The Scoundrel and the Debutante (9 page)

His reasoning was so ridiculous that Prudence laughed.

Mr. Matheson stopped in the middle of the road once more and dropped the bags again, his hands finding his waist as he turned to face her. “Now what have I said?”

“You couldn't be more wrong!” she cried gleefully. “Perhaps it is different in America, but when one's family is embroiled in scandal, no one is rushing to the door to court the daughters. There is no gentleman
.
In fact, one might say there is a definite lack of one!”

The moment the words came tumbling through her lips, Prudence clamped a hand over her mouth. If there was one thing a debutante did
not
do, it was to announce, to perfect strangers, that there was no interest in her whatsoever.

Worse, Matheson was staring at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

“All right, go ahead, laugh if you must,” she said, waving her hand to hurry him along. “I've said it. It's the truth.”

“I'm sorry,” he said with a shake of his head, “but I am astounded.”

Prudence groaned. “Go on, make light of it.”

“I'm not making light of it. I will say this. In America, when a woman as...as
beautiful
as you, Miss Cabot—and make no mistake, you are very beautiful—has no understanding with a gentleman of means, there would be a line around the city blocks for her. Without any concern for scandal.”

Prudence blinked. She felt that slide of warmth down her spine, the internal glittering again.

“Your attentions would be in very high demand,” he said again, and his gaze moved over her, the intensity of it seeping in through her pores. A smile of atrociously showy proportions spread across her face.

“That is precisely why women like you should not be walking about roads like this alone,” he continued, his voice turning gruff. “Men are beasts and scoundrels and utterly incapable of not following after a woman like you.”

Impossibly, her grin spread wider. “I walk everywhere at Blackwood Hall—”

“Ack,” he said with a flick of his wrist. “It's not the same. Out here, without protection or any sense at all, you're prey for men like me.”

She laughed. “Men like you!”

“Yes.
Me
. Scoundrels, as I said.”

“You're not a scoundrel!” she scoffed.

“Oh, but I am every inch a scoundrel, Miss Cabot,” he said with a devilish smile. “Don't be fooled. Hasn't anyone ever warned you about the appetites of men?”

A swirl of concern began to nudge in beside her glee at having been called beautiful by such a handsome man. Lord Merryton had indeed warned her of scoundrels and rogues.
Never trust a gentleman, no matter what he says to you, Prudence. There is one thing in his mind that controls him, and it is not a virtue.

“Well, good heavens, don't look frightened of me now,” he said impatiently. He dipped down and retrieved the bags, then casually put his arm around her waist, urging her to walk. A flash of incongruence swept through her—she liked the way this self-named scoundrel felt beside her.

“You remind me too much of my sister. I could no more tarnish your reputation than I could hers.”

Prudence did not care to remind him of his sister in that moment, not at all—the comparison sat sourly in her belly.

“What sort of scandal?” he asked as they walked along, like brother and sister.

“Pardon?”

“You said there is no gentlemen at your door because of scandal. What sort of scandal?”

She really didn't care to reveal her family's sordid shenanigans. “My sisters were married in an unconventional manner,” she said carefully.

“Forced to marry?”

“Forced?” she repeated, wondering how best to phrase it.

“I mean, were they pregnant?”

Prudence gasped, both with indignation at such a horrible accusation and with shock—no one
ever
said that word aloud. If there was one word in the English language that was carefully concealed with euphemisms, it was that one. “Absolutely not!”

“No?” He shrugged. “What other unconventional manners of marriage are there?”

“More than that,” Prudence said.

Mr. Matheson chuckled and gave her a soft squeeze. “You amuse me, Miss Cabot. You're a bit prudish, aren't you? And yet forthcoming in a strange way, especially for a woman walking along a deserted road with a complete stranger.”

“I don't feel as if you're a complete stranger any longer,” she said.

“Well, I am. You really know nothing about me. You remind me of a man I ran into the time my horse went lame upstate,” he said, and began to relate the tale of what sounded to Prudence like a very long and dangerous walk through the American countryside. This was where, apparently, Mr. Matheson had come up with the idea that there ought to be better modes of transportation between the cities and the north country, and he had very firm opinions about it. Prudence was able to observe this at length, for on this topic, her participation in the conversation was completely unnecessary.

The talk of transportation and the need for a canal had utterly fatigued her by the time they reached the village. Moreover, her feet were killing her.

There was hardly anything to the village. A pair of cottages, a smithy, and a tiny inn and post house. Almost all of the village appeared deserted, save the woman wandering about her garden. Up the road were a few more buildings, perhaps a dry-goods store. The stagecoaches had come and gone, but more important, there was no sign of Dr. Linford.

With a sigh of relief, Prudence sat down on a fence railing across from the inn. She desired nothing more than to remove her shoes and rub her feet, but would settle for at least taking her weight off them.

Mr. Matheson, on the other hand, put down the two bags and glanced around as if it had been nothing to carry them these five miles. “Are you hungry? I'm hungry,” he said.

“No, thank you.” She glanced up at him. She couldn't deny that their little adventure had come to an end. She had done enough for one day, and no matter what, she couldn't impose on him any longer. For heaven's sake, the man had only just arrived from America. “Thank you for walking with me, Mr. Matheson. I know you're eager to find your sister. I'll be quite all right until a coach comes along.”

He looked surprised. “My name is Roan. And I prefer to put you on a coach myself.”

“You're not worried for me, surely. There is no one here but an old woman,” she said, gesturing toward the white-haired woman bent over a stick and busy with something in her garden. “And besides, a coach will be along shortly. I'll be all right.” It took some effort, but Prudence smiled.

Mr. Matheson did not smile. He frowned and seemed to be silently debating what to do with her. “You're certain,” he said, sounding uncertain.

“Very.”

“Well...then I suppose when the next northbound coach comes, I'll be on it.”

Prudence felt foolishly disappointed. She had just told him he shouldn't feel compelled to stay with her. He'd been kind enough to her, for all her folly. So she made herself smile again and said cheerfully, “Good luck to you, sir! I pray you find your sister.”

He nodded. He shifted his weight. “Good luck to you, Miss Cabot.” He sounded reluctant. He frowned, and he didn't move. He stared at her a moment, his gaze intent, then spread his fingers wide and studied his palm. “So...you'll return to Blackwood Hall, is that it?”

She looked around. Maybe, she thought, she could make it to Himple on her own and spare herself the humiliation of returning to Blackwood Hall. “Perhaps I should carry on to Himple to meet my friend. It's not very far from here at all.”

She shielded her face and looked down the road. But the road bent at an odd angle. She stood up— wobbling a bit, given that her feet had turned to pulp. And it didn't help her see Himple, the distance to which, truth be told, Prudence had no idea.

“I think that's not a good idea,” Mr. Matheson said, moving to stand beside her and look down the road, too.

“I don't know,” she said thoughtfully. “I think they will never let me out of Blackwood again once they hear of this.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Would you?”

“No. Not a chance of it.” He looked over his shoulder.

“Then you see my—”

Mr. Matheson suddenly caught her elbow and whirled her around so that her back was to the road and she was facing him. “What—”

“Step back, beneath that tree.”

“The tree! I don't—”

“Step back, step back,” he said, pushing her a little, moving with her, pushing her until she had stepped back beneath the low boughs of a sycamore tree and into its shadows. “Make yourself small,” he muttered.

“Make myself
small
?
How does one make themselves small?” Prudence tried to turn, to see behind the tree at whatever it was that had caught his attention, but his grip of her elbow tightened. “Don't—”

It was too late—she'd already seen what Matheson had seen. Dr. Linford had strolled out of one of the buildings up the street and was walking down the road.

With a gasp Prudence whirled around and pressed her back against the tree. “Oh no, oh
no
,” she whispered frantically, her mind racing. She could picture Dr. Linford forcing her into his coach and turning about to take her home. “Where is his carriage?”

“Down at the bottom of the hill,” Mr. Matheson said. “Don't panic.” He moved closer, so that he was practically touching her.

“How can I not panic? He'll see me!” She grabbed the lapel of his coat and tried to make herself small.

“Be still, or you'll draw attention to—”

“I am
finished
!” she said, jerking his lapel in frustration.

“Miss Cabot,” he said sternly.

Prudence would never know how it happened. She knew only that before she realized it was happening, his mouth was on hers. His lips, those gorgeous lips, soft, warm and pliant, were pressed against hers. His tongue was at the seam of her lips. His body was pressed against hers.

And it was
exquisite
.

Her knees began to buckle; his arm went around her waist as if he knew it. He pulled her into his body and angled his head, slipped his tongue into her mouth. His hand was warm against her neck, resting there as he kissed her, his thumb stroking her jaw. Her breasts pressed against his body, and she wondered, insanely, if he could feel her heart slamming fitfully against his chest. His lips moved lightly across hers, softly shaping them, tasting them as if they were some delicacy, and Prudence heard herself moan softly. When she did, the pressure of his mouth on hers intensified, his tongue moving deeper, sweeping against her teeth, her tongue, her cheeks. His hand cupped her face, his thumb gently stroking her cheek.

It was not Prudence's first kiss, but it may as well have been. She was sparkling. She actually felt as if she were sparkling. The air in her was being pushed out by her pounding heart, and she thought she might explode from the delectable torture of his kiss. He shifted against her, pressing her against the tree, and she was aware how intuitively and eagerly her body responded, curving into his, melting against him. He was hard and erect, strength and desire pressed against her and soaking into her. It was the most sensual thing that had ever happened to Prudence. It was the most exciting, provocative and arousing thing that she could possibly imagine. She didn't want it to end, to never end—

But then, suddenly, it was over.

Matheson lifted his head. His eyes swept her face as he ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “This is
precisely
the reason you should not be left alone on this road, Miss Cabot,” he said hotly. “Scoundrels roam every corner of this earth. I don't like to say I told you so, but I told you so.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I didn't mean that to be a compliment to my sex,” he snapped, and leaned to one side to peer around the tree. “I don't see him.”

“Ah,” she said, smiling up at him.

His gaze slid to her. He frowned. “Lord,” he muttered, and stepped back, took her hand and pulled her away from the tree. “I think we best see about a horse or two.”

“Pardon?”

He looked at her and squeezed her hand in his. “I can't very well leave you alone now, can I?”

“But I thought I reminded you of your sister,” she said.

He frowned. “You don't remind me of anything but a temptress at the moment,” he said brusquely.

Prudence's smile widened.

He shook his head. “You can ride, can't you? We best ride to...where is it you're going?”

“Himple,” she said, unable to suppress her smile.

“Himple,” he echoed, and with a roll of his eyes, he sighed as if that perturbed him, too.

CHAPTER SIX

T
HE
PURCHASE
OF
horseflesh in this country was not inexpensive. Nor was it easy, especially when one had uninvited help.

Roan had specifically instructed Miss Cabot to remain outside while he went into the post house to inquire about horses. Naturally, she objected, citing his “foreign accent” as a possible deterrent to information. He cited her “unchaperoned and unmarried” situation as a possible deterrent to information, as well. Miss Cabot didn't like the reminder—no surprise in that—and it certainly didn't astonish him when she didn't obey him.

The women in his life never obeyed him—the women consisting primarily of his mother and his sister, and his romantic interests. None of them ever followed his sound advice, but none of them had ever perturbed him quite like Miss Cabot. Perhaps in part because she had a disconcerting habit of speaking when he really preferred she not speak.

Roan held out hope that Susannah Pratt would obey him, but he didn't know enough about her to say. She was pleasant and agreeable, and...and he kept searching for things to admire about her. Today, a little more earnestly than before.

He stepped into the post house, and was instantly assailed by a number of mail sacks hanging from the ceiling. He batted them aside, stooped beneath them and walked across the creaking plank floors to the counter.

Two elderly gentlemen were sitting behind the counter. Neither of them moved as Roan approached, giving the impression that they'd been sitting there since the beginning of time and were one with their stools. It was a wonder they were not covered in cobwebs. One of them sported a snowy-white beard beneath a flat nose. The other had lost most of his hair, but his body had seen fit to allow him to retain a pair of woolly caterpillars for eyebrows.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said.

The caterpillars nodded at him. The beard didn't seem to have heard.

“I was wondering if there might be any horseflesh in the area for purchase?”

“What you mean?” the beard asked. “You mean to buy a horse?”

Roan couldn't begin to guess what other meaning horseflesh might have here, but he said, “Yes. Two horses.”

“Two,”
the beard said, in a tone that suggested he thought that was excessive.

“Yes. I need two,” Roan said. “My ah...” He winced and nodded vaguely at the door. “My wife and I,” he choked out. What else could he say? He couldn't very well suggest to these men he was traveling alone with an unmarried woman. Not that he cared a whit what they would think of him, but he could only imagine what they would think—and say—of Miss Cabot.

“Wife,” said the caterpillars. He and the beard exchanged a look. Roan swallowed down a small swell of discomfort. Was it possible someone from the stagecoach had mentioned them? Perhaps suggested they keep an eye out for Miss Cabot?

“Two,”
the beard repeated to the caterpillars.

“Is there a problem?” Roan asked.

“Post coach will be through within the hour,” the caterpillars said. “Wife can buy passage on the coach.”

“Right,” Roan said. “That would be a fine solution if she were not made ill by the movement of the coach.”

Neither of the men spoke.

“She's delicate,” he said, almost sputtering the word. Miss Cabot did not strike him as the least bit delicate.

“O'Grady. Lives down the road,” the beard said. “He take them on that the post be done with.”

As Roan was working out what those words put together in that sequence were supposed to mean, the door opened behind him. The old men's eyes slid to the door.

“The missus,” the caterpillars announced.

“Pardon?” Miss Cabot asked. “Good afternoon, sirs.” She stepped up beside Roan and smiled at him. “Any luck?”

“Yes.”
He glanced sidelong at the two gentlemen and slipped his arm around her waist. Her gaze dropped to his hand. “I think you'd be more comfortable outside—”

“Oh, I'm quite all right,” she said brightly, and pushed his arm from her waist. “So you found us a horse!”

“It would seem Mr. O'Grady down the road might have a horse or two to spare.”

“Wife ought to wait here. It's a ways,” said the caterpillars.

“The
wife
—” Miss Cabot started, but Roan quickly interjected.

“Thank you!” he said loudly, and this time, he grabbed her and held firmly. “North, you said?” he asked even louder as he pulled Miss Cabot closer to him, into his side, and twisted her shoulders about so that her face was pushed into his chest as he turned her toward the door.

“Aye, north,” one of the men said.

Roan opened the door and pushed Miss Cabot out before him.

Outside the post house, she whirled around. Her hands went to her waist, and she glared at Roan. “You told them I was your
wife
?”

“I told
you
to wait outside.”

“I did wait outside! But then I wondered why I ought! How long does it take to ask after a horse, I ask you? Why did you tell them such a thing?” she asked, and batted at his arm like a kitten. “As if my situation isn't desperate enough, you would say that?”

“I didn't think it would do to announce that I was traveling with a young woman who was not my wife or my sister and, furthermore, someone I scarcely know.”

“Oh,” she said, the fire leaking out of her.

“Shall we go and find this O'Grady fellow, then?” he asked curtly, and dipped down to gather their bags. He walked on with them, not looking back.

A moment later, Miss Cabot appeared at his side, shuffling along in her unsuitable shoes.

“Where is this Mr. O'Grady?” she asked crossly after a half hour of walking north on the road.

“I'm not entirely certain.”

They walked in silence. Every so often, Miss Cabot would sigh. She pulled her bonnet up on her head once more, which Roan didn't care for—he liked looking at her.

After some time, she whimpered a little. “I can't...that is, I don't know if I—”

“There,” Roan said, pointing. He could see a meadow ahead, and in it five horses grazed. “That must be it.”

That news prompted her to quicken her pace, and she hobbled along at an impressive clip.

The meadow had been fenced with rocks, where Miss Cabot promptly sat, removed her shoes and sighed.

“Now the challenge will be to locate the man who has pastured these horses,” Roan said. “He can't be far.” He glanced down at his charge. “Can I trust you to remain here, on this fence, while I have a look about?”

“Yes,” she said, her gaze on her feet.

Roan looked at her feet, too. Her stockings were damp with the fluid of her blisters. He squatted down beside her and took one foot in his hand.

“No!” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

He began to massage the bottom of her foot, and Miss Cabot's entire body sagged with relief.

“You really shouldn't,” she said weakly as she inched her other foot next to the one he massaged. “It's inappropriate,” she added, her eyes closed.

He smiled, enjoying her expression of bliss as he continued to massage her feet. “What is inappropriate is that you are trying to walk across England in these awful shoes.”

“They are from France,
Mr. Matheson,” she said staunchly.

“What has that to do with anything? They are useless.”

“Well, of course! They aren't meant
for walking about,” she said with breathless indignation, her eyes flying open.

Roan paused in his ministrations to her feet to argue, but Miss Cabot nudged him with her other foot to continue his work. “I never intended to walk across England in them,” she said as he began to massage the second foot.

“You've no other shoes in your bag?”

“Yes,” she said. “Silk ones. I suppose in America you all strap bits of cowhide to your feet to match the cowhide of your pants and strut about as if
that
were the fashionable thing.”

Roan couldn't help himself—he laughed. “Pardon me,” he said through a chuckle. “I never meant to impugn your fine French shoes.”

“Hmm,” she said, and closed her eyes again.

When he had massaged her second foot as thoroughly as the first, he let it go and stood up. Miss Cabot stretched her legs long and began to point and flex her feet.

“Now, then. Can I trust you?” he asked.

“Yes. I'm going with you,” she said, her head tilted to one side as she examined her feet.

“What? No! You're not listening.” He leaned over her, grasped her chin in his hand and forced her head up.

Miss Cabot smiled.

“No. You will stay here, on this fence, exactly where you are sitting, while I have a look about.”

She calmly wrapped her fingers around his wrist and gave his hand a strong yank, removing it from her chin. She sat straighter, bringing her head so close to his that Roan could see the flecks of brown in her very fine hazel eyes. “I'm going. You're foreign and you don't know how to do things.” And then she swayed back and turned her attention to her feet.

But Roan was confused. “I don't know how to do what, exactly?”

“Speak to crofters.” She winced as she slid her feet into her shoes, ignoring his stare of disbelief.

“Stay,” he said.

“No.” She began to roll her ankles about, her small stocking feet pointing toward the road. Then she placed her hands delicately in her lap and looked up at him. “Do you intend to stand there and stare at me all day, or shall we find a horse?”

Roan sighed. He knew the look of a stubborn woman and held out his hand to her.

They walked across the pasture and studied the horses as they grazed the grass. They were not young horses, and one of them had a peculiar bump over his right hindquarter.

“Oh dear,” Miss Cabot said.

But Roan thought they looked affable and strong enough. “They'll do.”

At the other end of the pasture in a meadow just below, Roan spied a few cottages with smoke curling out of the chimneys and some barnlike structures. He paused.

“It's lovely,” Miss Cabot said wistfully.

Roan shifted his gaze to her, uncertain what she thought was lovely. With the sun's angle just so, he could see the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She looked remarkably fresh, considering all that had happened today.

“Don't you agree?”

Roan reluctantly turned his attention back to the scene before them. A pig rooted about one barnyard among a few hens. He could see a dog lying in the shade of a tree near one cottage, his head up, his snout lifted in Roan's direction. “
Lovely
is not the word I would use,” he muttered as he watched the dog, sizing him up. “Wait here,” he said, and carefully moved forward. The dog began to swat his tail as Roan moved closer, then leaped to all fours and sounded his alarm.

One of the cottage doors opened and a man walked out. He moved toward Roan like a well-fed cow lumbering toward the barn. As he neared, Roan could see that he was missing a tooth and an eye on the same side of his face, as if he'd been struck by something spectacular. Roan was curious to know what, but given that he had some important bartering to do; he thought the better of risking any sort of displeasure.

“Aye?” said the man with his one-eyed curiosity, looking past Roan to where Miss Cabot stood, her hands clasped behind her back, nudging a chicken that was pecking around her foot.

“Good day,” Roan said. “Would you perhaps be willing to part with a pair of horses?”

The man looked to the pasture, where his five horses grazed. “Aye?” he said again, and Roan was momentarily confused—did the man misunderstand him, or did he mean for him to continue?

Roan opted for the latter. “And a pair of saddles if you can spare them. I'm to West Lee.”

“Wesleigh? Put yourself on the southbound coach,” the man said, waving in the direction of the village from where they'd just come, and turned as if that settled that.

“Not that West Lee. The north one.”

“What, you mean Weslay?” the man asked, squinting at him. “Then why'd you say Wesleigh?”

Roan took a deep breath. For the life of him, he heard no difference. “I am in need of two horses to carry me north, and you, sir, have seven in your pasture. Are any of them for sale?”

The man said nothing for a long moment as he considered Roan. “Fifteen pound.”

Roan blanched at that outrageous sum. “Fifteen pounds for two old horses?”

“No' for two, no, sir,” the old man said patiently. “For one.”

“One! That horseflesh,” Roan said, gesturing blindly behind him, “is not worth a farthing!”

“Oh dear. They are certainly worth a
farthing.
Perhaps you mean a pound?”

It took a feat of monumental control that Roan could turn calmly toward Miss Cabot's voice, take in the nettles that clung to the bottom of her gown and say, calmly and quietly, “I
meant
a
farthing.
” He turned back to the old man. “Will you excuse us for a moment?” And with that, he turned back to Miss Cabot, put his hands on her shoulders, twirled her about and marched her out of the old man's hearing.

“What in blazes are you doing? At least allow me to negotiate with that old goat.”

“All right,” she said easily. “But a farthing is not very much at all. Even a very old horse would be worth more than that. Shall I show you?” she asked, reaching for her reticule.

He put his hand on hers to stop her. “I
know
how much a farthing is worth. Do you think I alighted on English soil and set off merrily on my way without thought to the currency or the customs?”

“Well...” She shrugged and averted her gaze as if she thought exactly that. “You
did
offer a farthing,” she murmured.