The Scoundrel and the Debutante (14 page)

He turned from the door. Prudence was in her trunk, pulling gowns and frilly lacey garments from it. He was quick to open his trunk, too, to make doubly sure the banknotes he'd tucked away were still there. It was with a great amount of relief to find them there.

Prudence had laid out a variety of gowns on the bed—silks and brocades, satins and velvets, and was studying them critically when the housemaid brought their dinner and wine.

The smell of food drew her from her interest in her clothes, and she eagerly sat across the wooden table from Roan. They pulled meat from the roasted chicken, served on a cracked platter. “Do you think,” he asked, pausing to lick his fingers after pulling apart the chicken, “that the food is really as good as it tastes?”

She giggled. “I know only that I have never tasted a chicken roasted to such perfection.” She drank heartily from her wineglass, as if she'd wandered forty days and forty nights through the wilds of England's west country. When she'd had her fill of food and drink, she leaned back in her chair with one hand draped across her middle, looking like a sated cow. “That was
wonderful
.”

Roan laughed. It
was
wonderful. He'd had far better food in far better establishments than this old inn, but this was the meal he'd remember—Prudence's lips made shiny from the chicken, her eyes bright with happiness and the bit of sun coloring her cheeks. She was, to him, quite beautiful.

A knock at the door signaled the water for their bath. Over the next ten minutes, two girls hurried in and out with their buckets, pouring steam water into the copper bath until it was nearly full.

Roan gave them a banknote, too—he had nothing smaller—and their eyes bulged at their riches, just as the post boys.

“You'll have nothing left at this rate,” Prudence said with a laugh.

Roan smiled. He locked the door behind the girls and turned back to Prudence. “Your majesty, your bath awaits,” he said.

“I've never been so desperate for a proper bath,” she said, and stood. She moved a chair around to rest beside the tub, then put some of the jars from her trunk on the seat. Then she removed her grimy clothes. She smiled saucily at him, like a lover. As if she'd never been the innocent debutante she'd been only a day or so before. She was bolder now. More mature. Roan liked that.

She was soon bare before him. Roan had always found the feminine form the greatest work of art, but Prudence took his breath away. She was curvy, soft and pliant, and the sight of her made him yearn to touch her.

She stepped into the tub and lowered herself into the water. Roan's pulse turned hot as she leaned her head back against the tub and closed her eyes. Her hair pooled in the water around her and over her breasts. “It's heaven,” she murmured. “Thank you, Roan.”

“Let me wash you hair,” he suggested.

She opened one eye and smiled with surprised. “Will you?”

He picked up the ewer from the basin. “I will.” He brought the wine bottle and their cups first, and set them on the floor. He moved her things from the chair and sat, then dipped the ewer into the water. Prudence sat up and leaned forward; he poured water over her hair to wet it, watching the water and her hair stream down her back.

“I think Mrs. Bulworth will be very appreciative that I arrive in clean dress and with my hair properly put up,” she said with a wry smile. “She won't know how she owes you a debt for it.”

Roan smiled and lathered her hair.

Prudence sighed and closed her eyes again, relaxing as he washed her hair. “I will miss you,” she said softly. “Is that madness? I've known you a day and a half, and yet I know I will miss you more than breath.”

Roan hesitated a moment before continuing in the work of washing her hair. He would miss her, too—just how much he would miss her amazed him. “I will miss you, too,” he admitted.

He dipped the ewer and poured it over her hair to rinse it. She said nothing as he finished her hair and put down the ewer.

Prudence grabbed his hand. “Come in,” she said.

He laughed. “That wash tub won't accommodate us both.”

“It will,” she said, and drew her knees up to her chest.

Roan very much doubted that they could fit in the tub, but he wasn't above trying. He quickly disrobed, aware that Prudence's eyes were on him, her gaze brazenly sliding over his body, drinking him in. More than one woman had seen him bare as he was now, but this was the first time that Roan could recall wanting a woman to find him as appealing as he found her. He stepped into the tub, braced his hands against the edges, and carefully lowered himself in. Water sloshed over the sides when he did, and Prudence laughed with delight. Roan was stuffed into that bath, but grateful for the wash.

She helped him, rubbing soap on his chest, on his neck and face. He helped her, too, lathering up her breasts, her abdomen. She laughed at him when he dipped his head to wet it, and she came up on her knees to return the favor of a hair wash. “Shall I shave you? I shaved the earl when he was no longer able.”

“I'd like that,” he said.

Prudence reached over the side of the tub and found the razor he'd taken out, the cream for his face. She smiled as she leaned forward and carefully scraped the two days' growth of beard from his face.

When they had cleaned themselves, Roan poured wine for them both. He liked this, sitting in a bath with Prudence. Her hair was slicked back, and her breasts rode just above the water line, her face softly golden in the light of the fire. Roan had never been so captivated, never so content.

They talked about family, and horses and dogs, of which they shared a love. He told her about a canal so many of them were trying to see built, from Lake Erie to New York City. “It will change commerce as we know it,” Roan said.

Prudence told him what she would recall of her father, who had died when she was rather young, and of the person her mother had been before her madness. “She was so beautiful,” she said wistfully. She told him about her mother's second marriage to the Earl of Beckington, who clearly had loved his many stepdaughters. She told him about London society, and the balls and garden parties and many soirees. She laughed ruefully. “Those days are behind me now, I'm afraid.”

That sobered him. If ever a woman deserved to be toast of a ball, it was Prudence. He could picture her in an expensive ball gown, jewels glittering at her ears and throat, her smile illuminating those around her. “What will you do?” he asked quietly. “After you've called on your friend?”

“Assuming Merryton hasn't sent an army after me?” Prudence asked, and splashed him. “I suppose I'll return to Blackwood Hall and wait.”

“Wait,” Roan repeated, not understanding. “For what?”

Prudence shrugged. “For an offer.”

Roan must have showed his dismay at that, because she smiled and wiggled her toes against him. “Don't be glum, Roan. It's what debutantes do. What else is there for us, really?”

“But surely you are allowed an occupation.”

Prudence laughed. “Such as governess or teacher? I wouldn't mind it—in fact, I should like it very much. I always fancied I'd have lots of children. I don't know what will become of me, but young ladies of certain standing are not meant to work. They are meant to marry well and arrange seating cards at supper parties.” She smiled and flicked water against his chest again. “I envy Mercy in some ways. She found her escape from the tedium through art. I should have been as diligent in my endeavors.”

Roan tried to smile, but he could see the hint of despair and apathy in her lovely eyes, and it made him slightly ill.

Prudence looked away. She sipped her wine and put it aside. She trailed her fingers over bathwater that was now tepid, if not cool. “Our adventure comes to an end on the morrow, doesn't it?”

“It doesn't have to end there,” he said recklessly. Those hazel eyes could entice him to anything—to ignore his morals, his responsibilities. He knew it, but spoke his heart anyway. “Come north with me.”

Prudence smiled and looked up. “And do what? Present myself as your cousin? To people who might actually be acquainted with my family? And if I do,
then
what? It would end the day after that, would it not?”

Roan wanted desperately to say what she wanted to hear—that he would stay in England, or that somehow, against all odds, they would find a way to continue their adventure, and that he would court her properly. That he would make that offer she was waiting for. Perhaps he wanted to say those things to himself. But it was impossible—he had a family, a life, a thriving business in America, and people who were depending on the promise he'd made to his father about Susannah Pratt. Moreover, he had to take Aurora home. Aurora had made promises, too, but more than that, his mother was frantic about her daughter. He had to return her to his mother, if nothing else. As much as he would have liked to, as desperately as he wanted to, Roan simply couldn't play swain to Prudence's debutante.

She misunderstood his silence. “You don't have to say anything,” she said. “I knew from the beginning that no matter what happened, this would never be more than a lark. I will look back on these few days with great fondness and...and gratitude.”

“Gratitude,” he said bitterly, and closed his eyes. He felt awful—anxious and angry, at complete odds with himself. “A strange word, given that I have taken terrible advantage of you, Pru. I have taken something from you that can't be replaced.”

“Roan!” She sat up and cupped his chin with her hand. “How can you say so? I
followed
you. I gave you every indication. I wanted you so, Roan. I
wanted
you to touch me. I wanted to feel—” She groaned. “I wanted to feel all of it! I'm not a girl. I knew what I was doing.”

Roan searched for the right words to say and found none that could possibly describe the torment in him. “Neither will I ever forget these days,” he said, instantly finding those words inadequate. He leaned up, too, took her hand in his. “
Never
, Pru.”

She smiled at him with such tenderness that he could feel it swelling in his heart...but then her smile turned impish. “My adventure is not yet
over, is it?”

Roan smiled, too. “No. No, it is not.” He rose up like a beast from the tub, water dripping everywhere, and picked her up. He stepped out of the tub and carried her to the bed, laid her on her back and crawled over her.

She stroked his face, his wet hair. “Roan.”

Roan's body and his heart reacted instantly to his name whispered on her breath. Something had burst in him, something tender and caring, something that burrowed through to the dark, dank places of his soul that had never been touched before.

Prudence sighed and exposed her fragrant neck to him, inviting him. He kissed the point just behind her earlobe and slipped his arms behind her back, crushing her to him. “I want you,” he said against her skin. “I want you so, Prudence.” He filled his hand with her breast, kneading it, then moving down her body, still moist from the bath.

Roan could feel her body pulse with his touch. He could feel the race of her heart, the heat in her skin. Her scent, her weight in his arms, her softness aroused every fiber. He was ravenous for her.

He took her breast in his mouth and felt his pulse leap at the sound of pleasure she made. The urge in him felt vital; he believed he'd never desired a woman as completely as he did this night, in this English inn. The need to be in her, to fill her with himself was overwhelming. He pressed his erection against her, moving, feeling her body next to his. He pushed an image of Susannah from his mind's eye, as well as the burgeoning question of whether he could ever feel anything even remotely close to this for her.

He slipped his hands in between Prudence's thighs, his fingers moving into the slit of her sex.

“Oh God,” Prudence moaned.

It was almost unbearable to hold himself against her without entering her, but he wanted to prolong this as long as he might. He wanted to make the moment with her last forever in his mind, and he clenched his jaw as he moved down her body, determined to do the same for her. He kissed her belly, then moved down, his mouth brushing the spring of honey curls, inhaling her scent.

Prudence grabbed his head, twining her fingers in his hair. She was panting—or was that him? He was moving by instinct now, parting her legs and slipping his tongue into the damp lips of her sex. His heart was roaring as she bucked beneath him, and the sounds of her pleasure engorged him. But Roan held on and explored her thoroughly with his mouth in a manner he had never known another woman.

In a manner he would never know another woman. Not like this. This belonged to him and Prudence.

Prudence began to move against him, pressing him to move faster. When her release came, he could bear it no more; he rose up and braced himself above her.

Prudence gave him the smile of a woman greatly satisfied and, much to his surprise, took him in hand. The sensation of her fingers wrapped so securely around his cock was unbearable; he grit his teeth to keep from losing his control. He reached between them and covered her hand with his, showed her how to move her hand on him.

She watched him as her hand moved, her expression both curious and jubilant, as if she'd discovered gold. Roan clenched his jaw, wanting the pleasure she was giving him and fearful of a monstrous release.

When he could bear it no more, he grabbed her wrist, made her stop. Prudence smiled and, innocent that she was, he could see in her sultry gaze that she understood what power she held over him. It was a man's curse, he supposed, as he slipped his hand between her legs again, a finger sliding into her, to be so hopelessly bewitched by the feminine form. It was his own special curse to be hopelessly besotted by an English debutante.

He shifted in between her legs. “You drive me to madness,” he said softly. “Utter madness. I can't imagine that I might have come to England and never found you.”