your adventure? Of this
swim
? If you're not, then by God, I beg you to tell me now, before I lose any control I might muster. Tell me now so I can take myself back to shore and away from the temptation of you. Say it now, this instant. Say, ‘Go away, Roan.'”

What he asked was fair, but Prudence had known her answer before he'd ever removed his boots. “I am prepared for the consequences,” she said. “Quite.” She kissed his mouth.

With a groan, he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. “You were supposed to say no. You were supposed to slap me, push me away. I am astonishingly powerless when it comes to you.” He slid his hand roughly over her head. “You intrigue me, Prudence. You're beautiful, you're clever. You are everything a man could want. But...” He winced. “I don't know what to do with you.”

“You will see me to Himple,” she said. “And then think of me fondly in the years to come.” It hurt her to say it, but what choice was there?

Roan grimaced as if that were too painful for him, too.

“Neither of us is free,” she said. “But at
this
moment, I am in a pond in the middle of nowhere, feeling things I've never felt before and may never feel again. I haven't asked you for any consideration, Roan, and I don't expect any. You asked me if I was prepared for the consequences, and I said yes
.
I am not a fool—I understand what that means.”

“Ah, Prudence.” He looked in her eyes, almost as if he was searching for something—a doubt, perhaps? A moment he might convince her otherwise? He would not find it—she was two and twenty. She might die a spinster, but she would not die an innocent one.

He must have understood it, because in the next breath, he was kissing her. He was cupping her jaw, his fingers splayed in her wet hair, and he was kissing her.

And Prudence was kissing him back, her hands on his bare chest, her fingers riding over the hard planes of it, then down to his waist and hips. She felt the same heat in her as she'd felt last night, a desire that flared quickly and burned brightly, licking at her, spreading as if it was fanned by a gale wind. Prudence wanted to touch every inch of him, from the soft lobes of his ears, to the muscles in his back, to the ripples in his abdomen, to his hips.

He pushed her chemise from her shoulders, down to her waist, then moved his mouth to her breasts. The sensation of his teeth and tongue on her was exquisite. She felt scorched and unquenchable as he moved his hands and mouth on her body. How would she ever return to being Prudence? How would she ever live knowing that this sort of desire existed in the world?

She took his earlobe in her mouth, teased it with her tongue. She nuzzled his neck as her fingers drifted across his nipples, arousing them to stiffness. He groaned with satisfaction, a sound that was astoundingly erotic to her ears.

With his hand, he found her sex, stroking her, dipping inside her. His touch and his desire for her pushed her beyond yearning. He was propelling her into an unbearable place of being, where she could expire with pleasure.

Roan suddenly straightened and lifted her up, sliding his hands under her hips and guiding her, so that his cock was pressed against her entrance. She was slick; she could feel her body responding and naturally opening to him. He kissed her as he slipped his fingers into that heat, his thumb stroking the core of her pleasure, making her gasp with delirious pleasure.

“I can't bear it another moment,” he said through the grit of his teeth, and pressed against her. He kissed her tenderly as he began to work his way inside of her, pushing a little, withdrawing a little, and again. Prudence began to relax. She was slipping into a dreamlike state, amazed at how their bodies fit together, of how pleasurable it was in spite of the tightness, and the prick of pain as he pushed past her maidenhead. She let her head drift back as he pushed deeper, moving carefully at first, taking her deeper into the pool of desire and submerging her in the feel of his body, of this carnal act, of the swirl of emotions riding up in her. His strokes lengthened, and with one arm, he anchored her to him, watching her as he moved, as if it were vital that he see her.

With every stroke he reached deeper and faster. Prudence moaned, helpless as Roan began to stroke her in rhythm to his body moving inside her. Her body began to tighten around him, sweeping her away along its wave. With a whimper of pleasurable defeat, she dropped her head to his shoulder and shuddered with her release.

Her climax was met with his more powerful one—with a strangled sob of ecstasy, he removed himself entirely from her, releasing into the lake as he gathered her up in his arms. He was gasping for air, his hold on her was tight, his kisses to her cheek and her neck soft.

Her legs slid from his waist. The water around them began to settle. He braced his palms on either side of her head and softly, carefully, kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her mouth.

Prudence was sore. She was breathless. And she was intoxicated. She'd never imagined it like this, and she would be grateful to Roan Matheson for the rest of her life for having shown her this part of life. She would love him for this, and she would never regret the past twenty-four hours. Not for a single moment.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded and smiled at him. She wrapped one arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. “You've managed to astound me twice now, Mr. Matheson.”

He smiled, too, but it was an uncertain one. He continued to hold her, bouncing around a bit in the lake, laughing at what the fish must think of them. He teased her, caressed her, his gaze wandering from her ear to her nose, to her neck and her shoulder, his smile tender.

After a while he said, “We should remove ourselves from this lovely lake before we are discovered.”

Prudence nodded, but she would be perfectly happy to remain here. She pictured a cottage on this small lake. Roan would walk out every morning to fish, and she would cook biscuits or some such—Cook had shown her once; maybe she could remember it. At night, he would read to her while she knitted socks for him. And then they would retire to their little bedroom with the windows open to the stars, and he would do this to her, over and over again.

That was the dream she would carry with her for the rest of her days. She would not think of the truth when she indulged in her daydreaming, or the heartache she would feel when it came time for him to go, or the ache she would feel every time she thought of him. She would remember only these moments.

CHAPTER TEN

P
RUDENCE
MUTTERED
UNDER
her breath as she dug through her bag, searching for something that might improve the look of her gown. When at last she did emerge from the trees, she had put a wrap to good use, tying it around her bodice to hide the worst of the dirt. She had also put her hair up rather artfully with the few pins she had, but without benefit of help or a mirror, her coif was askew.

“Well?” she asked, casting her arms out and turning around. “What do you think?”

He thought that with her sparkling hazel eyes and sensual smile, she was beautiful. Perhaps even more beautiful than the day he'd first laid eyes on her. “I've never seen anyone lovelier.”

Prudence laughed. She looked down to smooth the folds of her skirts.

Roan wisely omitted any commentary about her ruined gown or mention that her coif was hanging a little strangely. “Shall we carry on?”

He'd become uncharacteristically nervous as he'd waited for her to make herself presentable. He'd looked out over that small lake, realizing how exposed they'd been. What if someone had happened upon them? But he'd been so caught up in the moment, so bewitched by the water nymph swimming around in that thin cotton chemise, inviting him in, that he'd lost himself in the moment. The only trouble was that he had yet to find himself. He was becoming increasingly besotted with that golden-haired imp.

Roan was also keenly aware of how much time he'd wasted in his hunt for his sister. Every moment he wasn't in pursuit of Aurora was a moment he risked losing her. It was so unlike him—he'd always been a man of integrity and responsibility, the one to whom his family turned to solve problems. That Roan was still in Ashton Down. He didn't recognize this Roan. And yet, he didn't know how to go back.

He wasn't sure he even wanted to go back.

“All right, then, I'm ready,” Prudence said.

She had her bag in one hand. She looked like a vagabond. If Roan didn't know her, he'd expect her to offer to read his palms. He tried to hide his smile at that thought.

“What?” she demanded.

“I'm just happy that you are, at long last, ready to continue on with our little journey. I have a sister to catch and a trunk to find if you haven't forgotten.”

“Oh, I've not forgotten,” she assured him. “I am as anxious to see my trunk as you are yours.”

Roan settled her on the back of the horse and once again strapped their bags onto the old nag's rump. He walked alongside the horse, leading it back across the meadow and the wide swath the nag had mowed. The old girl would probably want a nap now.

He liked walking, even at the pace of a turtle. He needed the physical exercise to expel his frustrations with the thievery and his own bad behavior.

Prudence, however, seemed almost jovial, as if she were very much enjoying one disaster after another. He supposed she was too privileged and too young to appreciate just how wretched their lot was, but he was desperately aware of it. If his trunk had gone missing and he was forced to go to London to the central bank—he had no idea how far they were from London—he might never find Aurora.

Prudence was talking, he realized, something to do with a garden party where an illustrious guest had fallen in a fountain and had needed rescue. His thoughts were racing, plotting and planning for what would come next if they reached Himple and found their things missing.

They passed through the trees over which they'd seen the curls of smoke. When they rounded the bend, Roan said, “Look ahead, Pru—we've reached Himple.”

Prudence sat up.

Himple was a village, a
real
village, with a proper high street, a central green and houses tucked into narrow lanes that meandered away from the high street. There were people, too, scores of them out on that warm summer afternoon. Carters moving their wares, women carrying buckets of water away from a central well, children playing in the roads. Roan felt immeasurably relieved as they rode down the main road. He brought the horse to a halt before a building with the emblem of the Royal Post emblazoned proudly in the window. He whistled for a stable boy. The boy hurried to him and took the reins as Roan helped Prudence down, then unlashed their bags. “Stable her,” he said to the boy. “Feed her well. She deserves it.”

The boy touched his cap and tugged the horse's bridle to move her along.

Prudence was already at the door of the Royal Post office, peering into the window. When Roan opened the door for her, she walked in and cried out with delight at the sight of her trunk against one wall. His was beside it. “Yours?” she asked Roan.

“Yes, thank God.” He walked to the trunks and squatted down to have a look. Miraculously, the lock was intact.

A man with a wide, flat nose and garters around his sleeves wandered out of a back room. He was holding a monocle, which he polished as he eyed them. “Yes, please?”

“Mr. Roan Matheson,” Roan said. “I've come to collect my trunk. The other one belongs to Miss Cabot.”

The clerk continued to clean his monocle as he squinted at the trunks. He moved to a small counter, put the monocle to his eye and began to rifle through some papers. He picked one up and brought it close to his face.
“Ah.”

“Ah what?” Roan asked.

“The black trunk is marked for Roan Matheson,” he said, and glanced up. “That you?”

Roan glanced at Prudence. “Yes, as I said.”

The clerk looked again at the paper. “The second belongs to Miss Prudence Cabot.” He looked up. “Is that you, miss?”

“It is.”

“You're the lass the stagecoach lost when the wheel broke, are you?” His gaze flicked disapprovingly over Prudence. The color rose in her cheeks.

“And you're the gent who went after her,” the man said to Roan.

What was it to this man? Roan responded with a dark look for the man.

The clerk did not seem to care that Roan looked at him in that way. He turned back to the paper and said, “The Cabot trunk will be picked up by Mr. Barton Bulworth's man at noon on the morrow.” He removed his monocle then and looked at the two of them.

Roan could feel the tension radiating off Prudence. “Tomorrow?” she repeated, and looked at Roan uncertainly. He knew what she was thinking—what was she to do until the morrow?

“Aye,” the clerk confirmed. “And you, sir? Where am I to have the trunk delivered?”

Roan stared at the man. “I'll take it with me. I intend to be on the four o'clock stage for West Lee.”

“You want the southbound coach. It's come and gone, comes through promptly at one o'clock—”

“Ah...I think the gentleman means Weslay,” Prudence quickly interjected. “It's his accent,” she added, a bit softer, and avoided making eye contact with Roan.

“Ah!” the clerk said triumphantly, and smiled. “A Yankee, I'd wager. I've heard the accent is a wee bit coarse.”

“Coarse?” Roan echoed.

“The northbound coach came through at three o'clock,” the clerk said. “Right on time, too.”

Roan gaped at him. This journey was nothing but one obstacle after the other. He felt as if he might come apart at the seams, just as a tent had come apart with a strong gust of wind at a wedding celebration he'd attended several years ago. “Three!” he said, his fury hardly contained. It was only twenty past.

The clerk casually braced his elbow on the counter and said easily, “The afternoon northbound stage comes by at three o'clock. Every day, three o'clock. Why, he's never more than a quarter hour late. Unless there's rain. If there's rain, he might be a bit delayed,” the clerk said, settling in, warming to his explanation. “A good rain can slow the best drivers, you know, what with the roads in the condition they are. I remember the year it rained every day. Not a light rain mind you, but heavy rains. They lost a bridge up at Portrees, but the Royal Post, it still ran. Just ran late every day, sometimes as much as four or five hours. Sometimes as much as a
day
—”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Prudence said sweetly, stepping forward a bit, putting herself between Roan and the clerk. “We find ourselves in a bit of a dilemma. I should call on Mrs. Bulworth at once. Surely there is some method of transport to the Bulworth estate?”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not this time of day. Had you come earlier, you might have talked the dry-goods man into taking you. I believe he was out that way. But you're too late. You can ride with the Bulworth man on the morrow. Not too many go in that direction from here. You came the long way to reach the Bulworth estate, didn't you? Them that goes to Bulworth come down from Epsey.”

Prudence glanced helplessly at Roan.

“There is no other way we might continue our journey?” he asked. “No cab for hire, no portage?”

“Not through Himple, no sir. There's an inn down the lane here, the Fox and Sparrow,” the man said, gesturing to his right. “It's a decent inn, if you ask me. One wing is for the gentlemen, the other for families.” He looked at Prudence again. “Mrs. House is the innkeeper's wife. You might tell her you fell on hard times. She doesn't usually take in single women.”

“Pardon?” Prudence said, her brows dipping into a frown. “Why shouldn't Mrs. House accept single women?”

“When is the next coach?” Roan asked, cutting Prudence off and surreptitiously touching her hand to keep her from protesting.

“Ten o'clock on the morrow,” the man said. “It will be on time, too, as it's a Royal Post. Never tardy, not the Royal Post, not unless there's rain. Otherwise, you could set your pocket watch by them, that's certain. Old Mr. Stainsbury, he sets the church clock—”

“Is there a porter around? Someone who can see our trunks to the inn?” Roan interrupted.

“Eh? Oh,” the clerk said, clearly disappointed to be cut short. “I'll have the post boys bring them up. They'll expect a few coins for their trouble. They'll carry up a bath, too, if needed.” He glanced again at Prudence.

She gasped. Her hand went to her hair, no doubt discovering that another tress had come down.

“The post boys, now
there's
a set of riders who won't tarry—”

“Thank you,” Roan said quickly. He opened the door and held it open for Prudence. “Miss Cabot?”

Prudence swept out before him, mortified. “I think I might die of shame,” she said when Roan stepped out behind her. She tried to tuck her hair back in.

“That would be a tragic ending to our outing,” he said. He took off his hat and ran his hand over his head.

“What are we to do?” she asked.

“We'll take rooms at the inn.” He smiled at her. “And we'll give the boys a crown to bring up the bath the clerk thinks you ought to have.”

With a roll of her eyes, Prudence started marching in the direction of the inn.

* * *

A
S
IT
HAPPENED
, there were no rooms left for single men, a fact Roan happened to overhear when he stepped inside to let the rooms with a bit of money Prudence had pinned to her pocket. That settled it to Roan's satisfaction. He didn't want to be away from Prudence, not after all they'd been through. And yet, he'd felt terribly presumptive that he would share a bed with her, not with the truth of their lives tearing through the curtain they'd pulled around themselves. Roan had taken enough from her. But he wanted more. God, how he wanted more.

He was, therefore, almost elated to learn there were no single rooms left.

Mrs. House, a harried-looking woman with sharp cheekbones, informed him she had one room left when he stepped up to the bar. “It has a table, two chairs and a bed,” she said. “Will that suit?” she asked as she filled two pints with ale.

“It will suit,” Roan said. “But I will also require a bath.”

Mrs. House was shaking her head before he finished speaking. “I've got no men to carry it up. Look around you, sir, they're all drunk.”

“I've got men to carry it up. But I'll need water. And a roast chicken if you have it. Bread, olives—whatever you've got.”

Mrs. House frowned as she pushed the tankards across the bar to a serving girl. “I've got one housemaid,” she said. “I can't spare her—”

Roan didn't know how much money he slid across the bar to her, but it was apparently enough. She looked at him askance, then wiped her hands on her gown and picked up the note.

Roan smiled. “My wife has had a very trying day, madam. I would very much like to improve it for her.”

“Your wife, is it?” she asked sarcastically.

“It's her father,” Roan said. “He hasn't long. We're racing against time to reach him.”

“Poor dear,” Mrs. House said mockingly. “Take her up, then. And send your boys round to the back for the bath. I'll have it readied.”

Roan fetched Prudence, and they followed the young men and their trunks up to the room. It was small, but it had a window that looked out over the green. After the past thirty-six hours, the room looked sumptuous to Roan. He promised the boys two crowns each upon delivering the tub.

“From where do you hail?” he asked the oldest boy when they returned with the tub.

“Midlothian, sir.”

“Near here?”

The boy nodded.

“There is an old nag in the stables. She's not worth a farthing, but she's plodded a very long way and deserves to graze in peace.” He handed the boy a five pound banknote. The boy's eyes widened. “Take her home, put her to pasture.”

“A
horse
?” the oldest boy repeated with awe.

“Not a horse. A nag. Be good to her.”

The boy looked excitedly at his companion. They were eager to claim their unexpected prize. Roan chuckled as he closed the door behind them. Those boys would curse him when they saw the old girl.