The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)

Mrs. House, a harried-looking woman with sharp cheekbones, informed him she had one room left when he stepped up to the bar. “It has a table, two chairs and a bed,” she said. “Will that suit?” she asked as she filled two pints with ale.

“It will suit,” Roan said. “But I will also require a bath.”

Mrs. House was shaking her head before he finished speaking. “I’ve got no men to carry it up. Look around you, sir, they’re all drunk.”

“I’ve got men to carry it up. But I’ll need water. And a roast chicken if you have it. Bread, olives—whatever you’ve got.”

Mrs. House frowned as she pushed the tankards across the bar to a serving girl. “I’ve got one housemaid,” she said. “I can’t spare her—”

Roan didn’t know how much money he slid across the bar to her, but it was apparently enough. She looked at him askance, then wiped her hands on her gown and picked up the note.

Roan smiled. “My wife has had a very trying day, madam. I would very much like to improve it for her.”

“Your wife, is it?” she asked sarcastically.

“It’s her father,” Roan said. “He hasn’t long. We’re racing against time to reach him.”

“Poor dear,” Mrs. House said mockingly. “Take her up, then. And send your boys round to the back for the bath. I’ll have it readied.”

Roan fetched Prudence, and they followed the young men and their trunks up to the room. It was small, but it had a window that looked out over the green. After the past thirty-six hours, the room looked sumptuous to Roan. He promised the boys two crowns each upon delivering the tub.

“From where do you hail?” he asked the oldest boy when they returned with the tub.

“Midlothian, sir.”

“Near here?”

The boy nodded.

“There is an old nag in the stables. She’s not worth a farthing, but she’s plodded a very long way and deserves to graze in peace.” He handed the boy a five pound banknote. The boy’s eyes widened. “Take her home, put her to pasture.”

“A horse?” the oldest boy repeated with awe.

“Not a horse. A nag. Be good to her.”

The boy looked excitedly at his companion. They were eager to claim their unexpected prize. Roan chuckled as he closed the door behind them. Those boys would curse him when they saw the old girl.

He turned from the door. Prudence was in her trunk, pulling gowns and frilly lacey garments from it. He was quick to open his trunk, too, to make doubly sure the banknotes he’d tucked away were still there. It was with a great amount of relief to find them there.

Prudence had laid out a variety of gowns on the bed—silks and brocades, satins and velvets, and was studying them critically when the housemaid brought their dinner and wine.

The smell of food drew her from her interest in her clothes, and she eagerly sat across the wooden table from Roan. They pulled meat from the roasted chicken, served on a cracked platter. “Do you think,” he asked, pausing to lick his fingers after pulling apart the chicken, “that the food is really as good as it tastes?”

She giggled. “I know only that I have never tasted a chicken roasted to such perfection.” She drank heartily from her wineglass, as if she’d wandered forty days and forty nights through the wilds of England’s west country. When she’d had her fill of food and drink, she leaned back in her chair with one hand draped across her middle, looking like a sated cow. “That was wonderful.”

Roan laughed. It was wonderful. He’d had far better food in far better establishments than this old inn, but this was the meal he’d remember—Prudence’s lips made shiny from the chicken, her eyes bright with happiness and the bit of sun coloring her cheeks. She was, to him, quite beautiful.

A knock at the door signaled the water for their bath. Over the next ten minutes, two girls hurried in and out with their buckets, pouring steam water into the copper bath until it was nearly full.

Roan gave them a banknote, too—he had nothing smaller—and their eyes bulged at their riches, just as the post boys.

“You’ll have nothing left at this rate,” Prudence said with a laugh.

Roan smiled. He locked the door behind the girls and turned back to Prudence. “Your majesty, your bath awaits,” he said.

“I’ve never been so desperate for a proper bath,” she said, and stood. She moved a chair around to rest beside the tub, then put some of the jars from her trunk on the seat. Then she removed her grimy clothes. She smiled saucily at him, like a lover. As if she’d never been the innocent debutante she’d been only a day or so before. She was bolder now. More mature. Roan liked that.

She was soon bare before him. Roan had always found the feminine form the greatest work of art, but Prudence took his breath away. She was curvy, soft and pliant, and the sight of her made him yearn to touch her.

She stepped into the tub and lowered herself into the water. Roan’s pulse turned hot as she leaned her head back against the tub and closed her eyes. Her hair pooled in the water around her and over her breasts. “It’s heaven,” she murmured. “Thank you, Roan.”

“Let me wash you hair,” he suggested.