The Scoundrel and the Debutante (7 page)

“How long do you suggest I wait, Yankee? I've a schedule to keep and passengers to deliver. They've not had any food. I'll be lucky to reach Stroud by nightfall.”

Roan whirled around. “Miss Cabot!”
he bellowed. “Miss Cabot, come at once!”

There was nothing, no answer. They waited, Roan pacing alongside the coach.

“Come on, then, move on!” shouted one of the men.

“Last chance, Yankee,” the driver said.

“What of the luggage?” he demanded, gesturing at the bags and things strapped to the coach. He had helped load her trunk and there it was, strapped onto the coach beneath all the rest, including his trunk.

“All unclaimed luggage will be left at the next station,” the driver said, and picked up the reins. “Will you board?” he asked once more.

Roan glanced over his shoulder at the empty meadow.

“
Ack
,
I'll not wait,” the driver said, and slapped the reins against his team. He whistled sharply and the stagecoach lurched away, the wheels creaking, the dust rising to envelop Roan as he stood on the side of the road with his bag.

Where the hell was she?
Roan turned a full circle, his gaze scanning the quiet countryside, seeing nothing but a pair of cows grazing across the way.

And why the hell did he care, precisely? Wasn't it enough that he had to leave his thriving business in New York to come after Aurora? It was just his luck—Roan's father was too old to chase after his wayward daughter, and Roan's brother, Beck, was even younger than Aurora. There had been no one but him, no one who could be depended upon to fetch his sister and bring her home to marry Mr. Gunderson as she had promised she would do.

He supposed that perhaps contrary to what Aurora had claimed, she didn't love Mr. Gunderson after all. It had seemed highly improbable to him that she did, really, seeing as how her engagement had been carefully constructed by Roan's father.

Rodin Matheson was a visionary, and he'd devised a way to increase the family's wealth in a manner that would provide generously for generations of Mathesons—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandchildren. All of them. By marrying his daughter to the son of the building empire that was Gunderson Properties, he made certain that Matheson Lumber would be used to build New York City for years to come.

Roan thought it was brilliant, really, and Aurora had easily agreed to it after a few meetings with Sam Gunderson. “I adore Mr. Gunderson,” she'd said dreamily.

Perhaps she did...in that moment. That was the problem with Aurora—she flitted from one moment to the next, her mind changing as often as the hands on the clock.

It was Mr. Pratt who had suggested to his friend Rodin Matheson that perhaps Roan would be a good match for his daughter Susannah. Mr. Pratt was the owner of Pratt Foundries, and Rodin began to see a bigger, more successful triumvirate of construction. He explained to Roan that between Pratt Foundries, Gunderson Properties and Matheson Lumber, their business and income would soar as they became
the
construction industry of a growing city.

It was a heady proposition. Roan had never met Susannah, learning that she summered in Philadelphia. But Mr. Pratt had insisted that his daughter was a delight, a comely, agreeable young woman who would make him a perfect wife. Roan hadn't thought much about the qualities of a perfect wife—he wasn't a sentimental man, and when it came to marriage, he accepted it as something that had to be done. Neither had he given much thought as to who he would marry; that had been the furthest thing from his mind as they'd worked to expand Matheson Lumber. He'd supposed that whoever it was, familiarity would eventually breed affection. Affection was all that was necessary, wasn't it? His parents had found affection somewhere along the way and seemed happy. Roan imagined the same would be true for him. As for siring children, he hardly gave that a thought—he could not imagine any circumstance in which he'd be anything less than willing and eager to do his part.

And then he'd met Susannah Pratt.

She'd come to New York just before Roan's aunt and uncle had returned from England. She was nothing as Mr. Pratt had described, and worse, Roan could not find anything the least bit attractive about her. It was impossible for him to accept that
she
was the one he was to acquaint himself with and then propose marriage. Privately, he'd chided himself for that—a woman's value was not in her face, for God's sake, it was in her soul. So he'd valiantly tried to see beyond her appearance. Unfortunately, she was not the least bit engaging. He could find no common ground, and even if he had, the woman was painfully shy and afraid to look him in the eye.

Just before his aunt and uncle had come home, he had decided he would speak to Susannah about her true desires. Perhaps she found him as odious as he found her. Perhaps she was desperate for escape from this loose arrangement.

But the news his aunt and uncle had brought home trumped everything else. They were all desperate to find Aurora before she was lost to them, and Roan had put aside his own troubles to chase after her. What could he do?

He could curse Aurora for the weeks it had taken him to cross the Atlantic, that's what. The longer Susannah Pratt thought he would be her husband, the harder it would be to disengage from her. Roan was even angrier with Aurora for not being in West Lee, or whatever the hamlet he'd been directed to, but in the other West Lee, north. That alone was enough to concern him. Did he really need to fret about
another
incorrigible, intractable, disobedient young woman?

No
. No, he did not. He didn't care that Miss Cabot's eyes were the color of the vines that grew on his family's house. Or that she had boarded this coach because she'd been attracted to him. Or that he'd teased her and embarrassed her and thereby was probably the cause of her running off.

She was
not
his concern, damn it. And yet, she was.

For the second time that day, Roan swept his hat off his head and threw it down onto the ground in an uncharacteristic fit of frustration. Damn England! Damn women!

He kicked the hat for good measure and watched it scud across the road.

And then, with a sigh of concession, he walked across the road to fetch it. But he discovered he'd kicked his hat into a ditch filled with muddy water. Roan muttered some fiery expletives under his breath. He'd find another hat in the next village. He picked up his bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder and walked on.

Now, to figure out where that foolish little hellion had gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

P
RUDENCE
HADN
'
T
ACTUALLY
intended to flee. She'd been as anxious as anyone to board the coach and be on her way. But as the repair work had dragged on, she began to imagine any number of scenarios awaiting her at the next village. Dr. Linford and his wife, first and foremost, their displeasure and disgust evident. Worse, Dr. Linford and his wife in the company of someone in a position of authority, who would escort Prudence back to Blackwood Hall in shame. She could just see it—made to ride on the back of a wagon like a convicted criminal. As they moved slowly through villages, children and old women would come out to taunt her and hurl rotten vegetables at her.
Shameless woman!

That public humiliation would be followed by Lord Merryton's look of abject disappointment. Merryton was a strange man. He was intensely private, which Grace insisted was merely his nature but, nevertheless, everyone in London thought him aloof and unfeeling. Now that Prudence had lived at his house and dined at his table these past two years, she knew him to be extraordinarily kind and even quite fond of her. But he did seem almost unnaturally concerned with propriety and if there was one thing he could not abide, would not tolerate, it was scandal and talk of his family.

As he had been her unwavering benefactor and her friend, Prudence could not bear to disappoint him so. She held him in very high regard and, shamefully, she'd not thought of him in those few moments in Ashton Down when she'd impetuously decided to seek her adventure.

She'd begun to wonder, as she sat on the rock, watching the men repair the wheel, if she ought not to find her own way back to Blackwood Hall and throw herself on Merryton's mercy. To be ferried back to him by Dr. Linford, who would be made to alter his plans to accommodate her foolishness, would only make Merryton that much more cross. She decided it was far better if she arrived on her own, admitted her mistake and begged his forgiveness.

That's why, with one last look and longing sigh at Mr. Matheson's strong back and hips, Prudence had picked up her valise and had begun to walk. She wanted to thank Mr. Matheson for his help, but thought it was probably not a very good idea to draw attention to the fact she was leaving.

She had in mind to find a cottage. She would offer to pay someone to take her back to Ashton Down. And, if she reached the next village before finding a cottage, she could keep herself out of sight until Dr. Linford had gone on. He'd be looking for her coach.

She walked along smartly, trying to be confident in her new plan. All was
not
lost, she told herself. She was at least as clever as Honor and Grace. She
would
see her way out of this debacle.

She hadn't walked very far when she heard the approaching coach, and her confidence swiftly flagged. It was surely the stagecoach, and the driver would stop, insist she board the coach. She hadn't thought of that wrinkle. But Prudence was determined not to be delivered into the hands of Linford. “You will
not
falter,” she murmured under her breath. “You have as much right to walk along this road as anyone.”

Prudence lifted her chin as the coach rapidly approached. It wasn't until the last possible moment that she understood the coach did not intend to stop and inquire about her at all, and with a cry of alarm, Prudence leaped off the road just as the team thundered by, cloaking her in a cloud of dust.

When the coach had passed, Prudence coughed and picked herself up with a pounding heart, dusting off her day gown as best she could. “He might at least have slowed to see if I'd been harmed,” she muttered, and climbed back on the road, squared her shoulders, and began to walk again.

She had no sooner taken a few steps than she heard the sound of the second coach. Now an old hand at navigating passing coaches, Prudence hopped off the road and stood a few feet back.

But
this
coach slowed. The team was reined down to a walk, then rolled to a stop alongside where she stood.

The driver,
her
driver, peered down at her a moment, then turned his head and spit into the dirt. “Aye, miss, wheel's fixed. Climb aboard.”

“Thank you, but I prefer to walk,” she said lightly.

“Walk! To where? There's naught a village or a person for miles.”

“Miles?” she repeated, trying to sound unimpressed. “How many miles would you say?”

“Five.”

“Well! Then it's a good thing that I wore my sturdy shoes,” she lied. “A fine day for walking, too. Thank you, but I shall walk, sir.” She wondered if Matheson was sitting in the interior of the coach overhearing her, laughing at her foolishness. Was that why he hadn't shown himself? Perhaps he didn't want anyone to think he was in any way familiar with a featherheaded debutante who was walking down the road in slippers more fitting for a dance?

“Suit yourself,” the driver said, and lifted the reins, prepared to send the team on.

“Sir!” Prudence shouted before he could dispatch the team. “Will you see that my trunk is delivered to Himple?” She opened her reticule to retrieve a few coins and began to make her way across the ditch to the road. “Please. If you will leave it at the post station, someone will be along for it.” She climbed onto the road—slipping once and catching herself, then climbing up on the driver's step. She held up a few shillings to him.

“You're alone, miss?” one of the gentlemen riding behind the driver called down to her.

She ignored him. Her heart was racing now, not only with fear, but also with anger that was very irrational. She could imagine Mr. Matheson sitting in the coach, rolling his eyes or perhaps even sharing a chuckle with the boy. One could certainly argue that she deserved his derision given what she'd done today, but she didn't like it one bit.

“You're certain, are you?” the driver said, taking the coins from her palm and pocketing them.

“Quite. Thank you.” Prudence stepped down.

The driver put the reins to the team. Once again, Prudence was almost knocked from the road. As it was, she stumbled backward into the ditch, catching herself on a tree limb to keep from falling.

She watched the coach move down the road and disappear under the shadows of trees.

Five miles from a village.

She looked around. There was no one, and no sound but the breeze in the treetops and the fading jangle of the coach. Prudence had never been alone like this. But, as her poor, mad mother used to say before she'd lost the better part of her mind, no one could correct one's missteps but oneself. The sooner one set upon the right course, the sooner one would reach the right destination.

Prudence would argue the point about the right destination, but there was nothing to be done for it now. And for God's sake, she would not shed a single tear. There was nothing she detested more than women who resorted to tears at the first sign of adversity. Yes, walk she would, in shoes that were meant to wander about a manicured garden...just as soon as she gave her aching feet a rest.

Prudence dropped her valise and sat down on top of it, her knees together, her legs splayed at odd angles to keep her balance on the small bag. She folded her arms on top of her knees, pressed her forehead against her arms and squeezed her eyes shut.
How could you be so stupid?

Reality began to seep into her thoughts.

Whatever made her believe she could be like her sisters? She'd never been like the rest of them, had never taken such daring chances, disregarding all propriety on a whim. What made her believe that she could step out of bounds of propriety
now
? Yes, she'd been at sixes and sevens of late, unsatisfied with her lot in life, but still! She was alone on a road, perfect prey for highwaymen, thieves or other horrible things she couldn't even bring herself to think of.
Gypsies!
Prudence gasped and her heart fluttered, recalling the frightening tales Mercy had insisted on telling.

“Well.”

The sound of a man's voice startled her so badly that Prudence tried to leap up and scream at the same time and managed to knock herself off her imperfect perch and onto her bottom.

Mr. Matheson instantly reached for her, and Prudence, in a moment of sheer relief, grabbed him with both hands, hauled herself up with such vigor that she launched herself into his person and threw her arms around his neck.

Perhaps he was as stunned as she—he caught her, but neither of them moved for one long moment. Then Mr. Matheson put his hands firmly on her waist and carefully set her back, staring down at her as if she'd lost her mind.

“I beg your pardon,” she said apologetically. “I was momentarily overcome with relief! What are you doing on foot?”

“Isn't it obvious? Rescuing you.”

Prudence could feel the color rising in her cheeks, the
thump, thump, thump
of her shame and delight in her chest. “You gave me such a fright,” she said, pressing her hand to breast. “I thought I would perish with it.”

“Well, I think we've sufficiently delayed your ultimate demise for at least an hour or so,” he said. “What the devil are you
doing here? Why did you leave the coach? Where in hell do you think you're
walking
?”

“To the next village or cottage,” she said, gesturing lamely in that direction. “I mean to pay someone to return me to Ashton Down.”

He squinted down the road in the direction she gestured. “What a perfectly ridiculous thing to do,” he said gruffly. “
Why
would you? You had a seat on a coach!”

“Because I feared Mrs. Scales would not be able to restrain herself from reporting all that had happened since leaving Ashton Down, and she...might possibly utter my name.”

“I think the odds of that are excellent,” he said, nodding, as if it were a foregone conclusion. “And your solution to this was to, what, run away?”

“No,” she said, as if it were absurd to suggest she'd run, even though she obviously had. “My
solution
was to go at once and find someone who would return me to Blackwood Hall. I should rather my family learn of this...turn of events...from me.”

“Mmm.” He folded his arms and stared down at her with such scrutiny that her skin began to tingle. “So you thought you might march up to anyone with a conveyance and ask that they see you to this hall where you might report your folly?”

When he put it like that, it sounded ridiculous. Prudence sniffed. She scratched her cheek and gazed down the road, then looked at him sidelong. “Well, you needn't look so smug, Mr. Matheson. You've made your point. I've been foolish.”

“I haven't even begun to make
that
point, Miss Cabot, but I'll happily do so as we trek into the next village and find that conveyance. At the moment, however, I'd very much like to turn you over my knee like a child, for God knows how childish you've been.”

“Yes, so it would seem!” she said, miffed. “You're not my father, Mr. Matheson.”

“Your father!” he sputtered. “I'm scarcely thirty years old. And yet I have
twice
as much sense as you.”

“If you had
twice
as much sense, you might have made your way to Weslay instead of Wesleigh!”

He was momentarily disabled by the truth in that statement. “I will allow that,” he said, holding up a finger, “at least until I see you to some means for a safe return home.” He bent down, reaching for her bag.

But Prudence was faster and snatched it up before he could take it. “I will carry my own bag, thank you.”

“For the love of— It's a long way to the next village.”

“I am aware
of how far it is to the next village. It's five miles. And I am perfectly capable of carrying my own bag!”

He muttered under his breath and hoisted his own bag onto his shoulder. “Shall we?”

“Do I have any other choice?” Prudence began to walk, her bag banging uncomfortably against her knee. “Where is your hat?” she demanded, wishing he'd stop looking at her so intently.

He frowned. “Lost,” he said curtly. “Why is it that you misses are all alike?” he added irritably, as if he was constantly running into unmarried women in the countryside.

“We
misses
? Have you some vast experience with
misses
, Mr. Matheson?”

“I have enough. Why do you think I am here in this godforsaken—”

Prudence looked at him sharply.

“Pardon. In this foreign land,” he amended.

“I don't know,” she said insouciantly. “Presumably to instruct all of the young misses in proper behavior.”

“If only I had the time that would require. But no, I am here to instruct one miss. Imagine, it's not even you! I am in pursuit of my incorrigible, equally headstrong and impulsive sister.”

Prudence tossed her head. “I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she was trying to keep her distance from you and your opinions.”

“She won't escape them,” he said flatly.

“I can't imagine anyone could,” Prudence retorted pertly.

They walked in silence for a few moments while Prudence wondered what the sister had done, what had caused him to come in “pursuit”
of her. “Where is she?” she asked.

“Yes indeed, where
is
Miss Aurora Priscilla Matheson?” he asked. “I very much hope she is at West Lee,” he said, gesturing impatiently with his hand at his failure to grasp the subtle differences between the names of the villages. “Shall I tell you the tale of this young woman? My aunt and uncle brought her to London last spring. It was a wedding gift of sorts, an opportunity to see a bit of the world before she marries Mr. Gunderson. But Aurora is quite impetuous, and she made many friends in London, some of whom, apparently, convinced her to stay another month or so more than was intended. When it came time to leave, she refused to return home with my aunt and uncle. She wrote my father and said she'd be along in a month or so.”