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

“But—”

“But,” she said, grasping both of his hands in hers, “I must go, and so must you. Is there really any other option? As much as I would...as I would love to carry on with you, I’ve pushed every boundary. I’ll be lucky to see the outside of Blackwood Hall as it is. And more than that, I don’t know if I can bear it. The more I am with you, the more I want...everything. Do you understand me?”

Roan sighed. He squeezed her hands in his. “Yes, of course I understand you. You’re right, Pru. Were it not for Aurora...” He shook his head and glanced down. “To come with me would be far too foolish...even for you.” He glanced up and smiled ruefully. “When will you return to Blackwood Hall? I’ll come to see you before we go—”

“No!” she exclaimed, and stole a look at the boy. “That’s impossible.”

“I must—”

“No,” she said again. Her face was heating. “It will be worse if you come.”

He looked stung, but Prudence couldn’t bear it if he came to Blackwood Hall.

Roan gripped her hand tighter. “I’m not ready for you to go, Prudence. I may never be ready for it, but I can’t—” He clenched his jaw and looked away.

His words were an arrow that pierced her heart. “Why couldn’t you be English?” she moaned.

“Why couldn’t you be American? We’re star-crossed, Pru. There’s no other damn way to look at it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Prudence bit her lip to keep the sob lodged in her throat from escaping. “Well,” she said. “I suppose I ought to...” She gestured to the wagon where the Bulworth man waited.

“Yes.” Roan swallowed. He offered his arm, and then escorted Prudence to the wagon and helped her up onto the seat. Prudence leaned over and kissed his cheek. She hated that most of all—it was the sort of kiss she might have given Augustine, the polite, chaste, so-good-to-see-you-again kiss that society and propriety allowed, and it was maddening.

Roan stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back. “Godspeed, Miss Cabot.”

“To you as well, Mr. Matheson.”

“Shall we drive on, miss?” the driver asked her.

“Yes, go, please,” she said, and lifted her hand as the wagon pulled away. As they began to bounce down the road, she twisted about on the bench.

Roan stood in the road, watching her. He stood there until she could no longer see him, or he her. And somewhere on that dusty road, between her and Roan, lay Prudence’s heart.

“Rather warm, ain’t it?” the young man asked congenially. “Not had any rain to speak of. So dry it’s ruined the crops on Tatlinger’s farm. I heard he might sell to Bulworth.”

“Yes, awfully dry,” Prudence said. The young man continued to talk, but his words were like the chatter of a bird to her—only noise, nonsensical sounds, because she was too mired in her own miserable thoughts to be polite.

“They bring the Ferguson boys up to help harvest. There are six of them. I say each of them can do the work of a draft horse hisself.”

She’d done the right thing today. She always did the right thing, with the glaring exception of one afternoon in Ashton Down. There was no question that she would have to explain her absence, and she would think of something. But she would not mention a camp. Or a lake choked with lily pads. Or the luxury of a room and a bath and the exquisite connection to a man who was not her fiancé. A man who had been a stranger to her forty-eight hours ago. It was absurd to feel so bereft. She scarcely knew him!

She had done the right thing; she always did the right thing.

What if she carried his child? He’d been careful not to leave his seed in her, but last night...last night, the moment had overwhelmed them both. Prudence thought of her courses—she was due to have them in a week. And what would Prudence do for that week? Wait, that’s what, because to do anything else, to go any further than she already had was to invite the worst sort of scandal. Perhaps even charges of a violation of morals or some such. Prudence had no idea what sort of charges of immorality and vile behavior could be brought against her, but she could picture herself standing before a magistrate. Yes, my lord, I lay with a man out of wedlock...

“Bobby Ferguson, I’d reckon he’s the biggest of them. Stands a full head taller than his brothers and looks as wide as this wagon.”

What was the boy saying now? Prudence turned away, her gaze skimming over yellow fields.