The Scoundrel and the Debutante (19 page)

Prudence swallowed down another swell of nausea. “You are acquainted with Grace?”

“Yes, of course. I've also had the great pleasure of making Mrs. Easton's acquaintance, as well,” he said, referring to Honor.

That was it, then—there was no denying it. Whatever happened now would be nothing compared to the joy she'd known with Roan. She'd been destined to be a spinster anyway, hadn't she?

Stanhope took her hand, twirled her around and let her go, sending her back to her line. They took another step toward the front of the line.

Prudence pressed a hand against her abdomen to soothe her roiling nerves. Rage was building in her, with Stanhope, with the world.

“For heaven's sake, don't faint, darling. That will make it far worse, won't it? You mustn't fret. You've managed a great deceit and I don't intend to reveal it.”

Prudence didn't accept his reassurances. She hadn't grown up in the upper echelons of London society without learning how treacherous it was. “I don't intend to faint,
my lord,” she said coolly. “What do you want? Money? Because I will tell you now I have none.”

“That accusation pains me,” he said with a wince as they reached the top of the line. He held out his palm to her. She put her hand in his and he swept his arm around her back to lead her down the line. “I want nothing at all, Miss Cabot. I would never take cruel advantage of a woman.”

Prudence didn't believe him. She knew nothing about him, but she didn't believe him, not for a moment.

Her heart was pounding, her body perspiring. She danced by rote, the steps as familiar to her as walking. How many times had she and her sisters practiced them? How many dances had she attended? She dipped and leaped and smiled when she should without thought, without anyone seeing the distress that was filling her to almost bursting. Her steps were light and carefree, but when they reached the end of the line, Prudence jerked her hand free of his. “Thank you, but I don't care to dance any longer.”

He shrugged. “Enjoy your evening,
Mrs. Matheson
,” he said, and with his hands clasped behind his back, he strolled away as if he was touring a garden and smelling roses.

Prudence looked around her, uncertain where to go, where to hide. Everywhere she turned she saw treacherous, knowing faces. It felt as if all the people gathered in this salon knew what she'd done.

When she felt a hand on her arm she jerked away, certain it was Stanhope again.

“Pru!”

She whirled around; Roan's expression was one of concern. “What's happened? What's wrong?

Calm yourself.
Poise. She had to be poised. Unruffled. Serene. “I'm fine.” She forced a smile. “I'm just...I'm tired. I want to go to bed.”

“Penfors won't—”

“Give them my regrets, will you?” she asked quickly, before Roan could argue against it, and slipped away from him, walking briskly to the door of the salon. She didn't look back, but kept walking, smiling at the footman who held the door open. But once she stepped in the hall, Prudence ran, down the carpeted hall and up the grand staircase of Howston Hall like a thief. She ran to the suite, shut the door behind her and locked it. No, no, she couldn't lock it—Roan would come, he would think she'd locked him out. She unlocked it, then backed away from the door, staring at it, her chest rising and falling with anxiety, half expecting Stanhope to burst in.

No one came.

Prudence could see her future spreading before her. She didn't know where or when it would happen, the day Stanhope revealed her scandal. In a museum? At the opera? Would he do it with a whisper, or would he announce it at a ball? She could see it, could see the whispers begin, his smug smile as he watched heads turn, one by one, each person whispering in another's ear. She could hear the laughter, could see Merryton's dismay, Easton's anger.
Have you heard of Prudence Cabot? Yes, the quiet one! As it happens, she is the vilest of them all...

“You brought this on yourself,” she whispered. For so long she had resented Honor and Grace for what they'd done. It was because of them, she'd reasoned, that she had done what she had in Ashton Down only a few days ago, seeking any bit of adventure she could find.

But this had nothing to do with Honor and Grace. This was all
her
doing—the deceptions, the choices, her indifference to propriety, the desires that had propelled her. Her sisters hadn't created a bit of this for her—Prudence had done it all on her own. She knew when she forced the boy to turn the wagon about what it would mean for her. It went beyond the pale to travel with a man when she was not his wife, to dine at a lord's home pretending to be his wife, to share a room with him.

Prudence had believed herself superior to her sisters, but she was as human as they were, as propelled by desire as they had been.

She dropped to her knees on the carpet, her hands braced against her legs, dragging the air into her lungs that she could not seem to catch. With a moan of anguish, she fell onto her side and stared up at the papier-mâché medallions on the ceiling, the ropes and berries that had been fashioned in the corners. She was the
worst
.

She stretched her arm along the carpet and closed her eyes, thinking back on her life. She thought of the idyllic childhood at Longmeadow. The years spent in London, four girls, enthralled with society and the soirees and the supper parties. She saw herself at Blackwood Hall, wandering about the corridors for hours, looking for something to occupy her, feeling so empty. That terrible feeling that she was standing still.

The past few days with Roan had been the most exhilarating, the most exciting days of her life. She'd been buoyed by hope and promise. She'd been excited and engaged and she'd laughed and she was
breathing
—

The door suddenly opened and a rush of air swept across her face.

“Good God.” Roan was suddenly beside her, helping her up, his hands caressing her face and her hair as if searching for an injury. “Tell me. It's Stanhope, isn't it?” he asked, his eyes narrowing, his expression turning to hot fury. “Did he do something? Did he touch you, did he—”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “He didn't touch me. He was a perfect gentleman. But he knows who I am,” Prudence said. “He knows.”

The color drained from Roan's face. He shook his head, refusing to believe it.

“He knows that I'm Prudence Cabot.”

Roan sat back; his hands fell away from her face. “What did he say? What does he want?”

She laughed bitterly. “Nothing,” she said with a shrug. “That's what he said. He wanted nothing. He'd not reveal my secret.” She laughed again, this time more in awe of her own stupidity. “I may be a fool, but I'm not naive—”

“Damn him,” Roan said. He stood up, his hands on his waist. “
Damn
him.”

“I have to go home,” Prudence said sadly. “I must be there when word is out.”

Roan looked worried. He took her hand to pull her up, then pressed his palm to her neck as his gaze moved over her face. “Where, to Blackwood Hall? I'll take you there if that's what you want, Pru. I'll explain.”

Prudence shook her head. “To London, to my sister Honor. She'll know what to do.” She swallowed down the bitter truth of what she must do. “She and Augustine must hear this from me.”

Roan's gaze was fixed on her. Prudence could sense his struggle, wanting to make this right, but perfectly unable to do it. What could he possibly do? Give up everything in America and marry her? “Yes, of course,” he said, his voice strained. “I'll go now and arrange for a carriage to take us in the morning.”

“No,” Prudence said, and gripped his hand. “Please don't go yet—”

“Only to arrange a carriage,” he said, cupping her face tenderly. “I'll come back to you in moments.”

“Not yet, Roan, please,” she said, catching his hand. “Because when you walk out that door, even if only to arrange a carriage, it's the beginning of the end. I don't want it to be the end yet. Not yet. Please don't go. Not yet.”

Roan's face fell. “Oh, love.” He folded his arms around her and held her tightly, rocking with her a moment, his mouth in her hair. But then his hands began to move on her, slowly caressing her, and Prudence's blood began to flow with his touch. She could feel her skin heating, her heart running. She had to have these last few hours in his arms, and closed her eyes, surrendering to the moment, pushing all else from her mind.

She was consumed the moment he touched her. His lips, soft and warm, glided over her skin. His touch, intense but reverent, made her feel as if she were floating in a pool of desire. It spiraled down her body, flowed into her breasts and groin. She began to drift on that sea, his hands and mouth pushing her further and further from shore. Every touch sizzled and burned, every kiss tingled.

Prudence was aware of her gown falling away—first the train, then the buttons of her gown, his fingers deft and quick, and the slide of the fabric down her body. Next her chemise and undergarments drifted away. “How is it that you look even more beautiful with every passing moment?” he muttered, and Prudence's desire turned to liquid heat. She touched his shoulder, her fingers trailing down his chest to his waistcoat, which she unbuttoned. She undressed him as he slipped his palms under her breasts.

“I don't want it to end,” she said, and pulled his shirt over his head. Roan growled with desire; Prudence rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his nose, his eyes, his cheeks as he worked on the rest of his clothing, tossing the articles aside.

When he'd removed it all, he picked her up and moved to the bed, laid her down and locked his gaze with hers as he moved over her. Prudence imagined she could see the same yearning in his eyes, the wish that this would never end. The same determination to have it all, here and now, because he might never have it again. He kissed the hollow of her throat, lingering there, and the curve of her neck, then traced a path from her neck to her breast. He took each breast in his mouth, lavished them with attention. Prudence let the desire roll over her in great, lapping waves, sinking deeper into the depths of the pleasure until she was suspended in it. She abandoned all maidenly anxiety at being unpracticed in the art of lovemaking and cast herself out, willing to go where he led her, no matter what.

Roan pressed against her. “How I want you,” he said. “I think I could die of wanting you.”

“Don't.” She brushed his hair from his face.

Roan drew a rigid nipple into his mouth. His mouth was like fire, his fingers the torches he used to inflame her. He stroked her, his touch sinking deeper into her folds, boldly exploring and teasing her. He pressed his body into hers, filling her, and Prudence closed her eyes so that she'd feel it all, not miss a moment of it.

He didn't speak as he moved in her, his rhythm deliberate, tantalizing, his hands stroking her, teasing her. He slipped an arm under her hips and lifted her slightly, sliding in deeply. The sensation was so pleasantly raw that Prudence lost sight of herself and everything else but the feel of his body in hers, of his strength and tenderness and adoration. He slid in and out of her while his thumb began a gentle, swirling assault over and around the nub of her arousal. Prudence was panting, gripping at his skin under her fingers, tasting his skin on her lips.

She erupted almost without warning, groaning with ecstasy, her cry caught by Roan's kiss. He reached his climax behind her, coming at the end of one last powerful thrust and quick withdrawal, his seed warm on her abdomen. He was still panting as he slid his thumb across her cheek, and Prudence realized she had shed a tear of raw emotion in their coupling.

Roan pulled her into his chest and rolled with her onto his side. His breath was warm on her neck, his heartbeat steady and fast against her chest.

She didn't want it to ever end.

Roan soothed her, his hand running over her hair, playing with the ribbon that had come unwound along with her coif. “Come to America,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

“Pardon?”

“Marry me, Pru. Come to America.”

Prudence braced her hand against his chest and rose up to look at him. He was earnest, his gaze full of raw emotion. “But you've promised—”

“I know,” he said. “But I've not promised her. I hardly know her. It's my father I must convince.”

“Roan, you can't.”

“I can,” he said. “I
will.
” He roughly pushed her hair back from her face. “Prudence...I
love
you,” he said. “I've tried to persuade myself that it's not possible, not like this, not so quickly. But I do. I can feel
it, here,” he said, tapping a fist to his chest. “I feel it in every moment, in every breath I am with you. There are obstacles, yes, but look what we've overcome in the past few days. Marry me and come to America. You said there is nothing for you here, that you will live behind walls. There is everything for you there.”

“My family is here,” she said. “My sisters, my nieces and nephews. My
mother.
How can I leave them? How can we know that we won't be other people entirely?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused.

“I mean that this, with you, has been magical,” she said, resting her hand over his heart. “It seems almost as if you appeared from air to grant all my wishes. You've shown me an adventure that has far exceeded anything I might have ever dreamed. But
married
? In a foreign land, with different customs, with a different family? We've neither of us any notion of what the other expects...do we?”

Roan looked startled. It pained Prudence to say so, but she was not so blinded by her adoration of him to think that the adventure they'd shared would carry on day after day into a new world and into a marriage. What if she discovered things about him that made her unhappy? What if his family couldn't accept her? How would she cope, so far removed from her own family?