The Scoundrel and the Debutante (26 page)

“I do hope the weather is good,” Aurora said lightly. “It's such a
long
voyage.”

“Forty days if we're lucky,” Roan remarked absently.

As Finnegan helped Aurora into the hackney, Roan turned to Prudence. The others moved on to the coach to give them a bit of privacy, and peered inside, listening to Mercy and Aurora promise to write each other.

Prudence gamely tried to smile.

“Pru,” he sighed. “Words fail me.”

Her bottom lip was beginning to tremble and she bit down on it. “I beg your forgiveness,” she said in a rush. “You have shown me the best days of my life and I will always be grateful.
Always
.”

“Ah, Pru,” he said sadly. “I don't want your bloody gratitude.” He reached into his coat pocket and removed a folded piece of vellum. It contained more words, words he had labored over until the sun had come up and, still, they were woefully inadequate. But these bungled words were the only thing he had to give her. He lifted Prudence's hand, put the letter in it and closed her fingers around it. “I love you. I will always love you. Remember that.”

Roan was aware of the Eastons, and of Aurora, who was now hanging out the window. Of Finngean and the coachman and people walking on the street. “Goodbye.” He didn't care that everyone was watching. He suddenly grabbed Prudence up. He kissed her fully and without regard for anything but her, kissed her cheek, her neck, and then forced himself to let go. He turned away from her, put his back to her for fear he would do it again, and put himself in that coach, then pounded on the ceiling to signal he was ready.

The coach rolled away from the curb.

“Are you all right?” Aurora asked, staring at him in wonder.

He wasn't the least bit all right. His breath was constricted, his heart pounding. Roan ignored his sister. The coach turned the corner, and Roan glanced out the window.

Prudence hadn't moved at all. She was still standing there, clutching his letter.

Aurora saw her, too. “Don't be sad, Roan,” she said, and put her hand on his knee. “There are many gentlemen in London. With her fine looks and gentle disposition, they'll be queuing at her door, won't they? And you! You'll be married to Susannah Pratt, just as you planned.”

Roan turned his head and looked out the other window, clenching his jaw to keep from bellowing in pain.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

P
RUDENCE
WATCHED
R
OAN
'
S
coach until she could no longer see it. She might have stood all day had Honor not come out and put her arm around her shoulder, forcing her inside. “Come have some tea,” Honor suggested.

“No, thank you. I want to rest now. I slept so poorly last night.” Prudence went up to her room where her grief turned poisonous. She vomited into the chamber pot.

Then she wept.

Much later, Honor tried to soothe her, but Prudence curled into a ball on her bed and insisted she keep the door shut and the drapes drawn. “For God's sake, Honor, let me be,” Prudence begged her.

“I only want to help,” Honor said.

“You can't help me,” Prudence said angrily. “No one can help me. Just leave me
be.
” How could she possibly convey the depth of her grief? The seething disappointment of having felt so deeply for a man who was, very literally, as far removed from her as was possible? This wasn't infatuation at all—this was pure heartbreak.

It wasn't until late that afternoon that Prudence found the courage to read Roan's letter. He wrote in long, bold strokes.

Dearest Prudence,

It is three o'clock in the morning, and there is very little left of the candle. As I've lain in bed, feeling the space beside me cold and empty, I composed a brilliant letter to you in my mind, one that I believe adequately conveyed my feelings for you. But when I rose to put pen to paper, all the elegance of my thoughts was lost. I am utterly incapable of describing the depth and breadth of my feelings. Is it love? I think it is, but I am no scholar when it comes to the heart. I know only that I adore you. I want to slay dragons and lay them at your feet. I want to conquer nations and make you their queen. My life has never lacked for anything, but from this day forward, it will always lack for you.

She read his letter over and over again, intermittently weeping and then staring off in the distance and seeing nothing.

Prudence somehow managed to rouse herself the next day, determined not to drown in her grief. She dressed and allowed Honor to drag her on a call to Augustine and Monica.

“Prudence, darling!” Augustine said, greeting her with a hug. “I've been made most happy—Lord Stanhope has called to speak to me about a
match
!” Augustine seemed oblivious to her distress, elated that the problem of what to do with Prudence had been solved.

“Will you accept his offer?” Monica asked, peering curiously at Prudence.

Prudence merely shrugged. “Why not? I suppose one man is as good as the next.”

Augustine laughed loudly at that, and Prudence stared out the window.

That's all she could manage for a few days, staring out windows.

Merryton and Grace planned to leave London at week's end—Merryton could never bear to be in London long. Mercy busied herself collecting all the things she supposed she would need at Lisson Grove. Linens and soaps, ribbons and stockings. Life moved placidly along, everyone returning to their lives, moving with the tide of time. Everyone but Prudence.

Her life stood still.

Stanhope came round twice for Prudence, but Honor told him she'd come down with an ague, refusing to allow him to see her.

“I can't put him off forever,” she said, pacing nervously before Prudence, who was sprawled on the chaise in her room. “What do you mean to do?”

“I told you. I will marry him,” Prudence said.

Honor came to a halt and stared at Prudence. “Prudence—”

“Honor, please,” Prudence said, throwing up her hand. “I don't want to discuss it.”

Honor pressed her lips together and went out, leaving Prudence to stare at the tree branch that danced on a breeze outside her window. She wondered idly how many hours she'd stared at the branch this week, imagining Roan and Aurora on a ship bound for America. She could see him on the quay, overseeing the handling of luggage, glancing back over his shoulder at England. She could see him on the ship, standing at the helm, staring out over rough waters and thinking of Prudence.

Grace came one afternoon, probably at Honor's behest. Grace began in earnest to try and cheer Prudence, but Prudence was aware she needed more than cheering. She tried to rally, to rouse herself from the doldrums, but it felt as if her disconsolation had invaded her blood. She knew her sisters were losing their patience with her. So was she! This was not how she wanted to live, God no. And yet, she felt powerless to alter her thoughts.

She loved Roan Matheson. The world had not miraculously slid back to the familiar as she'd assumed. The glow of him had not dimmed. She just felt his loss more sharply as time marched on.

A day before Merryton and Grace were to return to Blackwood Hall, Stanhope came round a third time to call on Prudence. When Finnegan told her he'd come, and that there was no one to intercept him, Prudence sighed, pushed her undressed hair over her shoulder, and walked to the drawing room in her bare feet to receive him.

He looked surprised by her appearance when he entered the room. “Good afternoon,” he said, taking in her dress and the hair that hung loosely down her back. “I heard the American had left. Now I see it is true.”

Prudence's gaze was unwavering. She was numb to Stanhope now, and waited for him to say whatever he'd come to say.

“Have you thought about my offer?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“And?”

“And, I haven't a choice, have I? I accept.”

His smile seemed almost sympathetic. “I realize it is difficult for you now, but I think you'll come round to it.”

“No,” Prudence said calmly. “I will never come round to it, my lord. And that I never shall will be your cross to bear.”

He smiled indulgently, as if she were showing him a fit of temper. “I'm not unfeeling,” he said, moving closer to her. “I will give you time to grieve your lover.”

“How very kind of you.”

He reached for her hand. With his gaze on hers, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it softly. Then he leaned down and kissed her cheek, his lips lingering, warm and soft against her skin. Prudence shuddered with despair.

“I will be good to you, Prudence,” he said softly, his nose in her hair. “You will have all that you want. I will make you as happy as a wife can be made.”

Prudence laughed ruefully. “You won't. You
can't
.”

“You may be surprised.”

“I don't love you. I will
never
love you.”

Stanhope's smile faded and he eased back. “Fortunately for us both, love is not necessary for a match such as ours, is it?” He moved away from her. “I've called on Beckington. This afternoon I will call on Merryton to discuss the terms.” He started for the door, but paused there and glanced back. “I saw Mercy outside. She seems quite happy about her opportunity to attend Lisson Grove. I am happy for her.”

“Yes,” Prudence said serenely. “She is a very lucky girl.” With that, she turned her back to Stanhope.

She heard Stanhope leave. The windows were open to a fresh breeze and the sounds of people and animals moving about on the street drifted up to her, but seemed to move away from her at the same time. It seemed only minutes later that she heard a knock on a door, heard voices but thought it had perhaps been on the house next door.

Moments later, Honor appeared in the drawing room with Grace. “Prudence!” Honor said, hurrying to her. “Finnegan said Stanhope was here?”

“Yes.”

Honor looked at Grace. “And?”

“And, I accepted,” Prudence said dispassionately.

“Oh
no
,” Grace whispered, sinking down onto a chair. “My God, Pru...what are you doing? What of love?”

Prudence laughed bitterly at that and brushed Honor's hand from her arm. “What of it? Many matches are made for less than love.”

“You're not serious,” Honor said.

“I am quite serious. Why shouldn't I accept it?” Prudence asked coldly. “It's likely the only offer I will ever receive, and at least Stanhope knows the truth about me. What would you have me do? Mope about and mourn for a love that is an ocean away? Wander about Blackwood Hall, or your house, or Beckington House and wait for another offer to come? I must do
something
with my life. I can't stand still! Do you know how hard it is to stand still?” she demanded shrilly.

“But you don't love him!” Grace cried.

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Prudence said dismissively. “You didn't love Merryton when you wed, and you love him now. Mamma married the earl and she grew to love him very much.”

“But Mamma first married Pappa because she loved him so,” Honor said. “She married for love. She married the earl out of necessity.”

Prudence shrugged and picked up a garment to fold. “I will marry an earl out of necessity. It seems rather the same thing to me. This is a solution, and a far better one than I ever hoped for only a fortnight ago.”

“But it's not what you
want
,” Honor insisted.

Prudence shook her head. She could hear the children upstairs, laughing and singing, and the sound of it, so innocent, so pure, made her ache. She would never have that. Never. Not because of the scandals that marked her family, not because of her mother's madness. Because now she couldn't imagine sharing that sort of happiness with anyone but Roan Matheson.

“I can't bear it,” Grace said suddenly, standing. “Come, Honor.”

“Come where?”

“Just come,” Grace commanded. “She won't listen to us.” She grabbed Honor's hand and pulled her from the room.

Prudence sank down onto the settee. She tried to picture her wedding to Stanhope. Only their families, she supposed. She didn't care where, or even when. She then tried to imagine the consummation of it. She pictured Stanhope in his night shirt, trying to fit himself into a body that didn't want him. It made her ill.

“Prudence.”

Startled, Prudence leaped up from her seat. Lord Merryton was standing just inside—she hadn't heard him come in. He was impeccably dressed as he always was, his black neckcloth against a white lawn shirt making his hair seem even darker. “My lord,” she said, and brushed the back of her hand against her cheek in a futile attempt to brush the flush of her thoughts from her skin.

Merryton clasped his hands tightly at his back, his jaw set as he moved deeper into the room. He kept his distance from her—he never stood close, as if he needed space between them—and considered Prudence for a long moment. “I shall come to the point. I was very angry with you for running off as you did.”

“I know. I'm sorry, my—”

He held up a hand to indicate she should not speak. “I was angry. But I understood. I've always understood it. But now, my wife has come to me and she is very upset. She says you have agreed to marry Stanhope. Is this true?”

Prudence nodded. “He means to call on you to discuss the terms.”

Merryton waved his hand as if that was a trifling matter. “Do you love him?”

“Pardon?
No
,” she said to that preposterous notion. With Merryton, it was best to answer simply and honestly. He didn't care for a lot of nattering.

“Do you love the American?” he asked, moving deeper into the room.

Prudence swallowed. Her true feelings were so apparent now that she couldn't deny them to her herself or anyone else. “With everything.”

His gaze narrowed slightly. “Forgive me, but I must ask—how can you be so certain? Are you sure it's not girl's infatuation?”

“I just know it. I
feel
it,” she said, tapping her chest above her heart. “It's unlike anything I've ever felt before, as if there is something here, just under the bone. It's as if I know him in a way I couldn't possibly know him.”

Merryton said nothing.

“It's a wretched feeling, to be honest. Utterly wretched. To know love like this exists but that I can't have it because he lives on the other side of the ocean is excruciating. It feels as if I can't breathe at all, and yet I'm breathing.” She suddenly realized what she was saying, and blushed. “How foolish you must think me!”

“Quite the contrary,” he said. “I think you have nicely described the feeling of love. I don't know your particular circumstance with the American, but I do know this—I was prepared to marry a woman I didn't love before your sister concocted her scheme. And I can say to you now that my life would have been a sad shadow of what it has become if I had done that. Love has brightened my life beyond my wildest imaginations.”

Prudence blinked with surprise. It was highly unusual of Merryton to speak so candidly.

“If you love Matheson, you should marry
him
, Pru. Not Stanhope.”

“He's already gone. They've sailed! I can't very well sail alone in search of him and land on a foreign shore without introduction.”

Merryton looked almost amused. “You are worried about impropriety now?”

Prudence blanched. “No. But I...I've never been at sea,” she said uncertainly. “How could I go alone?”

“Easton's new ship is taking its maiden voyage to New York in a fortnight. You could be on that ship, I suspect, closely guarded by the captain.”

Prudence stared at him, her mind rushing around what he suggested. “But it's too late, my lord! What if he has offered marriage, or gone to Canada, or...anything might have happened.”

“If that's true, if by some miracle he has managed to marry himself in such a short time, or has gone away, or has been kicked in the head by a goat, George's ship is returning to England. You will come back on that ship if necessary.”

This conversation was confusing her. Merryton, of all people, demanded strict propriety in all things. How could he possibly suggest this to her? “What about all of you?” Prudence cried, sweeping her hand toward him. “What about my sisters and my nieces and nephews, and for God's sake, my mother? I can't leave you all!”