The Scoundrel and the Debutante (20 page)

Roan frowned as if trying to find a good response.

“Stay in England,” she said suddenly, and grabbed his face between her hands. “Stay here, stay with me.”

“No, Pru, I can't,” he said. “How would I provide for you? I am the head of my family's business. They rely on me for our livelihood. I am involved in the building of the canal. There is too much at stake, not only for me, but for my entire family. And there is Aurora. I promised my mother I would bring her home.”

“But...my family relies on me, too,” Prudence said softly. She could feel tears in her eyes as they gazed at each other, the reality of their different worlds rushing in to fill the space around them.

Roan stroked her hair. “Think about it,” he said. “Promise me you'll at least do that.”

“Roan, I—”

“No,” he said, and covered her mouth with his hand. “Don't answer until we've reached London. Just think on what I've said.” He withdrew his hand from her mouth. “I'll give you the moon, I'll give you the sun. Whatever you want, Pru, is yours. I swear to you, we will still be us, just as we are now.”

“Roan...”

“I believe what I say,” he said, his gaze searching her face. “Don't give me an answer now. Consider it. Please.” He looked as if he couldn't bear for her to say no.

But she couldn't say yes.

Prudence rolled onto her back and stared up at the canopy. Roan slipped his fingers in between hers, and they lay there, neither of them speaking.

Prudence was confused by her emotions. She was losing them in this vast world, in this man who had wrapped himself around her heart. He was floating away from her, floating back to America.
Oh God, how she would miss him
. It would be unbearable, truly unbearable.

Could she go with him? Could she leave all she'd ever known behind and walk so blindly into the unknown? The practical side of her, the side of her that ruled her head, that kept her within the bounds of propriety, made her a dutiful daughter and sister, said no. The practical side of her said that if she went to America with him, and wed him, the magic would fade away and the blunt realities of a marriage made in haste would overshadow the magic of this week.

The practical side of her said all of that, but her heart kept whispering
yes
.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

E
VERY
TIME
R
OAN
tried to close his eyes to sleep, he couldn't keep them closed. He kept opening them to assure himself that Prudence was still there beside him and hadn't disappeared into a dream quite yet.

It was remarkable to Roan that when he'd first seen Prudence in Ashton Down, he'd thought her beautiful in that way men have of thinking every female is beautiful. It was nothing more than an appreciation of curves and lips and remarkable eyes. When he'd realized that she'd not intended to come on the stagecoach before he'd arrived, he'd thought her amusingly and ironically imprudent. His opinion of her had been much like his opinion of Aurora—charming and foolish. And he'd believed he was indulging Prudence's desire for an adventure, much like he would indulge his sister when he was not so very cross with her.

Now he wasn't certain of anything, not one damn thing. He knew only that somehow, Prudence's adventure had become his adventure.
His!
A man who had spent his childhood in the wilds of New York, who traveled alone to the Canadian border, across vast wilderness to look after their business. To think that he would find such adventure in sedate, pastoral England was absurd, but he had. In fact, it had been one of the biggest, most stunning adventures of his life. And he was a changed man for it.

He feared he would be a wounded man for it when it was all said and done. Oh, but Roan had meant what he'd said to her tonight—come to America, be his wife. The thought had gurgled up, bursting through the surface of his thoughts so clearly and precisely that he'd known without a doubt it had come directly from his heart.

There was, obviously, the glaring problem of Susannah Pratt. That would be an unpleasant task, and one certain to ruffle feathers. But Roan didn't feel responsibility for Susannah. He didn't really
know
Susannah. Theirs was no love match—it was hardly even a civil match at this point. One day, she might even thank him. And if not, Roan didn't care. He was willing to risk her disdain, his father's displeasure, Mr. Pratt's anger, for love.

He, Roan Matheson, would risk all for love. The world had flipped on its head and turned everything upside down.

And yet, the euphoria of his feelings was tampered by the pressing worry of Aurora. Roan had expected to find her here, or, at the very least, be told she'd just left. Gone a fortnight? Was Aurora ruined? Had she done something as spectacularly foolhardy as Prudence?

At dawn, he dressed and closed up his trunk, then roused Prudence with a kiss. He went downstairs and sent a girl up to help her dress and asked for a carriage to be brought round to take them into the village. “What time is the coach to London?” he asked the butler, Cyril, who was looking a bit bleary-eyed that morning.

“Ten o'clock, sir. It will take you as far as Manchester. It's two full days' journey to Londontown.”

Roan nodded and glanced at a mantel clock. Two days in a crowded stagecoach, two days of wanting her, two days of hoping she would agree to marry him. Roan was not very practiced with the true affairs of the heart, obviously, but he knew that Prudence had to come to her answer on her own. She was right—he was asking a lot of her.

The desire had to be hers as much as it was his. They had to share the determination to overcome the ocean between them or it would never work—not here, not there. Perhaps, Roan mused, he was asking a lot of himself, too. Prudence might be right.

He sighed and pushed the thought away. He didn't want to think about that now. He couldn't think about it now, not with his sister weighing so heavily on his mind.

The carriage was brought round and their trunks loaded. No one was on hand to see them off—at Roan's inquiry, Cyril said, “His lordship and his guests retired to their beds just before dawn. They have not roused themselves.”

Roan suspected they wouldn't rouse themselves for several hours. What a lot they were, here at Howston Hall. It was almost like stepping into a strange dream. Roan didn't understand how men lived without purpose or occupation—he was as eager as Prudence to be gone from here.

Their trunks were brought out, Prudence trailing behind, looking a bit pale, Roan thought. She was wearing a pretty yellow traveling gown, and as he helped her into the interior of the carriage, he happened to catch sight of Stanhope. That man sauntered out onto the drive. “Leaving so soon, Mr. Matheson?” he asked pleasantly.

Roan closed the door of the carriage and stalked to where Stanhope waited. They stood eye to eye. “What in hell do you want?” he demanded softly.

Stanhope arched a brow as if Roan amused him, then looked past him, to the carriage. “Only to wish you Godspeed, sir. Perhaps I'll see you again in London.”

Roan said nothing, but turned on his heel and strode back to the carriage.

Prudence had very little to say on the drive into the village. From there, the coach to Manchester was crowded, much more than any of the coaches they'd yet been on, and Roan had to ride up top while Prudence rode in the carriage crowded between the coach wall and a woman who carried a cat in a cage on her lap.

The weather turned quite warm and uncomfortably moist. It felt to Roan like his despair and worry were pressing down on him, embedding in his skin.

In Manchester, he secured a room for them at the public inn. But the long journey from Weslay had been so uncomfortably jarring, and the day so thick and warm, that they'd collapsed onto a lumpy bed and slept like the dead. They were up at dawn again the next morning, boarding a coach that, impossibly, was even more crowded than the one to Manchester.

After another interminable day of riding apart due to the crowding, of their private thoughts carrying them away from each other, Roan and Prudence arrived in London. It was half-past eight, and the sun was beginning to set. Roan worried about Prudence; she seemed to be swaying lightly on her feet, exhausted to the bone by her adventure.

“I'll find us a place for the night,” he said, his hand on her waist to steady her.

“Oh no,” she said, and put her hand on his arm. She smiled, but there was no heart in it. “I've lived half my life in London—people around Mayfair know me. It's best that we go to my sister.”

Roan didn't like it, but he understood it. He rubbed his temples and realized that his head was pounding with a terrible ache. When had that come on him? “I'll take you there,” he said. “Give me the direction and I will take you to your sister.”

She looked down and fidgeted with the string of her reticule. “What will you do?”

He would find a place to drink away his grief. “I'll find a room somewhere.”

The last slivers of pink were beginning to fade from the late-evening sky when they arrived at the house on Audley Street. The air was so thick now that it pressed against Roan's throat and chest. He looked up at the house Prudence directed them to. It was painted a sunny yellow, four stories tall with balconies on the top three floors. The windows facing the street—sixteen in all—stood as tall as Roan. Light was glowing invitingly through the windows.

The hackney driver had deposited them on the street along with their trunks. Prudence sat heavily on them and stared up at the house. “I don't know what to say,” she said absently.

Roan sat beside her, put his arm around her waist and kissed her temple. “I'll tell them what has happened. Leave it to me.”

“You're a dear,” Prudence said with a smile. “Thank you...but somehow, I think that would make it all worse.” She turned his head to her and kissed him, her lips lingering on his for one crystal moment.

“What will you tell them?”

She shrugged. “The truth, I expect.” She smiled. “Most of it, that is.”

Her eyes shone up at him, and Roan suddenly felt lost. “Pru,” he said, his voice rough with the emotions that rushed through him, regret and hope in one unsettling mix. He stood up, pulling her with him, his arms around her, his face in her hair, her neck. He couldn't bear that the end could be near. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving England without her. He lifted his head, held hers between his hands. “It's only been a few days, but I can't imagine being without you.”

“Neither can I,” she said softly. “In truth, I can't imagine much of anything at present, only that I don't want to go on without you.”

“Then don't,” he said.

Prudence smiled ruefully and pulled his hand from her face and leaned back. “If only it were that simple. We must go in, Roan.”

Roan was in no such hurry, but Prudence slipped away from him and walked to the door of the yellow house. She lifted the brass knocker and rapped three times. Several moments later, the door was suddenly pulled open and the light of a candle spilled out onto the street. Behind it, Roan could see the shadow of a man. He moved the candle so that he might peer out and squinted at Roan and Prudence. He was slender, with dark hair and darker eyes. He was handsome, Roan thought, and wondered if he was Mr. Easton.

The man looked first at Prudence, then at Roan, who stood behind her. One brow rose above the other. “Well,” he said. “This ought to make for an interesting evening. Miss Prudence, do come in. Miss Prudence's companion, you are welcome.” He stepped back and bowed.

“Thank you, Finnegan. May I introduce Mr. Matheson?” She glanced nervously over her shoulder at Roan. “This is Finnegan, Mr. Easton's butler.”

“And valet,” Finnegan said with a smile for Roan. “Do come in.”

Prudence stepped inside. Roan reluctantly followed, removing his hat as he stepped inside the foyer.

The Finnegan fellow looked him up and down, which Roan thought was a bold thing for a butler to do, and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Easton will no doubt be overjoyed that you've not met yet with your demise, Miss Prudence.”

“Are they at supper? Shall we wait?” she asked.

“They've finished their evening meal and have put their children to bed. They are now at repose in the green salon. Follow me.” Finnegan's gaze flicked over Roan once more before he turned and walked up the stairs, holding the candle aloft to lead the way.

It was an immaculate home, Roan noticed. There were portraits hanging on the walls above the wainscoting, polished wooden handrails on the stairs. He couldn't see the carpets very well by the light of a single candle, but he could feel the thickness of them beneath his feet.

When they reached the first floor landing, Finnegan said, “May I say, Miss Prudence, I am very glad to see you have not been kidnapped by pirates and taken off to India, as Miss Mercy has put forth. And quite adamantly, I might add.”

“She would very much like to have that tale to chew on, wouldn't she? But how do you know what she thinks, Finnegan? Have you seen her?” Prudence asked.

“Of course,” he said. “The entire family has come to London to confab over your disappearance.”

Prudence glanced uneasily over her shoulder at Roan.

Finnegan walked briskly ahead to a pair of polished mahogany doors. He threw one open without knocking.

“What the devil, Finnegan?” a male voice complained.

“If I may, sir, madam,” Finnegan said, “someone has come whom I think you will very much want to see.”

“I won't,” the man within said. “I've had enough guests for one day. And I will thank you not to allow Lady Chatham into this house again. The woman is unconscionably long-winded.”

“George,”
a woman's voice said, softly reproving.

Prudence looked at Roan and tried once again to muster a smile. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the room behind Finnegan. Roan heard the gasp of shock and the woman shrieked, “
Prudence!
Oh dear God, where have you been? We've been sick with worry!”

Roan followed her in; Prudence was already in the embrace of a woman who he assumed was her sister. A fire blazed cheerfully at the hearth. A basket of needlework had been turned upside down and there were papers scattered on the floor and at the feet of a large man who stood eye level with Roan, his gaze as hard as Roan's would have been, were he in the man's shoes.

“Who the bloody hell are
you
?” he demanded of Roan. “Prudence, for God's sake, where did you get off to? Don't you know how we've agonized? Explain yourself at once!”

“At least kiss her and welcome her back, George,” the woman said. She had black hair, quite different from Prudence's gold. She was wiping tears of relief from her cheeks with the tips of her fingers below bright blue eyes.

The man, George Easton apparently, grabbed Prudence roughly and kissed her cheek, then held her another moment before setting her back and glaring down at her. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“I left a note in Ashton Down—”

“A note!” her sister said. “That you had gone off with an acquaintance! An acquaintance that no one else knew!” She suddenly gasped and gaped at Roan. “Is
he
the acquaintance?”

Roan meant to answer that question, but before he could utter the words, he was blindsided by a fist to his jaw. He staggered backward, stunned, and gingerly touched his fingers to the place the man had hit him.

“George, no!” Prudence shrieked, and threw herself in front of her brother-in-law. “It wasn't
his
doing—it was mine! I owe him a debt of gratitude—he helped me!”

George yanked on his waistcoat and glared at Roan.

Roan moved his jaw around to assure himself it wasn't broken, then glared back at Easton. He understood the man's anger, but he would not stand for that.

“Please...this is Mr. Roan Matheson,” Prudence said with her hand on Roan's arm. “And these two,” she said to Roan, “are quite obviously my sister Mrs. Honor Easton, and my brother-in-law Mr. George Easton.” She had a withering look for the latter. “May we just...may we sit?” she pleaded. “There is so much to tell you.”